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Cicada Shell Orchards

Jon Nantais

Great Big Fortess is Stronger Than I Am. okayokay honest the watcher's eye into a socket of a tube device moving in flight with the little little specks of future that he sees honest. Taking flesh apart to build readymade sculptures of our sad little stories POORus:sickened by the need to make something out of our inability to thrive in the greatbigstrong fortress called Anywhere. what




A little balcony on tip-top of a big house somewhere nose to the dirt &perpindicular Everything below unimportant ;antpeople blackdots moveing into their little fates underyou You're so magnificentHUGE Booming speakers and all legs are on stilts, poem

is from

taking pretty honest valuable





Not a drop left to drink just a few little sad cliche memoirs call them home and friendly & hold them until they suffocate. Stomach and pockets both de void bigwords still feed some thing, helps with the emptyWELL so this doesn't shove us into irrational guts to climb from. pictures of bodies you made citizens gone better usage.

We are more than statue-garden. I bet you can't pick out one clap and here we are in the auidence our mouths becoming one with the air around us in speech, all of us becoming one big sculpture that some people take too seriously and some people call "not a sculpture" ("just a skull" of whatoncewas) and this is the way things ought to be: forming/re-forming/re-I remember our disjointed arms all holding up one sound and saying "we are stone we are a happening as witnessed before they got old and stale we are an audience to ourselves all trying on the costume parts wrongly exposing our privatest flesh" until we know that the clapping is an 808 Roland Drum sample and will keep looping until we strip our own bones, hug the windows with the sun licking them, our nudeness to one another refracting through diamond bodies and becoming comfort. Until we are thrung into places with eachother, sampling eachother and growing seeds on our scalps from it, we are only statue and not a happening.

bucketwellmouth Mouth like a well opens. Bucket tongue protrudes, speaking in dream. I am only absolutely sure of one... / If I'm pissing into it why would this well stay empty? Not that the water and I disagree, of course; It filters I live Well fills I'm... / Of one thing: Sweet supple innocent Cause and Effect is sucking off the grotesque disfigured balding man, Fate. Talking dirty with all the typical phrases you hear, cheaply you can tell she doesn't mean it, has three stomachs to feed, the job market's hard as a woman. / Cumming into the well of his own mouth, I swear some beginnings don't have a natural close, I'm not religious I just want to fuck the long rope arm of God you use to pull the bucket up with, Orbit and Pulleys. /

I'm only absolutely sure of one thing: 1) Cause and Effect 2)Fate's semen is in my hair, sleeping and staying warm for the winter 3)It's been over a year since I've seen my Father and I don't miss him at all. 4)I feel a little bit worse recently about not having a womb. 5) They say revenge tastes like chicken, but they say that about everything..


: lu : ng date: 14|3|14 \ 3:07am Strong musky air, The passing taste of fruit. Lime and earthy greens orange spiralling wire budding shrubberies Gardens of Eden! beautiful rejoice, beautiful! Beautiful! parting seas of glass taking light element into your lungs. Jazz! The whole room is exploding with it,,,,,,,,Yes! And what isn't opening chasms of light green as the treeleaves and budding flow(ers)/ing into ocean&river&sea& glass bowls orange; Tacky stencil skull on there. $14.99 The piano is vibrating out of tune, and then in again. The elevator upping itself. cl ou ds :: billowing us light, a i r y. $ten bucks| Couple thousand pepper jack papers under my eyelids eating watervapour. i wanna be god I Wanna Be God. shutup sitdownman// RELAX. &wrending beautiful [oystershell:casino] singing on and on Breaking out into echoing nebulae “can we settle down please? this world I 've b e e n. bite tongue deep breaths, ”””””””

”&: breathing inwards concave/vex a progressing {{{{chunk of air}}}} somewhere I can hear the chimes in the water magnifieD: |ee “When by now and tree by leaf/ sun:moon:stars:rain/spring:summer: autumn: |rip”. It is Beautiful! Greenest outhale -ing into truest smouldering Blessed! Adhān! Hallelujah! (ōm ̄ [õːːm])! dadakitchenknives “a)s w(e loo)k upnowgath” “RomanCandlesExploding AsSpidersAcrossTheStars”. “$14.99 $tenbucks|” All


gates, grape become

open clouds

(Beauiful strongest gift into human lung breathing flowers). ((((((((((((beautiful gift into human lung breathing flowers). ♦ sharpeningWit. I am truthfulness blossoming into it's own. Blue Flames echoing steel drum patting into eardrumdrum beat beat clap clap; This is the taste of the evergreen, reaching out into heartful innards: embracing gastric elohim. Hustleveins leverage Lime and earth green krylon mops and hurricane rainbows catching throwies on brick walls in side alleyways off the main street; Under green eureka skies, Under Japanese acid pink skies, under budding flowers pompeiilung-ing.


