Many-eyeshere

Today the daises rot. Her hair, so fine it seeps through head and heart. The fungus, root, affliction hard of bones and fingers. Brittle hate of daughters, sons. Come! Take my hope! No-more is it I need, my dreams lay shattered, broke beneath a mild tide: like glass trying to reflect a hollow ghost. Now claim my words surrender every pen, my tiny triumphs, heard by none. And still no-one will be beside my bed tonight. Alone among my useless dreams, I tire, feign sleep and scream to gods who don't bother with paltry prayers. So shy away from light I will, abhor all goodness, swill the wine of madness; hope does not belong.

Tired of being the 'good daughter' rather than the girl to whom things are completed through. My goodness is nothing more than necessity: clothes remain dirty unless washed holes widen unless sewn people die unless saved. To whom do I offer my scores? A benign God? Some television talk-show host? Each as ubiquitous as the other. My sins sink congealed at the bottom of a confessional booth. And who am I to take this from you? A tired knave, heart-broken cliché? a daughter: remembered only slightly.

Bats sing better harmonies; Mouths slick with the pulp and juice of our orange tree, outside my window they screech and speak to each other in E minor, D flat, A sharp, calling to others: 'the fruit is here!' My mouth is always dry, tired of my failure to speak in a post-lingual form: all these nameless emotions that cannot be labelled sad, the bats do it better, and still manage to sing.

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical, naked;" all by convoluted choice. Smoking Marlboros, little ghosts with big egos; shuffle in sharpie desecrated shoes. Bored illusionists; forming hearts and skulls from poisonous smoke. They still flicker, insubstantial; drowned in the static of an obsolete television, stuck on a talk show. We see them in the break down lanes of limitless highways. Thumbs pronounced, wanting anyone to take them home. Taken home to their bedrooms, rock 'n' roll, home computers, alcoholic mothers and wearied fathers; from whom they steal their cigarettes. Take them hom

I'll watch you from afar as the dandelion seeds spiral above us. Among the asphodels you wander. Calves brushing against the poppies, against the chrysanthemums. This strange pollen caught in the lashes of my eyes; how peculiar a vigil as you drank from Lethe.  

This strangeness of communication, extends in its farthest to the grey tone skies. Even now, in this weather, there still, remains the violets and poppies. Circular blubs, that untie and unite and unite and are united under these familiar iridescent stars. They too have a sense of language. You show me these stars, as we are lain among the flowers, —perhaps by love itself. And staring beyond us, to the shooting stars and then to the earth, I smell your jasmine musk and squeeze our intertwined fingers a little tighter, as Radiohead throbbed in the distance.

I. My bones have been like cabinets; the hinges all dust, wood punctured. Breathe, hope, stamina (the grains wheat enough to take on absence, sweat, and nausea) were misplaced. Their dearth rearranged my skeleton in certain places, and I stuck out here—sunk in there. The nonexistence was pushy— bored with the fractures, ignorant of setting the bone. I was ignorant of setting the bone, too. Mirrors were poor reflections, wasted glass, unable to diagnose. I was intact. It appeared that way. The angles spoke of it— they expressed the wholeness of body. Sure they did. They did. II. It spoke of other images, t

One c h a n c e        given                                 by them     making themselves           absant             from                          m       

I      am            frightened. ...so much pain so many years so cold so lonely so angry... breathing                   speeds                                 up                                      heart                                            pounds                                                    faster                                                          and                                                             faster                                                                 until silence. ...what has happened to me who am i how long have i been here why am i so angry... what have you      

Citizens and citizenesses! Time has come to get rid of the vile money-making Chumps,who are interested only in money and care only about their own stuffed wallet! This is everything they want and I will never ever give it to them! What happened to all the things we  wanted? Is it everything You hoped for and was it everything You gave Your money for? ! I can't stand it! They don't give a buck! about the country and everyone of You can help to put an end to this tragedy. Nor silence nor Your resignation will help. We need Your support to kick their lousy reference sections and get rid of the problems they caused! Independence is something we a