[ I've seen a million sketching time ]

I've seen a million sketching time
in empty rooms that stretch the night
to abscessed wounds and textured lines
and cracks in walls that search and climb
a structured track. Synaptic sparks
strut and tour a path that starts
with lust for more than lasts or parts
and ends with words that fast depart.
Confined obsessions stir to rise
and leave coherent thoughts consigned
to languish in subconscious minds
with perfect murders: Yours or mine?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

[ You live like you think ]

You live like you think someone's always watching, and who knows - maybe they are. Or, maybe, you're just a little bit paranoid, maybe you've got a guilty conscience. Well. Definitely that. Midnight, mid-June, and I was driving with the windows down. I couldn't hear you with the music up loud when I pulled into the drive. We were kids then, Converse and bare feet and you choking out words like the noise of all our thoughts made it hard to breathe, and you, listening to that same sad song over and over again. I'll remember it that way; I choose to. But now it's tomorrow again and we can't take back all the things we'll do today. So make it last or  at least make it count -  every second,  everything you do has to mean more  than the knowledge that it ends and all the ways it can. So we stay desperate, the time slipping away with every song on the
Read more

[ Put a man in a courtroom ]

Put a man in a courtroom or a church; scrub him of his sins and what's left? Nothing interesting. It's not compelling anymore. It doesn't even have to be the defendant or the penitent; in fact, it's probably best that he's not. Sympathy is the difference between antihero and antagonist. Complicity and disgust. I made a thing but I didn't make you feel. Is that my failure or yours? I made a thing and left all the feeling in the white space. It's the only way to say the unspeakable. Take away the lines between the lines and what's left? Nothing interesting. A pen is just a pen until you use it. Until you turn it into a weapon. Vivisection or blunt force trauma? I want to be something useful, a gun or a paintbrush, to leave you something in an empty room in the place that you might someday go. To say: I know this place. I was here, but I just couldn't wait anymore. It's the difference between context and conviction.
Read more

[ I wish I could juxtapose it in a way that makes sense ]

I wish I could juxtapose it in a way that makes sense, like   the words aren't stuck, backed up, pressing their urgency against the gap at the bottom of my ribcage, behind my eyes, in the heartbeat pulse of my fingertips or the static of sleeping feet. You wanted a fence and you got a fortress. You wanted a chance but you got me. How do you navigate a shadow without existing in direct light? Don't be subtle. That boy in the reflection is the only thing real about me. Those words are right where they belong and it's not your fault that your voice is rejection. You didn't mean it. This isn't the car crash; just the aftermath. There. Just like that. Bandaged up but only thinking of the seconds ticking back to neutral. I wish I had hands that could translate the smell of blood on the driveway but all I can give you is the sound of giving up. It sounds like doors slamming and the screaming quiet ticking of a cooling-down car. It sounds like questi
Read more