poems

Atrophy. The constant blaring of the siren withers away at last. I get up. I pick the chair up and move it back to where it was before I got scared of my own reflection in the pen. Is this agony male, or merely human? What does my sink think of me before I twist

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notes taken in spite of the turmoil we abase into the night;hand in hand, tactless, honesti am familiar enoughwith your beautyto scribble onto your dark, shapeless facea smile i deem impossibleto look awayand eyes that won’t go awayeven when i have closed mine ownyour chatterbox requests attentionand i give way to trains full of life

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take your beauty, a finger nailand take my pride, tall hastea taste for my sake, taste ’till we bakea cake you take to be tastily fakedwhat a beastly prejudice to hastily makebut i come tried oncenever twice, so hidesongs sung thrice will always ring a bellthe crash will always come before the ride summer fried,

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