scheherazades

Walking into honest holes laced up morning harbinger zip closed your body a work uniform exhume a thing which. Dabbled in dark beauty what future living this is it wringing the water out the cloth wringing the love out the body I am trying not to wander yesterdays garden dodging calls from my insurance provider as the city rages on & on I am always losing me in pieces the small change of my soul abandoned to various couches across europe Yes in fact I am missing something But still this is where I'm leaving you the feeling of guilt is a natural result of desire. I want to run over the hills and into the moon let the day the body, the schism I spun the poem round the. Page made soup. dreamsof transjoy its september I do dream of going I

once more before the end times let us sit in a warm green field slip the creek— run our restless down and do a perfect job of everything. i will cradle your face with my hands under your sky and wander careless up to your summit— spilling out from our bindings onto the same page you and i know each others edges scheherazade— you were looking right at me once more before the end times let us get drunk early in soft stages whisper how it will be when the cows come home, shamelessly alive i love you in the dawn which is mine and in the night, which belongs to you as with most things it is just like you said simply, how you are is too good and rare to lose.

ive got worms in my brain which rot and glow while i deviously put the washing machine on rinse and spin as usual i have overdone it a bit as usual i think something is supposed to come after this part O—how the stock market suffered and swallowed until there was nothing left for everybody else when i went down to the watering hole in the penitent blaze of a tuesday i sucked on a blackberry lozenge regretted it spat it into the dirt legend has it that it's still there

you upstart thing i love you lie licker, old dog you lay down by the fire for so long but got up again. I missed you while you slept. I brushed your hair. one ghost in the greek yogurt good heron i was with you then and now at the end of the universe i will piss in a cup i will kiss the last dust i will hold you very tightly say to you that you worked hard and that i love you. i will tend to the temple. where are you going, babylon willow tree can i follow to the arid girl paradise Yes —to the root of it where the moss grows soft i am waiting for you like a river this is our last time being alive i want to lie down by the fire again No — i walk in your imprint always you know me better than anyone, robot i know you best of all when I stumble i see you in the glory of heaven washing dishes i want to lie

unravelled nowhere cradling garbage like woman I have hands swallowed feeling week Wide strange God bought wounded pink that's winter thinking Alleluia, somebody's hills are peaceful anything yellow will work for wanting the Sunday river good one love on the kind bus For spill of diamond, refrigerated used glass STOP you're happy forever wake when the light starts running cloud mouth stupid bed rush he can't open the day or the door with a real face body forever little girl in the wanted always i was Like shit things splintered let the train find heaven Stay beautiful Already Nobody's crazy first leaves through ritual death the ritual daughter rinse the damage endless Milk sleep i YES ran For the likelihood of moonlight

Oh hell I could have been halfway to nowhere by now the rain fell over the hills and vanished becoming blades of grass or yellow flowers again I am desperate to get out of my body the habits of hurting are wearing me down my data is corrupted I know crazy peace where was I when the rain fell over the hills —I was leaving again I need to fall in love insanely there is no other way I dream up a thousand unsatisfactory men and kill them all. This week the world is ending and I am running out of laundry pods. How long do you love something before you stop. Still I know this bus route like the back of my hand—Stray is in my nature. Do you dare To say something is good. To say something is worth loving where the rain goes after it falls over the hills that’s where I'll be there was a time I wanted nothing more than to make beautiful things now I just want to become one before I die

February that endless landscape elusive the evanescent headfuck of dawn— I could reach God(or someone) on the landline I do not sleep—in sleep(as in waking) my body is my enemy the pitiful morsel to a cruel man's silver spoon On cold nights I do not turn the heating on backache microwave pasta making offerings to the greedy shrine of the gas metre. I believe in love, and communism I want my name on the list— I believe in love— the first night in weeks that I slept I dreamed I was running like a flock of birds I was running into the sky and dreaming(the pimpled skin of an orange I wounded the waiting) that a man I had once loved ran after me calling my name like a word that could be spoken(I knew better— but I still wanted to answer him) That fever was a different breed a solemn seed of scraping bled out the pith for one candid night and a nice cheeseboard before they

What's left to us is hope, and garden dirt the scrub of spring and matchstick flame I spurn roots, but borrow yours from time to time—the spade hits stone the reasons I don't give up: I saw the sky burn over Loch Rannoch in winter tumbled out of a fever into your garden shed Forgave the river, escaped the wickedness of men. The daily ritual waxes, wanes to contraction. We keep sane by small graces, slow down the clock to catch a breath before the moment runs down to nothing. In the church of hope and garden dirt, we give praise and prayer of a kind. You and I are slow creatures of love, Tacticians and believers. For the sake of peace, sit by the water and I will sit by the window. Say a blessing for the light of dawn and the curlew's call for calluses and wet paint and lighthouses. Love is all we have— and hope, and garden dirt.

Make a future out of thumb tacks in a pissed-up sort of fashion then live it. Down with fascism eggs for breakfast, & so forth. in a city on fire shall we line up nicely to die shall we hand over our belongings shall we renounce our neighbours under the watchful eye of the moon Slather the butter over your toast clink your glasses, say, Funny how time runs out! Tuck those doubts under your hat & remember where you come from. Turn off the lights where is the Revolution, mother why does nobody want to be saved a sore existence & a Hello Kitty band aid to patch up another January good year for conglomerates & men in power. There is no Love or Justice in the imperialist state & if I know nothing else about Jesus I know he fucking hates cops.

The world turns blue settles itself around my mad queen’s shoulders. If you only knew what was good for you I am turning the delay pedal up I am not available for consultation you weren’t listening. I said If you’re going to leave me you should do it now that venus in the cocoon of some topical Valium paradise in pursuit of a good slut’s death I thought I had enough blood to bleed forever until I didn’t until ardor dies I am still a martyr to ecstasy the candied addition, the perfect body a sufficient offering I wore the skin of your perfumed conquest sexy, a salient dream of junk Yes I was used. I loved for love where is the feeling now, bitch? where is the fucking feeling? They got us good this time with the whole freedom schtick. I never forgot the taste of bleach and prozac in the long hours. Milky Jupiter With a cock in my mouth I don’t care that my body isn’t mine. It could be