coffee & legs & a thousand years inbetween/thighs, sighs & worm eaten swirling lies/at the heart of this matter & form & substance...




















ae.

thrift store angels & cast away saints watched from dark, shadow clotted alleys. we felt their eyes, burning globes that did not dwindle or diminish come the rains. a cold, dead stone rose stiff in the sky carrying upon pock marked shoulders an immense burden of time. the great eye in the night firmament could not see us as we stole away to our own murky corners, on the fringes of dim light mirrored & transported across the void. with what care we were placed here, i thought, with such alacrity of our dependence upon light. a holy thing, its absence refulgent amidst the blackest of our dreams, the ghastliest of faces astride tireless ebony steeds whose whinnies & snorts so sharply supplant us from slumber...
























ae.

upon your blue & ivory marbled skin, along your arched & supple spine,
subtle incantations lay, & faintly fading magick lines

with trembling shoulder i retraced them there, for sake of clarity,
not an act of distant interest nor of selfish charity

ancient longing guides my hands & drops me to my knees,
into the soil in which i sink flows freely my disease

i ate your words & used them to finish your sentences,
i came here hungry to be taught, as one of loves apprentices

i toiled long into the night, under the auspices of hate,
in dark still hours passed a fury, roaring spate

these visionsdreamsthreads of time were quickly sewn unto,
the aether of my quiet space was struck & pierced by you




















ae.

while the eye of distraction & glimmering lights
kept you up undreaming through long, cold nights
did you ever stop to wonder or entertain the thought
you arent the victim arent the target of some faraway plot
as the curtain falls to dress the naked floor
opens for the young man a bare & shivering door
in a scarlet flowing river comes a rush of blood
within his hands as they reach begins the mighty flood
the burden of stale memory & tales untold
brings roving minds & hungry hearts back into the fold
under greedy watchful eyes & a heavy hand
driven from greener pastures to some desolate land
bare teeth grimaced scraping arid earth
seeking high searching low never what its worth
but if you fall out of line & turn your head to the sky
an empty void stares back without telling you why
breathe deep the dust from a thousand souls dead
all the while widens deeper the chasm in your head
high above in wooden towers climbs on cobbled feet
far below gazes at rain damp & dirty streets























ae.

“better to watch your feet from the shadow to the tip” she said. Words I never understood. As implied by her languid tone and belied by her agile form, the sinewy strength of her words, though firm and determined after her sometimes manner, left no mark upon my parchment paper skin.


















ae.

your legs wrapped limply, loosely round my waist though their slack form belied a tension, or lets call it potential, a hidden energy that dispelled even the draft from the open window next to our bed from tickling or causing to stray out of rigid place one follicle in nearly hysteric anticipation. acutely aware of little legs draped across my frame, hairs, a thousand million of them, tiny daggers. these i felt. but i was not aware of feet. soft soled, calloused, clammy or bearing invitation to touch i could not tell. an unwavering band of light stretched across picturesque, rumpled sheets, rising and falling over valleys and into crests with grace and ease. a perfunctory action, though an exquisite display nonetheless. i thought of our bodies, so clumsy and misguided in comparison, as my eye ran the length of liquid light to the precipice of our quiet, quilted world.















ae.

i set down my words with care. gently. paper boats sewer bound, guttural and grimey to the ears/soft and supple to the touch. laying them, along with the dirt dust and dreams of a thousand souls more restless, more listless, more curious than my own, perhaps another, stumbling in the oppressive waste and mumbling in the chalky twilight will find them there. at their feet swirled and eddied on a finite loop in subconscious mind tape twitter and reel to reel infinity. perchance in the jumbled script of lyrical nonsense some soul susseration lies, therein divinity cries quiet and meek tepid tears, reluctant and cooled by evening wind in their measured journey down freckled, smiling cheeks...