Wild Elkchase Buzzing Past-Tense The little elk grazes on some leaves and social media and I am afraid deathly afraid to the coffinbox shut-in; of falling into the pit of where I was. "This sounds stupid but I like you already a lot" My stinger is snapped and beez in the trap are trappling buzzling huddling and fizzling out. Have you ever watched the way that flies spin around and around getting loud (getting angry) when you spray them with insect killer? Last time I watched them for about seven minutes. I am in the hive alone with myself afraid that the elk-girl will lead me through forests where I'll lose my home of finely wrought renaissance. I know I'm safe I know we're safe but the scent of honey still lingers and I see the antlers through the brush. guiding me NotHome, to daydreams to greening out/out side of the 7/11 vomiting, guiding me to what once was daydream what once was perfect. I feel my kaleidoscope eyes spinning getting dizzy ricocheting from one impressionist still-death to another. Some bumbling woman has been staring at me for seven minutes. My wings are numb The antlers are guiding me into what once was what once was. Have you ever wondered if you should go into a different house and sit down on their couch and watch whatever shitty show they're watching just to see?

honeybuzz sweet honeybee chickadee ringing in your ever/ears about flies and honey and antlers and how you wanna pollinate that sweet supple little flower 'tween them milky thighs there dontchya? Flies are buzzing and dying all the time and they can't focus on one image and I'm sorry.

Willow / Before Before "Where's that earthquake coming from?" When shifts larger than Giants (licking their own Big Grand selfserving biceps gone land) erupted amongst us. First love and all it's delicate entangles of More care than what is comprehensible All driven in first skin caress Let's play pretend it's not belonging of child. The thin guise of a bedsheet and what's exterior is trivial to the compiled new focus on what's not previous and it's easy to get lost in the new maze with soft soles and curious hands. The floor covered in the dew you haven't tasted before-That Romeojuliet Simply Symphony With thousandfold excuses during. Collapse is inevitable but in that perfect split second (or full season cycle) It's harmony to the ears otherwise deaf to awake.

Moss&Bones A small snake eating itself engulfing prosthetic and tastes like home and tastes like fabricated invigorated "truth", like a home to a snail, and like a home to you. Stuttering deer child growing out it's knobby knees into walking full fledged king of the forest with no antlers to call weapon and no thought to call crime. A river flows and hundreds of poets write poems about it. Without a clear interview of what sea it ate for breakfast. Objectifying land like it's living to please you. And giving just enough sickness to the land back. prettyloveFUCK;;youObjectifyHER eatHerFlesh until it gives up and she's a corpse like everyone ELSE's eventual.

Coffin Street Cred whatoncewas a micro phone -now I'm starting to think it might have been last strand of rope leftovers all along; holdingholdingholding [ON/OFF] until it bubbles up frothing from the mouth the way birds erupt from a tree chainsaw'd. yr body finding it's bliss in the little things like whole universes. forgetting about the crushing things like tomorrow and AfterThat. Keep repeatingrepeatingrepeating until someone unclogs the last heart you hiccuped out from the drain and you can wash your hair again. Somewhere in a bus terminal bathroom sticker tags in there, water'd floors like something might grow outta them if you look hard enough. Traces of every body who's ever waited and pissed and shit and cried and left their egomarks on the walls here. I don't think anyone else uses it at this hour :here we are recycling ourselves until there's only the

rawest metals left to forge into jewellery called Poem & pawn yourself off for pot and fast food and answers without paper questions.

Holden Basement Orgies A pink-tipped cock loud thrashing voices moving bodies the end wettened music screeching walls wooden with just a bit of beer in everyone's hair, arms flailing precum. We were heaving breathily, our limbs coated in sweat our hair pushed back and I remember Jeremy saying how blatantly homoerotic being in the pit was. It was more than that, though; It's reclamation of a primal self, being both passion and violence. It is everything marking who we were in our soilgrowntreerootcores, all vile and beautiful exploding through amplifiers into drugged up twenty-somethings all feeling their pores open up to the air around them. It was an orgy in the way skin touched and bruises became, and it was a war in the way skin touched and bruises became. It was consensual, hivemind, and alive, a firsting of experience opening keylatchbrains luck'd enough to be amongst lowclassScum like us, breaching a world of Body and Ear'sAwakening.

Camel with Strawbones How many mosquito bites does it take to wilt the growing arm outreaching arm for every single flower's grasp and west nile. root limb takes growth and everything at the bus stop looks like a bus even the red lights screaming ;"go". Show your seed under boxes and boxes of dumpster and skin. This is a no-waiting zone With a tickertape two thousand on my skull Bee stings beckon that outreaching arm wilt like the winter came in September. All leaves are green but my skin turns orange-red with the sun and a "howzit feel to be molting?" The arm is severing itself and walking to the guillotine The lips mouthreading out the final words to Madvillainy. Robert Smith met a girl when he asked for her lipstick. The pen can't spill ink if it's sitting limp dick. The stretched limb takes another in it's firm grasp and mumbles something about "solidarity" before it stabs the palm. Rest assured it can't be read by someone with crystal balls and blue curtains. Rest assured the compost machine clicks into gears like the grease tinged it clean. A hornet hits pinpricks on the genitals. Rhythm of the day brought to you by The letter T and the number negative zero.

