Warning: Series of half-ramblings and mutterings the other night when I decided not to sleep. Although there is meaning, if you feel like looking.

It is either the dark flannel

Or your skin

Or the green grass when it is winter and

Everything is just a little faded.

That silly little band-aid still


Quiet on my bed.

As if it's screaming would resurrect your ghost.

(But I'll still laugh just like


and under the greyest skies)


There is a certain myth

Around this

Naming of the stars

As if that would make them any more real.




There is an avalanche outside my doors

If I could be buried under so much sleet,


Would I still be human? Still

Supple under the serpentine rivulets of


The mirror broke today and I

Cried in black-turtlenecked sobs.


It's nights like these

When Jack the Ripper's in my basement

(basement, head, same difference)

Doorknobs melt against the strain of

Red-rimmed eyes and

Something pops along the hall



I wonder if I'll die tonight.


The dream is fresh as the

Tiger-striped paper-clip against these

Age-stained pages.

Waiting to


Exodus in

Unassociated feel-scent-taste-smell

Jumbled mulberries

Tumbled on my doorstep while the

Little man asks me what the weather's like in


And in these dreams, Greenland is yellow-mossied-brown because the grass has

Fallen into falling again in


Prelude to Winter.

But the rivers are warm as summer

Because that is

Will always be

The way of rivers

Though there is still that

Paper-clip (yeah, just you try and clamp me down, you

Try—but not to succeed for you

Should know better than anyone

Than anything

That these tigers, here

Would laugh at your

Domestic hope)

Which is small and

Still as yet a dream.


 If rock bottom is a place

Wouldn't there be something under,

Even if it's nothing?

For even nothing needs a name.