matters of confusion from delving into the pain. we all weep wonders. and there the significance: his yowl, her ache, the crack in their mother’s spine, their father’s immutable impatience. how thorny, pricks of the skin, she tousles the sheets, wraps herself into suffocating and roaches crawl across newly stained wood floors, skittering legs that slip and slide with little traction. but they get away, they get away.

down the rabbit hole we go, hand in hand, arm in arm, off to see the wizard and have a bed time story read. there are three things to remember two of which i’ve forgotten but the least important of which is never to forget the other two and i smelled something that was intestinal and it was good. here we go again with the levees bursting around us and an undefinable anger permeating the sheets. i’d keep it safe and sound if my hands weren’t made of thorns.

rigmarole, how do you spin, spoon fed on codependency and nostalgia? you are so beautiful, like an over turned car set aflame in the middle of the highway with no causalities. honesty is brutal and such a weapon in the right hands. he swung it against me such force that my forehead exploded into something not quite human. we stream this all through the night, tossing and turning and never coming back again.

play fetch:
man coerces dog to pee into urinal loaded with moth balls
which he then proceeds to swallow one by one
royal roast:
king visits royal stables to select hog for tonight’s roast
then proceeds to rutt with it while giving it a reacharound
blow her mind:
man cuts off the top part of his lover’s skull
then proceeds to fuck the crack
between the left and right parts of her brain

pounding on glass to break out to break in to beat her to beat him to beat them into a bloody mess of jealousy and rage and glass and skin. this is what she says to me, this is what makes me smile. we sit back and breathe, trying to control the situation. my brother says to me, you’ve been out in the rain too long and it’s getting to you, these grey skies are getting to you, you need to get of london, what about rome? i’ve roamed enough, i say, and take her hand and we walk off into torrents and downpours, into mass hysterical moments of naked aggression and sex in parks. this is what i am, she says to me. i reply, this is what i’ve become

the heckler, all the time, he screams at me, how are you doing that boy, how could you possibly think you could that? you ain’t superman, you aint even captain canuck, you’re captain fuck-all.
and of course i try to drown him in scotch and mourning and racing the car through tight cobblestone streets.
it only cheers him up.
hey captain fuck-all, this is some wild ride in the back seat here. it’s like a roller coaster, but without the rails, or the belt, or any common sense whatsoever.
i pitch the junk of metal that is my car right off a cliff. how about that for a ride?
hey, what is that your problem captain fuck-all? what is your motherfucking deal?

a dreaming of this at all sides, all angles, panorama surreality, bee bumbling about into the nexus of desire and longing and restraint, all passion an empty sleeve where moths gather up and burn through, scattered bulbs of gasoline and church pews, fluttering into the parched mouths of priests whispering your confessional and we all knock back tumblers, slamming our fists out of our chairs into listening for your cunt and all it begs of you

two things do not make another. he asks me, being kirk to his spock, have you ever thought that maybe it’s chemical? like try taking sami-e. and i think, no i’m not crazy, this isn’t mental. it’s behavioral. it’s when i stop doing that the rabbit hole looms and devours. the minute i rest properly and enter the small death of sleep only to resurrect back into my daughter prying open my eyes. then i return. two things to not make another. two things simply make two things more than what you had before.

it is not my fault i remember things, i cannot help it. i cannot stop. the way he played with the hairs just under his nostrils, whiffing at them, as if he was remembering something, like the scent of her. just the glimmer of it, on the edge of haughty and musk. she with her feet propped up across his legs, lotion in his hand, toes splayed back. she said, get busy with my clit and i was astounded. the way his son looks at him as if to say with one fragile eyebrow raised and a shy tilt of his head, i will be more of a man than you. i cannot stop it, it slides in and out of view, like the way i can tell the difference between holding someone and being held, the reluctance and recalcitrance, the wanting and the loss. he says to me, that stupid bitch has filled the house up with everything and i take the cigarette he offers and smoke it viciously, for this too will remain.

there are things i need to remember and things i am desperately trying to forget. will you forget for me? and i laughed spindles of unrepentant joy and malice and everything cruel in the world turned its attention to me as if i was the spit and the charcoal and the skewer and the lamb. let’s have a roast, i said, let’s burn everything. let’s make a big pile of ash.