Haruspex I found you at last, pinned you down and told you who you were: sluggish old grey man of the afterfuture, haunting a little girl's bedroom and soaking up whiskey every night trying to just be trying. Seizing with a carbon copy of yourself when you were a little girl, quaint and ballerina; Your hair was long everyone believed the games you played. Your suit is fraying, old man. Your belly is bulging, Your hair is matted, and your skin is crinkling like saran wrap -but the kind you can't look through no matter how much you squint. You're walking towards the little girl hiding her little secret and you're going to gut her so she can't be you. I know the drill. I know the tumor pounding in your groins that screams to birth children and how you drowned it in vodka and milk and watched it curdle like your dead white cat did, under a plywood crucifix. She's your innocence. I know if you dig up the cat and you get the child you're going to eat them raw and sob into their decaying bodies, wearing their skin as a momento of your regretting decay.

Just crawl in with the kitten and go to sleep and pretend that you were never a ballerina as your mollusk-like skin crawls off of you into the soil oceans. You know the drill. It's your cycle and it's just going to keep happening.

Wearing Children's Shoes I'm sitting there she hasn't seen me in 5 months we grew up together and it's so nice and everything is always the same as when we were growing up. She smokes a lot of weed and has a child on the way and is still smoking and I wish she wouldn't, you know, for the child and all. I'm poor and I grew up/am growing up around uneducated beautiful people and I keep stepping into this world of philosophical pretentious jargon, and I know my childhood friends are still here on earth and I wish I didn't think she was too stupid to talk to, but she's too stupid to talk to and here I am being a bad person and all. We play video games and take a few tokes and it makes the time float by without indecent pauses. Everything is like it was everything is nostalgia because we both know there's nothing worth connecting now. We make food, everyone eats food and that makes it easier. Her Mum wakes up, nice lady, dosed in a few pills she needs but probably quite a few more than she needs, words blending together in a hazy stutter she didn't have a few hours ago. Nice maternal lady, real tough-ass, grew up with bikers knowing how to use her nails and teeth to the bone marrow. It drips by a little bit more, I don't have anything with the time on it because I don't have any electronics to carry so I just hope it's not longer, I keep thinking of these pretentious statements on the lower-minded and how I could view her in a sociological lens before remembering this

is a girl in my life that I love. It all drips and funnels out until it's done and she wants me to come by again soon and I know she really does and I will because I was never good at putting people off. I leave and she's so certain we're so invincibly close and I would rather just sit and talk with anyone else or even just sit and think without all the buzzing.

Violet, Ultra It was one of those nights where the ecstatic bursts of passion and pure joy in existence leap wild through eyes and fingers; The conciousness not closing in on itself but rather folding into a transluscent sphere, wholesome and inviting. On the way (heading to my own house and leaving from her home). the air tasted thicksweet and music hung each note condensed liquid to drip into conciousness Everything. richer for the Experience. Trying to remember the words of freestyle half-whack spoken word I shouted to the empty 2 AM streets overjoyed in the very concept that we shared existence. A colour I've never seen before completing the last strokes of what hasn't existed. Consistently sure that scratchcardchance had worked it's soft tendrils into my next reel bringing the negatives to light. Realizing the world is a sphere and an overarching promise of us tastes the corners of my eyesight.

softearthen cthonic what's in soft earthen ash and the very similar. nubile what's in vast ocean wet and the soft touch. and how these intertwinings no longer do that job settling (instead) for beautiful rendition and transparency beyond barriers of clockturns headchurns foreign worries in long-gone-past Mist tastes sweet to the tongue the kind that is strong in subtlety and no pH or tangible guess hits it just upturned earth soft skin passive passing gone going here and --shovel after condom and none and foetus and ribbon ring \smile .

clutchcare and your soft innards like retina spilt to the day's decay and it's reverse-Growth for growth's sake. (Lucky we are to be on it's gentlest ride).

Silence Becomes Us

Shelf Life Every sensory organ needn't be brushed with delicate fingertips on constant intervals. One need not know the consistency of their own entrails to find resolutions of themselves: However, they must acknowledge their purpose as with feet, hands, genitals and head. Our existence holds no duality, no Purpose beyond purpose, no combination lock with a few scattered numbers. It is simple rejoice in it's inconstancy and overall temporary state: Landscapes, orgasms, conversations and brush stroke do not stand forever. Nor do I.

Flyswatter Shit Time moves as it does no different; not that it listens to us, but we're answering it's tktktktk all the same leaving us alright and no(thing) left; right; stop, right left right still. Still eating you in from the outside and back again. Calling itself friend and tktk and moving freely around your room until it lands like a fly shits on the surface of your pretty precious skin and namesakes itself into The Greater Elsewhere, away. Dada isn't poetry not having much to say but the flyswatter.

it's not-poetry & about much hope:[less?]

Mum always told us if you touch a butterfly's wings the oil on your skin will stop it from moving anywhere. Here we are all holding all our each other tight and maybe the grease and oil and charcoal dust i keep residence on my palm will make them all cement dirt stay. I know selfishness when I see it spilling like mud from my dirt earth cracked cold winter lips but just don't fly away yet, any of you. I don't want to go wayward flyswatter to the wall, dormant.

