poem

I am lying in a mid-air, in the middle of a city, in the middle of the day.

Time is only a weight, both pushing me up and weighing me down,

forever suspended between one road and two skyscrapers.

There is a story of ecstasy in which one realizes their dreams and will stop at no loneliness and will stop at no terror to grasp them.

This was me then, this is me now, on the verge of something.

My art is my understanding of love?

Ruin less shadows.

The beating of the drum.

The flanking of the bones on the streets of cold plaster and alabaster.

Freak out when you have to

For this is the shape of true chaos as art and as life.

Foam?

Green sea foam from your lips is all I ever wanted,

But all you gave me was salt

And so my skin is worn thin by the rough tongues of the cattle you adore.

I don’t want this.

I want kindness and gentle notions and soft admiration and ease