xiooua

- It rose from the water there, a delicate thing. Its corroded walls of red and brown, thin as paper, clung to patchworks of paint. It rose in the air now, a delicate thing. It wept the river in streams of reddish brown, a sea of waterfalls, as clear as fog. It hugged the earth now, a delicate thing. Its face still smiles muted and round, to spite its fate, that crisp death. It bends and breaks now, a delicate thing. It is pregnant with white and blue, matured long ago, that harsh death. It floated away from there, a delicate thing. Its body bruised with red and brown, a violent end, a delicate thing. But its face still smil

- The sea removed us, moved us. We are coiled waves of weeds, beneath sheets of shells, and we stagger. The salty, sweet sun burns our eyes, burns us black, and we melt apart, uncoiled in corners of coral. The sun removed us, ruined us. -

- Our hands waver, locked in lingering sparks of flying fire. And our air cracks in cries of red, our ears flare like flames. You fall, into darkened dirt, grass gripping at sunken sleeves. And I’m still - a frozen flame locked in lingering sparks. -

- In Absentia Our cobweb cots hang fifty feet above the ground, stuck like white linen to pillars of oak. In the morning our bright eyes bloom to breakfast, and we become free falling balls of black fur. But they took us, the arms of others. Our legs are pulled and plucked. Our cobweb cots are vacant cotton blots, attached to bars of bark. But we dance, a dance, a waltz, our waltz. -

- Variations on a Theme All the elevators were gone, so we climb valleys of vertical steel. Complexes of corners and tin cans, ceiling fans. And all the alleyways were gone, so we breathe the air over there. Distilled by headlights and skylights, lampposts and lamplights. -

- Jars of Dirt These pounds of hair and bone have caked to sides of ceramic like cement, fanning down dust and sot and shallow air until bags of bones begin to burst like bulbs. Your hands have not gripped these jars of dirt, those ornamented bowls of hair and bone. The shelves have rotted so slowly since you've been gone, my lover you’re hiding under blankets of paper and pavement. -

- Parade They pattered like rain, these hands they  were beating so gently, jogging on  boards and bars and… I broke. My fingers, they snapped and sunk. Like rain, these hands were beating, so gently.

- Film Camera pans to heavy eyes, slick lashes soaking spills. He cries in high E. In his empty room the echoes breeze, they buzz. They sink into corners of black and blue. But, camera pans to wood and strings. A silent silhouette, a spirit. He cries in low D. -

- Oh cello, you make pretty noises sometimes. (and by sometimes I mean when I don’t fuck up) Oh cello, you smell like varnish. (which is good because if it weren’t for the varnish you’d fall apart) Oh cello, you make my fingers hurt kind of a lot. (seriously, it hurts, fucking cut it out) Oh cello, in the wintertime you behave. (except when you loosen your pegs for no reason. Bitch) Oh cello, in the summertime you suck kind of a lot (lol repetition). (what the fuck is with you and humidity? Get over it) Oh cello, it’s cute when you snap your A string. (i’m lying, no it’s not, cut the shit) Oh c

- There were whispers on my tongue when you fell between the glance of my eyes. And the corners of my mouth would sink inside my cheeks. But you gutted me. The absence of your center slit the bits and pieces of these perfect features, and the corners of my mouth sink and sink. -