Balancing body betwixt the sick of a moment that touches; like they oft do calling out to the corner of the room where the dust and cumrags and thumtacks sit; calling to be loved like they oncewas, in Some sort of past-life I remember taking in every last bit of my mind, turning it upside-out and declaring it void. Taking art and declaring it toy Taking body and declaring it boy. Taking body and declaring it void. Reading the tea-leaves drudging at the bottom of your skull-mug For some grandiose new truth to eat up Listen; It's all the same circle stain and in due time shit's going to unbend itself into the open air it's arms open wide recieving. I mean, you can't call closed tendon "bleeding" 'less it springs. And you can't say shit until the herald ends his death toll readings. It's all moving the joints and muscle into "move", waking your every last bit of you into some kind of new iron-clad-speed-bump-defying-rap-gratifying-lyrical gettin Near Y'all killing it smoothie. Gulp that shit down for breakfast. Onto the next shit on the checklist. Read, clean the dada kitchen drawer, write, paint, tell her I love her, write, rearrange your teeth until they fit the way you want them to talk. Rearrange your pinkmatter eggs until they hatch into the caging hawk. Or vulture circle until daybreak Rock boats, baby, and wavemake. Cock blow faded and stalemates. spit shit drip liquid ill; failsafe. Get this shit off rust-ed breaks Shit, shave body, eat, and get ready to intake.

Girl, don't make me talk to mirror in lyrics the way John Darnielle writes them; army-esque commandments soft suggestions do something, dear Charles Bronson, dear Sader, dear End, dear Jon, dear Gwen: do something. Dear notdad and dear Mom I promise I might do something. Dear empty beer and liquid ear and fucking tear I'll do something. If that someshit betwixt killing mic and filling vice, illin' right Like if I make this more raptastic you might listen, right?

Sunday, Psalters, and Dean Moriarty I've read beat poetry and listened to punk too much not to want to sew a few patches onto a denim jacket, don some nice lipstick and just leave to nowhere in particular. I bet every young dumb arts student feels that way before they find reality, but at least there's a few wayward canonballs who aren't as timid as I am to just Go. Eyebeam shooting at the next exiting tongue road /left/right/centre looking for whatever your neighbouring country truly calls "freedom", and here speaking the actuality in the word like train beds and sex and marriage and a kid who spits socialism without knowing who founded it but he's damndest going to find out. Biting both Guru and Bukowski, using words both like "biting;steez; dope;chill" and the antequity of hip hop's newborn/stillborn (argue all you want) cousin Punk flowing through thrungs of house shows, pot, and not wanting to be where you are in the wholest sense of the term, yet wanting to be where you are in the straight-and-narrow sense; Killing time with loudsound and crashattack and sisterhood in it's grizzled grunt[screams] -How future must taste like for those who suck up the spoon From deadend cafes on empty roads where the owners are probably racist and homophobic (because smalltownkill) but you're painting and writing and screaming with endgoal to end it before the snake tastes it's tailscales and everything collapses on itself like the people we admire when their coffinboxes ship in. Dr.King and Barbara Kruger and Hannah Hoch and everyone the dumb kid who doesn't know socialist's womb looks up to, especially the women;

who's words have shot forked tongues out the stomachs of men who have swallowed their bodies without taste of the brain, gurgling stomach acid and not giving twothreefourfucks that they are think/breathe/fuck/eat/love humans. &if that's not a damngoodreason to leave with the beautiful girl in the flowing skirts, maternal instincts and patchouli cloudhaze to endless bounds imitating beat and jazz in postmodern collidingcollagecrash I don't know what is.

Old Friends & Amputated Body Parts a hairsplit on a wetdog Second ticks by, where we gather our supplies with all the words; all the words of our grandfathers' (dead as cement downtown sky scrapers and less legacy) youth. There is only so much time one clockhand has before it cums on itself in sheer realization that there is only so much time one clockhand has before rigor mortis sets in. tickiddy talk -ing of the last supper before you break out of your adolescent (com)placent a] to the skin ticking while it sheds in fast forward and breathing only lasts so long -Remember that. and when the scratching at the door ceases to exist and the hinges bust door splinters into your fingers embedded there forever -the arch is an arc, herald hark-ing tarot cardsharks, the lark sing-spits and barks out freshmeadow song in a tonguebite remark like "fuck 'em".

Time takes no slaves if you don't let em So when the new section of life starts? You eat memories like dinnermints lest we forget em, like old friends and amputated body parts.

Mirror Neurons In common practice, a distanced monther will shed a perpindicular crosshair perspective for a forced bullettooth grin, into the eyes of the bundle of flesh and her every last replica. Eventually the infant pens back soft (unknowing) caress in the form of gums and < 4 white pebbles, lurking adjacent chubby dimples. This phenomena is the result of mirror neurons. Empathy glitching [system.function] to purge our own selfish concern beacons in place of care for other skin and kin. That's the blood being siphoned back into the system already oxygenated for the veins we caress with eyes worried. Sociopaths do not show existance of mirror neurons &or empathy. We talked about this for a while. Then I told her something that was bothering me and she sliced her ear like an old rope and boats with rust-bellies.

