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her songs, the lullaby in her belly, holding your pulse in a net of strings, kissing the corner of your eye, a cloud of cream, the solar cycle, breathes on you a solar cycle, a thin band of gold, every atom of air and matter like cold smoke. silver strings wrap you in cotton like a broken limb, silver strings of the movement of her clothes, silver strings in the blush of moments, past and present glowing. a thin band of gold that wraps all the way around your chest, cool against a very hot heart. you breathe for years and years, a living soul; you notice a flask of lightning, a coiled moment, knowledge weeping out of you in c

Your eyes walk in file towards an open door that's spilled with light over the carpet and hidden with the vines and leaves, because memory does that, adds color and excusable human absurdity. Inside is the heavy iron box: your nowhere blanket, your book filled with blood, your pulsing blue hearts, your sundress, the magic medallions, speech bubbles, coins, the ribbons, the collection of bright yellow clouds. None are real anymore, of course. They scratched off and became the soil under the tree, when you were hiding your face through the branch seeing people with smiles too heavy for their spines, and their pink skulls shook with the

A miserable tale indeed My face like strange fingers cool to the touch sterile like little holes in everything I am delusional I melt out into streets In my memory I know her as a motion the notion of everything the movement of birds or the sun the speed of atomic fission a gushing moment of matte velvet skin flourescent ephemera She is a heavy cup filled with blood floating not three inches from the back of my head following She comes and goes in spilled flashes of wine flowing out and above the bare walls of my city A gigantic curtain of blood-like skin She spreads her naked back out like cloth over the sky Her shoulde

She moves her head along with the music, and maybe her feet too. It's hard to tell since her image is filtered by smoke and the lighting is so dim. White light on white sheets over white skin. So fragile, like dirty children sleeping on benches, almost worth saving. Lying around her on the bed there are some objects I can distinguish: cd cases, book, ashtray. Ashes, like she needed any more in her life, any more consumption. An ashtray and a plastic bag full of weed. Of course she's stoned, that's nothing new. It's been some time since I've last seen her this peaceful though, maybe it's because she doesn't know I'm here. The first time we got

We hunted for days without rest. When we were thirsty, we drank whiskey from the rivers. And when we started to miss home, we built a new one out of sticks and mud. The deer were our friends and our neighbors, but sometimes we ate them because we had to. When I wanted to be alone you were gone for days. But I could always find you behind a cloud or a star, waiting for me to miss you. When we finally caught our prey, we devoured it and left nothing but bones and gristle. We rode home on the backs of crows and stayed in bed until the next season.