Thursday, February 11, 2010

channel , brush stroke, i am death and I am painted on
like breaths of smoke from winter coats over frozen lawns
rebellion only lasted  from night till frosted windows, crept dawn
rubbed your scattered hair, gripped and matted till i heard  you yawn
in a dream you seem to leave memory on pressured cloth
innate beauty is in you, it’s not something that you choose or not
so novels stream out your mouth like all that weight you’d lose
write and write behind closed doors till i dont recognize you.
tiny birds explode to stars the further they're from me
flyin in the morning space and on top canopy
my idea of what i want is more simple than you say
but stronger still like quaalude pills, so it could kill everything
but also pain it makes you rain across window edges too
i dont think i can do the hospital again....
an noone has to know about it
how tiptoes tip

....all the way to Brighton, MI


Christopher said...

This makes me think of pains in the wrist and fingertips. A crack of the neck. A pencil pushed down way too hard and dragged around in a furious motion until it breaks.

kim said...

you rock!

jady said...


Eva said...

I've yet to be dissapointed by your words.

TheLittleFlower said...

wow,this is really good <3

Lissa said...