Love Letter to Cement What's so hard in calling the city "human" it's arteries of meaning;full/less people all tracting back and forth til the sun doesn't come back up. The thrumming of a boombox heartbeat collapsing into metronome I want to feel your body, city. I want to know all your delicate places Mapping out the flesh of many people's flesh. And if you don't mind a quick public announcement: every head has a tongue with things to salivate from it mine are coming to you as soon as I can, oh how I promise. Where there is one cockroach or rat there is many, and we are certainly many. Eat amongst us in your restaurants as noble brethren forgive the tail like a fishbait wormtail, it's all used in due time. If there's too many men to teach to fish enlongate your spine to the matter of those lying on the bottom; Collecting a few bucks in the city and adapting to your environment before it implodes. Every alleyway is a friend. City I want to be inside you. City I want to feel your walls tighten around me until I-Until every building is becoming mountain again. trailing behind whoever's footsteps were infront of you last; We're all headed to the same in the congregation of all human pieces. Gutterfolk make good friends and if you don't mind a public announcement-Nah but you're busy type, briefcase walking quick

don't-bother-with-global-news type of corpse going. We are all city. goinggoing til gone til all collapses into mountain. City I want to taste you and smell your luscious scent. City I want to hear your noises, even the ones you're ashamed of. City we're both on this ephemeral trip inside your lovely guts so let me tell you now I won't forget you and I love you. City one day soon I promise. City I'm going to ornament your skin. City I'm going to get to know the fleas in your mangled scalp. City I promise you this. cement and cockroaches and cunt and clarity sweet clarity hold me to your truest truth; We're all City with fine webs interlacing our umbilicals. Public announcement: City I'll see you soon.

Leopard is Spitting Bars into a Megaphone Too many bottles on the fireplace for a stocking. A leopard jumps down your throat into open fields Everything is cotton candy when you scream The clicking of a pen opens my jaw And everything buzzes quick enough to hear it Truly hear it The leopard has just caught something Looklook it's your last dinner! wrangling and it leaves through your neck friendly as a housecat, as it ever was. Purring and catching your own nasuea for a lick. If voices keep it up just like this, We might just find that pretty little red x like a clitoris you're looking looking Oh Holmes there you go again magnifying It's right in front of your ears if you just yawn them Wide open, now boy! listen to the megatelephone. As it yells at you to yell at you in reverse for future. All before the leopard calls "home!" and the crowd goes wild. The pulling of a silver;/ silversliver.. All leopards are the colour of jaws All Cats are Grey All lions don't know where to walk All leopards are the smell of tooth All cats are grey all hairs are bald in colour and your last survival packette is bleeding out turkey gravy. All falls just like a leopard into sandwiches over and over until it's toasted. Gravel and cement and dirt and seeds and leopard miasma all buzzing slow enough to hear what you need to transcribe before your familiar leaves toothbone gate to the outercloudz; where the streets are more goldchain and less cotton white dressing gown and clean air. Every leopard becomes itself and every dinner re-deadened for your benefit of spilling out the mammal guts to the clicking of a pen.

Kissing Memory From The sound of a violin shrieking and then suddenly (bright as a childhood's eyes glinting when they reach the top shelf) leaves behind dischordent sound as it achieves a perfect note. The screams of string on string tension pulling past elastic bounds ended when two bodies met too close for notcomfort on seperate dogbeds. Building brimstone from ash. Pheonix' light to the day's decay. Impermanent cyclical hoops balancing around children and the smile when it doesn't fall from your scared hips for the first time. The last inking of a will with no material goods and only promises of intermingled dust whence the reception has learned as much as your fingertips have of stone and skin. And an isolated fragment of a second on record.

I Checked For Stains On All Sides There's two knives on my bookshelf they're really rather nice and I hate them. I still don't understand how you could hate something so beautiful. Being, and, it's side-effects are often overlooked as casualties and slipfalls. Remember they're coiled in with all the nice evenings we spend and warm water and reading to whatever proof of our existance we nurture. Being is all the shittiest moments where we look disgusting and feel disgusting and we're vomiting our vital organs into the face of whoever gave us life in the first place screaming "I don't want this" over and over again, pulled so tightly brittle and ready to shatter inwards. And I want to spend being with you because any existance in only warm water is lying and saying we can only work together in the most precise predicaments, and not that we can prevail against whatever the filthy not-god/dharma fucks our screaming throats with. There's two knives on my bookshelf and they're for cutting through the thickets in front of us until we can't find any more needles in the greenery and absolutely everything is at peace. I promise they'll never touch skin.

growingWax I don't have much to give not even a rib or an apple but here I am walking across trees and taking in as much sunlight on my skin so I can glow a little for you, it's a pretty trick and it makes you smile just enough. If you gather all the driftwood and put tinder to it you find a nice warm sensation blurring your vision and it's so enticing. Somewhere we're in a tent gathering water from outdoors and bathing into the empty air. Who thought we had such strong arms between us and assuredly so much to be prepared? What gives flowers their pretty little colours and does your pollen flow to the wind like we thought it would? Gathering tinderspark in our irises and wooden limbs to grow entwined just like the saplings falling do. And you are a midsummer's daydream Too busy with imagination to taste the grass. And I am a fickle little promise, Too busy with us to ever raise a red pen. And it's a whirling of pollen all wrapped up inside your newest scarf And it's a root too easy to trip on and fall into a few fates. So the bark is tender and we build a little log hut and pitch a tent once a year to appease the ground. Voices are spilling through the drywall and the jazz springs up the moss on the tile.

