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Tuesday, February 5, 2013

sometimes things burn







a numinous devotion to love and the blood of that love strapped on the fetters and branded the letters of self-aware stupidity sorely ‘round my neck so throbbing with the natal necessity of reciprocal wringing that there simply was no room left to scream into

a monster of depression had breathed all viable cells into its intravenous labyrinth of pickled puzzles
and there was no room left to scream into



my female mobile martyrdom
shook the weakling off his toothpick foundation and

sent it spiraling through a humid home and
terrified empty space





like glass silhouettes shattered waterfalls
a starving fire blew temptation under the flimsy door
it desired only oxygen sanity self-preservation and





there was no room left to scream into