something about the tears of oblivion, Brighton

what if these baby-blue gifts from the maternal aegis,

were nothing more than protective

threads

torn from the blinking reality of

assume existence

do you die when I turn my head,

can you feel it,

does it hurt?

interrupted meta-narratives of

meta-understanding and meta-

knowledge\

cannot save me from \the screaming idea

that when I cannot see you,

you are not there.

I am the cross-stitched pattern of flesh

that you are dreamed from and

I have not heard silence since

I kissed you\and the blood in my head

rushed [out of my ears, onto the floor,

and dissolved in the amen filled void

down near the Matterly Bowl

when I cannot feel your skin,

mine shivers

when I cannot hear your voice,

all I can hear is the ringing reminder that I am not the master of reality.

You said I looked good in blue.

and you stitched the green

into my hat.

and sometimes I look at it, and

visit you in the void,

where it still might be silent (but we are probably dead)

for every texture, there is a shadow and

I stitch a portrait of you, using threads that I find

between them.

untitled, in brighton

Tea and the implied smoulder

of half ribbed terran hearts

spinning dervish of Hackneyed

shorditch passing counter culture

fiends

eyes with condor wings, the

bald spinning, virginal smoke

ring

what ground that we tread on

with shakey, whole fear

the burning spiral of terrestrial hearts

the greatest rival of

the cosmos

we hold and control you

with names, starting with

I, as you, and the beginning

dance endlessly upon the

beating chest of gia

the wind can only destroy

your form, obliterate your

significance from the

visible spectrum

strumming Joe's and others

of narcissistic Shorditch

endless fear, and

referential glory

the best is the ground that

does not tip us over, and

the whirling smoke is the

best we can do

Tea, brewed with the hearts of

crashing test pilots, shoved

up our noses, mellowed

with a curl of fractal

knowledge.

and we are with it

and through the smoke, I can

see you swirling

digits rigid with euphoria

legs rooted in with terrestrial

vows

we we we they we they they we

they are weak

and we are they

the lack

I write on neglected

pages

passing through moments

of silence and

forgotten phrases of

beauty

eager to find

the living green

deconstructed

form of star

growling black and

green growing green

I look to you from

the unseen angle

------------

the you when

unfound you and

unseen lines

you have gilded

edges and worn

corners.

a dark panel with

gemmed lock

I look to you from

the unseen angle

trying to remember

a face that will

always be more

beautiful in the

third dimension

I write on neglected

pages, simple words

and green growing

black

I look to you from

unseen angles

digging deep into

tattered pockets for

pictures of time

that do not exist

I am the traveler

I am the face of

unfinished thought

I am the lack

I write on neglected

pages, trying to find

the unseen angel

of growing life on the

deconstructed form

of star

the neglected thought

of preservation

I am the lack

I must continue

and push

through

the empty

to find you again

the tower

on the first level, you are sitting on a council couch, reading late articles about recreational equine sedatives, scoffing at their lack of relevance

on the second you are dancing, two bodies in front of me, dipping to terrestrial lines, anchored in faith

on the fourth you are a tailor, sewing flannel patches into a pair of beige trousers that I tore on my bike

on the seventh, you are a voice, tied to a string that I cast out into an electrical storm, you are my genius

on the sixth, you are a staircase, from the seventh, to the fifth

on the fifth you are the number three, and I cannot erase you from my mind

on the eighth and ninth, you are empty spaces on a calendar that I'll never bother to own, waiting to be filled with roast dinners and rolled cigarettes

on the tenth, my head is light and you are looking at me, looking at me, looking at me

on the eleventh, I lay down beneath you

on the twelfth, you are a cherry dresser, with round knobs and lacquered drawers.

on the thirteenth, you are descending

on the fourteenth you are gossamer, and my arms an unworthy loom, too jagged and splintered to hold your delicate threads.

on the fifteenth I am drowning, and you are the last gulp of air that I took

on the sixteenth, you are the truth, and I am the destroyer. I eat your heart with both hands, my face so splattered with blood that I cannot see how you are dying with each bite. I am so caught with gore and nihilism that I cannot see how large your wound, or how much you've bled into my mouth.

in the cellar, there is a table, a lamp, a picture of you, and a bottle. the walls are stone and the floor stinks of reality. I can either be drunk and in darkness, or fuel the lamp, so that I might see your face.

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"the tangible aspects of the concept of nothing" by nicolas babbington and joseph stohlman

alone amid a night of sweet sincerity
I wonder how such silence could have voice to me

it not, it without, these words. these words. behind the all shadow of all. the non finite. if all is. this.

the idle times in my existence,
survive with a voice,
the shadow of all drinking deep in times of no resistance

the dried rotten edges of glowing all dive into
small
fetid pits, outlined by
the upright diagonal, spaced with

during the fall, at night

and as I walk these colonial streets

careful not to step on dead leaves

wanting to be part of the silent and calm

inobtrusive to the night

as it breathes cold into the streets of new england

it is the warm hum of a passing bus

the golden halo

yellow and orange

dark and

scattered molt of summers burn

the painful warmth of

sheltered hands

fear the night

fear the night

the cold can kill and

fear the night

fear the night

the cold can kill

I have walked from brighton center

to mt. auburn hospital

refusing faith in

acronyms

my hands burnt with fall presence as I fell forward

through the inevitable

but the cool dying air around me

couldn't be screamed at

we can only curse at it under shallow, shivering

breathes

as it chokes our bitter throats

fear the night

fear the night

the cold can kill and