Do you see a lone matress in your future or are we bound to the leaf and decadence? Will a lone smile in the dusk turn into a valley for building over? I don't have a rib but here we are growing an apple tree and saving birthday candles until we can make wax sculptures of our most delicate surfaces.

More Foam & Antlers "this didn't manifest itself into anything but my head's oblong dreams and I'm so much better for it, I hope you're doing well, sincerely I" I was afraid I would fall off my stilts at one good look at the balcony you stood on, tumbling into myself and into dirt becoming them and becoming what I grew from, my stem-spine betraying me and unfurling to the sun. But now it all seems to foolish. I'm happy. I'm more happy than I've ever been, and here I am decorating maggoting corpse memories with little candles and flowers and tea lights. I am sad there is no train departing into south from your town that isn't a town, but only for the seeking of that closure closing fist called "friend" we all seek, Living among the light of your mind as I do everyone else's-not guided mishapenly by the lanterns of your sides, your delicate hips, strong shoulders, suppling breasts, the greentealight lanterns of your eyes and your nose framing them smiling; Because those things do nothing but ornament the blank spots in my vision, wasting a perception of a human being. Friend I am sorry that a "how are you" was never without endless ceremony and body shaking feigning as soft vibrato. Friend I am sorry that we can never relate because I ruined that with my lanterns already. Friend it's better off that I remember there is a difference between "you" & some misshapen concept of silk, daydreams and what I call "you" without any real context beyond childish fantasy.

â&#x2C6;Ťto-us: the presence that beckons (heartpumps and skinwarms) in where the breath tastes not like anything, it just simply does; and the air grows carbon with words. Cold metallic shifts and pixellated images will never grasp the acoustic warmth of vocal chords strung pleasant sigh nor the wordsÂłtumbling from lips so stretched to ourawake. An attempt to seduce time into not doing it's job like a nightshift watchman; sleep pleasant as we tiptoe calloused feet from the farfuture conclude we avoid -- how hope Lying to the poetry itself sustains truth like a barbed fishhook catchsnag and these words don't have to hold collar struggling, how better would be our time given to breathing. All card towers collapse with monarchy and mathematics at the wayside, our air to culprit as wrecking ball of what's notthought to us in the frozen clockhand paradise.

Watercolour of Unnamed Woman She beads in her watercolour hair; tussled kinks framing her 8x11 home Her creation is my therapy from Dissassembling water coolers in the heat grunting and drilling out screws, feigning testosterone and growling in all the right blank spots. Where a small smile and crossed legs would have sufficed. The ink bleeds profuse feminity in a strong, commanding variant. Overall, I am happy with my rendering of her -Why aren't I as beautiful myself? snipchiselhate screampaint& end.

Nowest Now Vows from cocoon to sunlight, and rebirth into skies bluer than pthalo eyes (or almost). Yes I'm aware of the butterfly metaphors in every poet's handbook but if we keep building this cliche sky scraper just touching the ceiling with it's fingertips maybe there's a reason maybe everything is spread wings delicate powder exoskeleton fly. Shells of cicada pasts and buried tapeworms bring the soil &only the soil; for new roots to reach vitamin D and every last word in synonym with "care". Lives before love are foundation and I don't keep my valuables in the basement because that can always flood. cur-rent 1. Belonging to the present time, Being in progress now 2. A general tendency, movement, or course and one within another, constant consistent care clutchnow.

Cigar Ash Today, after walking aimlessly and laughing at whatever seemed relevant, I enjoyed sharing a cigar with a few friends. I don't care for cigarettes, but fine flavours are exceptions. As are solemn occasions when smoke signals do better than morse code or shouting. It wasn't until I hit the soft plastic filter, bit at by our gnawing jaws and soft contemplations, that I realized the cigar ash was the same consistency as my now-grandfather's flesh. What I wouldn't give to never become tobacco leaf lit to the stale taste of coffin.

Blue Plastic Sun Waking up to watch the blue-sun horizon, where the sun red-dots itself out in the greater context of it's existance. You wrote the definition by it's light while it kept you warm and alive. Sun becoming un; unbecoming of us. &yet here we are, with big mirrors& crossed fingers. My light is Blue and not Red and it's still keeping me awake, whispering subtly into my eyes all those song lyrics about being blue. Becoming cyan haze like the screens in Japan screaming daylight into weary waking waiting eyes. Rapping at the ephemeral door, Foe called Awake and I've never been one for insomnia. Circadian glitching on repeat at the highest points of movingmovingmoving to keep from any soft stillness. Fed blue light and hiccuping up the last few hours of your own rest. unAWAKEunSUN:unSLEEP until the great big gavel drops and makes it so.

