“I have only two emotions:
Careful fear and dead devotion.”
She sleeps alone with only the presence of dark.
I can see right through your evil tricks,
You’re more transposed than you even believe.
Your heart beating, trembling to the beat of your own pity,
And I pity you for falling asleep in a pool of your own blood.
I stand above her, knife in hand and covered in red,
And it was such a disgrace she couldn’t fight for herself.
I told her I would fight for her,
I would fight all of her battles for her,
I would swallow all of her pain.
I would take care of everything; she will be happy.
She cried my name in the night,
Staring inside of the mirror, punching herself in the face.
Brain, she states, screaming at the glass,
As though there was someone there with her.
She liked to imagine it;
She liked to imagine me, then she could never be alone.
I grabbed her hand through the portal,
And she dragged me out, hugging life out of me.
The intertwining of body and mind overwhelming her.
She stared into my eyes, two pools of liquid; dare not to look away.
“Take me with you.” she stated, “take me away with you.”
Then she handed me the knife.
She knew I never existed.
Xbox One Reveal 2013 Highlights
“Xbox, go home.”
Oh wow, lol. Consoles.
Tv. Television. Sports. Call of Duty.
Fuck.. I hate all of those -.-
but humanity is far too destructive for that
this is so dope!
I’ve decided to smash the state
like a window that got stuck
during a pivotal cross-breeze sonata.
David, you’d be proud of that first line,
but you’re too busy living out a post-
blowfish phase, all stickers and blood
and mucking up the dashboard -
how am I going to drive is all the way
to the airport without a feel for the road?
I shouldn’t mock you, even pseudoly,
because you’re excited about something
and you’re using the violence of silence
to build yourself a better room and I can’t
even muster a cogent sneeze
with all the sand in the air.
Have I told you how weird Nogales is
after New York? The tallest things seem
cacti, though empirically they aren’t,
but stand next to a pillar of spines,
put your arms around one and miss
the listless embrace of Rockefeller
or Flatiron or WT1. Sometime in a cloud
caught morning the cacti sparkle
even better than an open night.
Who let this poet out of his room?
Who out him in an airport lounge
at midnight with some hippie playing
James Taylor? Who taught these road
runners to actually stick out their tongues
in their mocking sprints. I didn’t even know
they have TV in this state - I’d like to
smash all of them for what they did
to cultural studies, with its chaos
of blancos party-crashing the rio.
Here’s to a single star traveling at highway
robbery speed into an Alex Mac
puddle of blue bullshit. If I’ve remembered
anything from my geology courses,
we’ll fall back into the ocean broken and stuffed
full of questions because one dream
is only a sixtieth of the prophecy we need.
The National. June 4th. Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel. I’ll fucking be there.