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Starvein the wake of aftermath,
our barefoot youth follow the finality
of fatalism- rumbling poverty
in swollen hunger nestled with warmth
on static in a room full of
overflowing busts, halving the distance of
craving oceans with shallow
qualms. our skin-cracked, sun-caked innocents
spin gravity with gouged tongues plagued
by sublime words etched deep within the marrow
of their unforgiving, merciless
bones, within the depths of neglected minds to
be felt only by those carving graves
with stubborn, heavy fingers through false empathy.
in the wake of aftermath, we
remember the abstraction of our faith in humanity.
Of Lost Causethey say every lonely sigh gathered from children in that city
pours through her body and redolent skin, read through
the ink of vines on veins and restless, small leaves- torn with
tired hands and god's lost smile.

they say our days are numbered, like the
creases between your skin and the break of waves on starving oceans. maybe
the fallout of a country drawn by prophets with cracked chords and
an endless list of listlessness.

they say happiness is glorified by the example of science: the reaction given
and reduction taken in a stretch of paradoxical lies of paradoxical truths-
sounds of simplified silence and their tenuous strains
BKByour words linger on my skin, and ignite in the
dead of night, when the weight of the stars
and how they crush my now non-existent
ribcage swallows me whole. i find
comfort in your silence, because i draw oceans
of loss and suffering from our talks of yesteryear. that silence,
that has left me tangled in sleepless sheets. i have
always known you, wrapped you tight around my constricted
veins, keeping them as blue as the moon when all
you can hear is the cry of a thousand broken hearts.
but who am i to judge?
is love not the very definition of naivety? listen: burdens break
the backbones of a tens of men, the collarbones of
SensesTo: you,

saying Sundays are never beautiful
counting fallen meteors as wishing stars. we
dream the inconsistencies of space- timid
chemistry mapped between your rough skin
and my boneless fingers, breaking outlines of isolation
in constellations, dwelling in the abodes of time lost
beneath tearless skies.

To: me,

living amid painted strokes of genius, between
colors communicating to trebles and records in collective
urgency. let us crush the aftermath of our damaged
liberties, breathing the dire fumes of cremated guitar strings as
Van Gogh enters the centre of the last field, aims his cocked
gun and forms the sixth instance o
Solemn Mantrasit is as simple as this: an idea, present
folding between thoughts and the art of actuality.

repulsing lights.

losing itself in increments of time and becoming
a reflection of every wavelength strained between naked eyes.

ugly is a pacific word.

to hold onto erratic theories of beauty- living
never did anyone good and i swear god is a shadow.

obscure tones of loneliness.

casting himself as our close seconds, to remain
the only reminder of our fragile selves.

rain is the offspring of irony.

bent over, through, and around false detriments of knowing,
existing, believing, being.

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April 4, 2011
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Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
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