Winter Eating Her Own Ephemeral Cum, Gonest Gone. b(openwound eating itself)Less ed flowers awakening into Rejoice of lovest warmth! My b r e a t h e stillmakes still fog into empty cooling empty a i r . How Ever Here We are opening our insides to taste (sun) Light for the first time since before some fickle rememberings of our end swept down in white sheets and kitsch reminders of our “canadianness” national ism. (as if Any One has ever asked for such Plague upon the dropping still-life human figures that figure themselves into ice. Taste your own Bitter salt ending As you wave into moisture and un happening Again. No Ever Truest Finish Ever Spoke In as a br eat helessly o pen -ended “exhale”.

An Odd Number of Petals (fake fucking buzzes in the background) I gave up on masurbation and traded it for melancholic thought proccess; (She loves you as much as she always has you just for whatever reason seem to focus on every single negative movement in it's nonexistance, only a single fragment of time that isn't the climax of all that's perfect in the timeline like alonetime and worries snag your clothing and tear fabric stop being so goddamn pessimistic) &love. It's ridiculous-when we're the most happy the ticks constantly bite and remind us how tragic losing what we've found would be. Movements are circles and I refuse to return to any 180 I have encountered before now. new personthoughtconceptlovecare(ss) your thought is terminal and better off shelved Worries. only come true when you think about them. almost just like Wishes.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;And so laughs the calanderâ&#x20AC;? whatto ?clutch onto when the building falls like the little sandbox castle you made back when scraped knees ate cement on the daily, engulfing rocks into yourselve's armour and amour all growing all strong to keep you being you. Before the identity fairy took your teeth and your body and threw em in a gutter of sorts; Thoughts -- the onus of an apposable thumb opposed to dying without worth and with. And a quick stroke called KILLburntTIMEtoast where you collapse myriad into yourself swirling with "This is important in the making of me, past the vine and the seed, past the skin of a tree" Like all your habits taxiderm'd into one mollusk called "carrying home" Like a blanket or a toothbrush or a best friend; making our own us takes time to become refined.

All But Mammal Skin Skin that isn't fitting sheds like snakes cicadas& crustacean shells. The lobster scream is a misconception and we all know it's a misconception but here allow me my petty allegory boil scream [boil devour whole leaving bones clean Hands rip it shred by shred and I don't think children really understand as their fingers struggle with the bits "don't get them in your teeth, dear" Like swallowing what's shed is harmful this position is harmful in our what'snow & here'smorals. Last zeitgeist hasn't yet pulled a lemming to the cliff, and it's tumbleweed remnants still stab pine needles and why would I need to organize if I know where it all is? nothing is congruent similar is a bestguess. Last zeitgeist hasn't yet loosened chokehold. ]boil\

A Little Hole In The Bottom Foundation It's all pointing where you need to go: In the end of the tunnel where there's a light or something else cliche just like that. It's not a heaven or asgard or death or even death or even... It's just writing. Where you puts WORDS-to-words and try not to make them too LOUD so people might not think you're g[lit[ch;/ing--into y(our)self afraid of comitting to yourself because if you tunnel deep in, deep enough in, she might not be there when you come back out of your poem. Sweating, panting, heaving, and empty like you just funnel'd every last drop of blood and bile into the page so people can tell you how creative you are and the cycle keeps goinginginging Like a little hole deep into the earth. At the bottom there's a shrivelling shaven small baby rabbit with it's organs on the outside, it's crying like a loop casette over and over and it's shrill voice is distorting slowly. All because you lied to your poem and called yourself "you" instead of "us". The smallest straw that couldn't hurt a camel if it tried. I(*we) am a creation of every single sturdy triangle I have ever recieved a smile from. Thank you and I am sorry this poem is next to my name there's just too many of you.

The rabbit won't stop screaming but you keep piling cotton balls on top eventually you can put it on the post cards you send to your family and say "Look, I made her with my friends. She writes poetry and eats carrots" They'll tell you you did well and you truly did, even if I forget that sometimes.

Crysanthemum flower blossoms open every day at noon the visitors look at the myriad of sun, of beauty, O beauty, it's rays cascading onto porcelain skin. The flower blossoms someone tosses rice into the air, the flower blossoms. The flower blossoms. How beautiful indeed. You thought after all that there was going to be a poem waiting here for you, Wet and heaving and begging for you like the images of luscious women, fabricated; so you can say "yes, I shall take you in, I am desired, I shall enjoy you and in that enjoyment I shall make you. Without me to fufill myself onto you, you would not exist, you would not be praised, exalted, and you would go unvalued.â&#x20AC;? Tell it how beautiful it is and praise it and pat yourself on the back for understanding it, like so many others don't, the tragic souls! It's like some sort of fancy little treasure map but this isn't the movies and all there is run on sentence and at the very end of it, and at the end of everything that goes a little bit like this "."

