Liquid claws, scratching
beautiful disgrace from
left to right in
dot-to-dot, Crayola patterns.
Loose eyelashes galloped
into woven smiles, and
filled the eye of the beholder
with some warm, condensed
neutral passion.

Senseless with a full stomach
of nonsense,
I can't sense the dismay
I've spit onto your crown
of lilacs.

Can I chant and holler to make
everything better?
Never is always the answer,
and I can't help but forget why.

Spun and frozen in a capsule of
dreams and orchids,
on a bed with milky fingers,
and the sting of backlash in not
quite as bad.
Pulling back beads of
ice-cap perspiration,
my mouth and lungs melt
as eager, scarlet, daydream blossoms.
Crystalline, hairline webs
of hope gleamed and fractured
along the fine-grain surface
of my clavicle...
and you smiled the entire time.

Good humor never failed to
float in the damaged capillaries of mine,
and to pass on the infected, and
disinfected idea of perfection from
one underdeveloped cranium to
another, its sheer and raw.
Its power from the underbelly of
sickness, its the bruised shoulder blade
in the mo[u]rning...
its the warmth and passion
sewn into my cozy void.
Its everything I [n]ever wanted
and even more.