slippery egg-shell coloured hands clamoring at me, & i am radish red from welts. i'm not any kind of red; not even suicide queen; i'm spades all up & down, fisher prince spears & lazarus bones. every tall shape? is a tree, & behind them is a stag-headed templar, sword drawn, waiting to damocles down upon me. i'd like to pretend that i see skeletons walking around when i go out, but even that is a little too concrete. i see motes of dust, & when i look at my hands all i see is squirming guts held in by glass. i'm the opposite of everything, but i keep telling myself that diamonds glow under black lights, i keep calling them glow worms & wondering what wavelengths get out of the trap, wondering about what mister miracle would do, & wondering how close i am to accidentally getting the anti-life equation. every time i try to rest my head in my hands my fingers go right through & i end up fondling my brain, rubbing clumsy all over impulses, kicking my legs & mumbling. & it is the same old congregation, thorny crowns bowed, flitting eye contact with dwindling lights. i even want it this way: i want to be falling away. because i don't think i could handle them pulling back. or fading, but what is the promise of forever if it tarnishes so easy? no, man, these rusty chains are going to stay the same poison. sometimes everything looks three-d, blue & red separated, & i realize that it is just me. me & maybe david lynch.
if i had to answer the america's next top model questionnaire for three words to describe me?
1) sapphires. 2) biolumenescent. 3) cheater.
(occasionally troubled with wanting to push sarah down stairs. into a razorblade poppy field.)