Privatest Parts Screaming from the innards, I stalked out of my Mother's bedroom carrying her razors. I did this while ignoring, wholly and entirely, the raw science that reality refuses to capsize. Every stroke was a mild win on a whim, And when I finished legs, up to the fulcrum hips and went onto the chin, the skin coulda went with it. One small step for woman. One large step for "When I finish delivering this poem, take my body like an eggshell with it" Now, I never sat at a waxy-white table and got a vaccination for my body. Some of us just like to pick apart the skin we're in like a death-threat hobby, vacating the brain's lobby. The tit fairy just hasn't come. So we all give up with no teeth beneath the pillow. And with a stubborn stunted "hello", I greet you with a lack of being human and explainations to make the eyelids mellow. Let's be honest; You don't care about the skin-dillema or the trotting thought police festive formal foot march.

You're just here to seperate us by our privatest parts, so we can jigsaw-fit into your flooding arc.

For Olivia Porcelain face she's afraid to break with words; Like an open lip rips and ceramic turns I wish you would speak your little wingfeathers out and moult out the quiet with flight distance so magnificent so screaming to the sky "I am here"; I often wonder how many semblant souls see you as I do; Perhaps the most cohesively beautiful person I could ever penny-toss-well-wish for a friend With a tiptoe soul so whispering to scream with love and care and fumbling fingers that just don't know how to pen it out but it pours from delicate pores and just like evaporation I hope every working iris can see the sweltering selflessness in your soprano speaking soft treading rain dance. Golden archaic halo to spin your headspace; It's hard to paint someone who looks like a painting. I've never been sure where future leads rickety rackety boardwalks to but when 4 years later it ends with us still laying words onto the childhood sandbox labelled friendship, it might speak a few words into the positive direction life has had for us. I could write a thank-you list, only to revise it daily. Some people hold us up, without them we are wooden skin props of ourselves.

Dirt's Lastlaugh The electric heater's off and the sound of the stop opens up; I never noticed how important the buzzing was in this gas existence of absolutely nothing important -- Tell me have you ever seen the way oxygen looks for it's victim first? Before it No really, I'm Comes up and Absolutely sure that strikes directly There is nothing in (with precision) Vicinity of your At your delicate Jugular. Do you ever look at your palms and ask how many people they've touched and if it's even the same skin? Screaming horks out of my lungs I don't want to let this be the only way for me to not be bored, Alone. Is inhaling not oxygen now not now my newest painting? Is tuition a sickness or a force of nature or both? (Listen to your ghosts.) I'm scared the poem will give up on it's last breath And there's not even the right amount of syllables To call me Rapper in the big print or little print or in the mouth of someone with my dick in them. Big Gunshot! Races Start! First Place on a piece of rock with nothing to offer but the tide. Ribbon Cut! Kings Crowned! A small plot is dug next to other small plots with dirt on top. The dirt remembers exactly what your ancestors sounded like screaming and fucking and feeling Asking all perpetual like: And Who is you, son? lastlaugh bigclaps ha.

diving inter skies arch all ready inflating to our bodies holding us tightly warm wombly ;some words grow into little gardens we can flower and harvest and let into our bodies to heal us. I never watched a praying mantis hold a lover so I can tell you wholeheartedly how growing stems work into our open eyes and stomachs, & just need more moistening dirt to grow //ing into some thing morethanmorethan any one plant vine stem budding separately in a void. into existence and the bouncycastleclouds themselves swallowing whole. I am going to keep waning words into passing ((i promise)) until they siphon the undertow air out from my move ment.

(last time on:) Why Does This Mirror Smile Concave? There's 10minutes until I've told myself I need to sleep so I'll make this a quick recap: Willow trees snap coppers get tossed patchouli tastes like earth and skin something about kerouac I'm sorry I hurt you /honest.words ;;; . ;;; . min imal ism The word "fuck" in a poem too many times. "I should have majored in writing" sorta shittalk I haven't painted in months. --this is all too familiar something about dadaism something not about dadaism (I almost dated an absurdist, how would that have left my trumpetbeak stained?) You should feel beautiful. I wonder if catharsis is supposed to be this self-indulgent? [Acting like a villain when he dons a mask like Torak That's a fact, he keeps the acid down like zantac] & cummings/told me how to write But not how to hold his notgod into horizon skylines, the type I haven't painted in months. Here's a short haiku Some poems leave ya face bruised Neitzsche was right he died. //There now it's all pretty and makes it look like poets actually read poetry instead of being self-indulgent tapeworms eating a husk of human for every meal. Something about being a gay rapper. Something about a vagina. Something not about dadaism still Dear Wolfe does this count as stream of conciousness if I'm writing poetry I've already wrote and referencing references and laughing at myself in a room that is otherwise entirely quiet and it always will be until a heart monitor acts up and someone goes gone? "And hell, if I lose this poem, I lose this poem" I'm seven minutes over and here I am saying something not about dadaism i'm so predictable cut my cock off and tell her I want to be her Do you remember when I laid on the road and waited for a car to kill me

is it odd that sometimes I laugh at that memory? The ground was warm for september and here's (Something about dadaism) It's a joke you're not going to get until I've wrote 20 more of these and you can laugh at the casket and the room is still just as silent as I just described it.

Cicada Shell Orchards  

A shitty mix of unorganized unedited poems for the purpose of.. whatever the purpose is.

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