justaphase

she greets me little bird shadow lines of bars across her brow beating frantic wings not yet full grown to save her from the darkness till they bleed each drop a rust stain immortalized as dust in my mouth her throat cracks ardent song like creaking joints cooped up too long she has forgotten how to fly away is not an option cut her hair like her dreams it blows away across the splintered floorboards of my mind hush little one tomorrow will be another damned day

lay me down... my oblivion slowly descending various rungs of light. consciousness. soon forgotten with the closing door. curling hand... is it relaxed in sleep? or clenched and fighting tomorrow, should it wake and move again. hair a primal sun around my head. soft floor, digging trenches in my cheek. plush padding, cuts me deep. voices echoing. darting. bouncing shocks of pain within my brain. i hear them grinding teeth. bruised by the stillness, craving harsh treatment, aching... to be moved again. a loss of will... my own accord has fled with your simple pleas.

pumping blood that vicious wine to a cold place near my breast. filling limbs, sluggish in derision of its frame. head hangs limp, on a weaker spine... wont you be fair, and cease your rending beat. casualties of love. you lay where you have fallen... gouge my eyes clear of smokey dreamwebs. hurtful wanting left as a waking remnant of their deeds. how the brain detests the cold fire burning to be fed. waging war on a 120 pound battleground. the weary work of shunning warmfelt longings, takes a toll on sanity. reaching out for something in you, and stab myself instead.

the screen erupts cacaphonys of screams in ears already deaf. blood me once again my freind, ive forgotten what you said. toothless child, simpering family man YOU DO NOT EVOKE MY SYMPATHY. so hopelessly untalented you muddy already murky waters. breathe some more air and it will be wasted. bring that stainless steel relief crashing to a messy halt, your cowardice left out in the fashionable alienation of another sorry youth. bash your brains into the wall of entertainment repeatedly switch channels to divert the trauma. cling to your withered morals and fuck a dead thing in the grave. always be there to save you from

i hung my drying strips of non      sense on a cord, bitten by fleas and years. id cut each one with hands that s h o o k    (\"we are the leaves         in       autumn.streetlight stanzas.) from your back, that dared to send its morse of moles in the form of  cer  nty               un  tai towards my stomachs (cold interior)pit. there lived an oracle who cracked bones (with a nail heated                       etch                        my                       soul                   by your|burning|questions) to divine futures she read with lines       in her face .a compass that i       would    

Its, about time the carpet started talking to the hardwood floors. Been going on so long the tiles dont think they can take it anymore \"I swear I saw her feet on Sunday. Gained a few pounds wouldnt you say?\" \"But did her hair brush the ceiling, ever touch the highest corner?\" \"you might want to warn her about the bedroom on the right.. its where the bad dreams go at night.\" Gossip for days into the goosedown pillows, she quite forgot to change the feathers there... \"I swear I heard the sheets whispering about rebellion...\" Learn how to look the other way as the spiders shake two of their eight legs in defiance. They lament th

/ Well, we were there, but later.   When the air was theatrical and womanishly desperate, and the weeds were hardened bones. She'd counted, and marked it in the dirt: eight pink-footed sparrows, eating black oil seeds straight from the pitted face, beaking sticks and sticking feathers where the before-clover grew. / he started smoking again, that year, when he found the pilot with no legs and the wings garlanding firs and the brown smoke scorching brown birds.   The mountain lions rubbed their gums raw trying to pick meat from metal. He made a fire overhead and we swallowed mouthfuls of water         Today God, my t

This morning, Annie tumbles from the car and onto the driveway.   I watch from behind the curtains as Mother and Father trudge behind, dragging duffles full of god-knows-what (sweatshirts, I figure, and a toothbrush, and gallons and jars of bitter white pills and injections).   "Daddy – keys!" she cries, and his mouth stretches, baring teeth (he smiles, he thinks) as he tosses a jingling cluster.   The latch clacks, and Annie comes home.   I hover in the kitchen – I never know what to say.   She spots me before even hanging up her jacket and kneels.   "C'mere, mutt," like she expects me to pretend I'm happy to see her ei

        1. You are openhanded. Of course you are openhanded. Yours is a more civilized hand than God’s, a softer hand, a slower hand. And your mouth discloses the first great secret of the world. I cannot hear it. It is a secret for your mistresses and your four wives, and for your mistresses and your four wives only. The child will learn it on his own. You may edify him this way, you may make a lesson out of it— though I will learn close to nothing. Perhaps how to make my expressions less vacuous, my hands softer and more civilized, my tongue-pallet the purer. Hand me that Made

Contents I. "Tomato Stew" II. "conversation with the neighbour" III. "Man in No.3" IV. "Hospital" V. "On the Road (part one)" VI. "On the Road (part two)" VII. "On the Road (part three)" VIII. "untitled document" IX. "Motel Room" X. "Hospital again (insecticide)" XI. "The Separation" XII. "Before the Law (timber wolf)" XIII.  "conversation with the mother" XIV. "another document" XV. "Severance/Connection" I. Tomato Stew she's crying away in that little room of hers, what does she want now? leave the wooden spoon resting on the pot bubbling away limping down the corridor the screaming grows from a muffle in