A Love I've Forgotten The Name

Creativity—$—creativity—$—creativity—$
—creativity—$—creativity—$—creativity—$
—creativity—$—creativity—$—creativity—$
—creativity—$—creativity—$—creativity—$
—creativity—$—creativity
I love money
I love spending money
I love burning money
I love girls
I love pussy
I love feeling used
I love to sleep till noon
I love to fell accomplished
I love being high
I love sobriety
I love to die.

KIIT

Shoot s. Thompson—desert fire storm
out into frowns of clownsand butterflies,
HAHAhaha I die
tonight on the forgotten snow
and torment and gunfire
and Keystone light influenced
make-outs.
Barely out the door now
as I fail to skip to my
salvation.
HOHOHO I yell:
maybe the soil in
my blood stream will
evaporate into
kitchen stools!!!
Cough and puff—
Here I came:
made it to see a long-lost-friend
that couldn’t see me
in my dreams tonight

Oh my,
oh dear—
paragraphs out
of functional
excuses.
I lay to the shadow
of loose hairs now,
as I come to the
crosswalk,
of 3rd and
fake street.

Cilverware Sivilwar

Fork in the road, telling me whereto go,
Spoon half-three-thirds-full of
Knives soaked in lime juice.

Fork stuck in my teeth, hollow
Spoon caked with Sherlock’s Opium—
Knives with Arabs swimming in spotlights.

Fork dreaming of time,
Spoon, lying home, next on my lover—
Knives threaten my sleep.

Fork, silver, tarnished like
Spoon curvatures and invisible marks of
Knives against my wood laminated door.

(Snow-Flake) (Dream-Girl) #2

black dust spreads like perfect ash
from that red spot in you hair.
i sing the angles and speak
to
angels and heaven flies away.

tongue pulses, eye flinches
echoes shoot through my spine.
To
hold
you bare,
to let witness—my holy affair.

tattered bones quench on
mint
and honey
rosebud water drops—
from your eyelashes
and your milk touch.

black dust spreads like perfect ash
from stale smoked cigarettes,
from lipstick urns,
for my imperfect thoughts
to divide factions.

the bowed leaf,
the arched stem curve—
battery-operated-vowel-gland:
enhances the last-breath-caption
of this period.

(Snow-Flake) (Dream-Girl) #1

The train stops and I’m in the woods: waiting for the wolfs to come. As the thought comes—passes with the sudden movement: away from the tops of trees, onto the hues of city lights.

A tree rolls by. Then a puddle, a person, an infinity of telephone poles and street lamps and colors, gray in every shade. Frost, fog and my cheek, numb on the window.

Parades come—coughs and whoops: slide into chairs, escaping out narrow doors. I stare at the colored people out on winter ribbon nouns—walking into shops, leaving under weights of clocks.

A baby scream, an old man dies—I close my eyes. A lover sings, a beggar collects—I close my eyes. The wind roars, the shadows I adore, the man next to me snores and my mental chores keep me busy when I’ll alone.

A grrr and brrr: the trains heart skips a beat, runs over busy streets and I hope for a crash. A fire, a spark or a dart—open your eyes.

A blister ticks my brow, so I open to stare: a mother sunk dread, in a mattress springs—out of life. Her children tick and talk and pull her downward eyelash hairs. They kick and lick: metallic keyboard sticks.

And I give it time: a halo shine, a polished smile a last. She hums a far away tune, sang personally for the moon for a light to her chest. A prayer, a sigh and her stop arrives—I close my eyes—I hum a tune.