toothpaste-soup

Tonight I resign myself finally from the turbulent sizzle of daily life; resting my head with much comfort to spare on the coldest side of the windowsill Tonight the world can no longer afford my regards. The dust-on-tempered-glass veil keeps the streets translucent and yielding; maintaining the reminder that I must immerse myself tonight in the warmth of our home. It implores me and I agree: What is left of the calendar will never again be wasted on the double-brewed hum of clamoring bedlam. No. Tonight, my dear, we rob the clock of its authority and let the obsidian embrace of the midnight atmosphere cool the flames that threaten to ev

Fed up with the lessons desolation failed to bring; the zephyr of angry breath guides me away from the easterly promise of the Rising Sun it has instead taken me Nowhere. I spend indefinite nights perched above cold dissonant doldrums, left with nothing but Scorn for the rust on my watch's gears.

Hidden and sheltered from the sweet swirling gusts of a newborn mid-Atlantic spring, they found themselves instead in a brash fluorescent hallway, ready to accept the first of many stops in a new psychotropic destiny, to be measured in strides or misshapen tablets, never mind what color. They wrote their own folklore underneath the forty-watt charm of the motel desk lamp; choosing synesthesia over the storm-cloud-and-concrete scheme in which scenes of the everyday had been painted. They soon swam in tides which were pulled to their feet by a   lysergide moon, revealing a dizzy pantheon of demons and ghosts and jesters and by the time nigh

I read their words with incredulous eyes, scoffing, surmising their falsehoods, recognizing them all as bankrupt of reality, I insist they have nothing to gain from spewing such repulsive acts of fiction, yet each letter bleeds black against the once-virgin page that would rather hold nothing than broadcast a lie. I heard it all through the mouths of strangers, convinced fully they wish to conspire, I disregard each inflection as their own frivolous, stand-alone rumors never once suspending disbelief, deliberately xenophobic of deception's deepest accents. Yet their words, nonetheless, trickled gradually into my other murmuring thoughts,

Don't think we forgot; when you averted your mind from the fortunes we've offered you, To align your focus on the days we approached with empty hands and none left of offer. Countless adages sought to teach you: A beggar's palette mustn't be so narrow, but you still reserved the broadest strokes of your tongue for a rich man's ransom of callow, thankless grievances.

He speaks too heavily about a Void; one that spins in several dark demon dances, concentric and whirling around unfathomable negative space; he looks down from the foggy precipice, proclaiming: I must fill this Void. Too far back in his mind he struggles to realize he stares into the eye of a cold black vortex, kept swirling by mankind and all its despair. It sits among our collective minds, enduring well before we are born and perpetuating for immeasurable eternities well beyond our failed attempt to fill it.

It must feel good to wear my skin as your mask, to use my strides to chase faceless shadows along these perpetual avenues of closed doors and beige winter fog. To you these streets must seem like home, your comfort simmers in cold brownstone catacombs, a frozen chamber in which you collect the toxic oxygen for your sharp invectives and caustic epithets; for your convenience and onanistic pleasure, you never hesitate to draw it all in with my lungs and excrete your disgusting rhetoric with my language. I stand here naked and cold in these streets wondering how you have survived so long in such a foul climate; regardless, Never bring me he

Lend me the secrets you store in your eyes; each quiet curiosity adds one more brushstroke to the scenery we build around us. I find asylum in the very framework of your being since the night January winds shook us to our tender cores, the frosted swirl against the windows takes flight outside our atmosphere. Where once I only found days of self-doubt and frozen hands, beneath the gusts I found an ever-glowing hearth, to stay until we find our perfect prelude to the wealthy offerings of spring. We love and exist alongside the rhythm of not time, but seasons, we belong to the beautiful ebb and flow of transition, where every breeze finds

These thoughts I have are odd and ugly, rancid and viscous with the darkest facets of my nature. But I mustn't stop them. They need to maintain their steady flow through these sewer-line veins, each toxic underground estuary is free to chase separate pieces of a cleaner horizon, if only to escape the ugly brown catacombs of the mind. The cluttered sludge of missed perceptions, of wrong turns and idiosyncrasies, of empty words and invectives must all be cleansed from my reality even if it threatens to pollute yours.

Line by fascinating line, I read the subtle language of your Soul tracing my fingers across each beautifully crafted letter feeling the marvel and mystique behind each minor mystery you write. With each calculated sweep of the hands of Time, the candor of your words will bloom only further in the gray matter gardens of my Memory, adding exotic beauty to the barren boredom of my experiences. Simply through the curious breath of your presence, I feel your glow across the landscapes of my tingling skin. I don't know what it is. Something strange in its beauty and allure, what it is about You that warms the core of my Being I just want it to b