death like anything, warmed over. i clasp bitten nails around shoulders torn, a lover’s misstep, a wife’s bounty, and jackals that lurk between trees. there is not one promise i will not break into and ransack as my own. eyelashes that peel off before sunrise and we mock the necks of bottles broken inside the necks of lonely men. so quick, easy and disposable: this is what we’ve come to, this is what passes.

here, here and the jeers, she fingers along the the gap where his tooth has fallen out, still bloody. do you like the taste of it and i wasn’t quite sure if i was asking the question or being asked of it. but she smiled and laughed and wept suddenly into the bowel of this atrocious feeling of being broken and slivered and sliced and somewhat happy in all of it. there there, she said and picked up what looked like a piece of a tooth and it might have been mine or her last lover’s but she fit it into my mouth all the same, we were all the same, she was all the same all over, despite the night, despite the glare of the sun, despite the entire entourage walking on thin ice.

we see the color all red and something in the vein, like pouring, like a match just lit or exhausted, the ember of it. two times i’ve stumbled across feet as large as bricks and only my own, scarred and calloused palms that did nothing to stop the falling only deflect my teeth from smashing against the concrete. she says to me, that’s why your smile is so beautiful, everything else is just bruised.

by the pond, he kneels, rubs his hands into the mud, it’s all mud, he says, it’s all become fucking mud. i can’t separate the dirt from the water, the pebble from the glass.
he bows his head, heaves, i can’t tell the difference, he says, between the spring and the fall, the crush of death and the passion of love, the light of the moon and the warmth of the sun.
he chokes, digs his nails into his scalp, i can’t tell the difference between the pain and the sorrow, the torturer and the torment, the prisoner and the cell.
i break everything, he whispers, i break everything.

and the extragavence of it, like shattered crystal pirecing the floorboards, a brilliance of light and blood and splinters. did you say that? why goddamn yes i did and it was perfect, the way her nipples stood up at attention and his cock fell apart at the seams. like a baseball thrown too many times. how about that? yeah, that’s the ticket. something else entirely in mind but what mind are we fucking talking about at this point? and on and on and on.

i find myself, looking, leaves scattered across the street. there, youth, alone, dancing, laying in the streets, oncoming traffic and a girl that laughs having been there. i tighten my grip, veer towards the shoulder, she says to me, i still think you’re an interesting person. the windshield shatters, dense spiderweb of all the things obscuring the night, the headlights. sometimes, he says to me, sometimes you have to sacrifice for the greater good, and i find myself a child again, incomprehensible and lonely. i never had a problem being alone but i’ve never felt this unreasonably lonely. and the wind cuts through the throat, leaving us shivering and cracked open again.

i weep crows with eyes that find no purchase, regret filled. they fling themselves into the moon, lost between thick clouds racing the sky. the night was so well lit that i could see the veins on the back of my hand, pulsing and thick, vines across a freshly dug grave. halloween is coming but there are no witches to poison me.

yakkity yak, here’s a smack, right across the face, did you like that? did you want more? no, no, no. tie them fucking hands up, shall we? you have no rights here, you are nothing here other than skin, bruised fucking meat, you’re my motherfucking punching bag. strain all you want, curse me, spit me, wriggle as hard as you can. it just makes me harder, makes my tighten my fucking fists. your best bet is to go limp. your best bet is to roll with it. your best bet is i get tired before i start on your fucking bones.

the straining of leaves and I felt like we were in the fifties but awoke to an infomercial of supported breasts and an advanced push bra. it’s all over again and the ache stretches through the bones until it clamors in the mouth, drying up the spit and withering the gum. every action should have a consequence else we find ourselves drunk and disorderly, fumbling our keys trying to break into our own homes.

-here, he said, wiped the dribble of her chin. ok, let’s try again.
-dad?
-yes?
-where are we?
-we are here.
-is it cold here?
-it can be. but not always. mostly, mostly it’s-
-sad. it’s cold and sad here daddy.
-no it isn’t. don’t say that. you shouldn’t be saying that.
-but look. she points out the window, rain sweeps the street, a neighbor runs from their car to their driveway. no one parks in their driveway.
-that’s just rain.
-but it’s cold.
-yes, he hugs her, yes i guess it can be.