there are things, like sticky white rice, the kind that sticks to the roof of your palette, in between your gums, feverish things, like the sweat between her breasts, the gasp from her throat, the rake of her hand across your back, the taste of her deep, gleeful things, the lazy caressed leg, the spittle of a penis spent, the sound of her voice drifting into sleep

cunts and back talk, twist your dick into it, right up to the hilt, smash your balls into her chin, smash her knee into your throat, choke on it, spit and nipple, lips and ass, open her mouth, bleed into her, knock yourself out, break her spine, break yourself, break beyond being broken.

the lunatic spiral and its mad mad sweat, or sweet, or meat. hereto for art thou and some blessing of some such of words worthless and antiquated and feeble barely to be stood, or understood, or spoke often of, spake. watched and watchful, we are cracking at the seams of a oncoming youth crowding us into mortality.

father’s day, Sunday, any day, everyday, father’s day, for a lifetime, in any given minute, never free of it, never to relinquish it, this day, any day, father’s day, cherish it, cherish him, cherish the fact that you are.

days on end, this haunting, the hem of her skirt, she said, how do i look, black lily in her hair, and i said, you look like slutty corpse set aflame and she said, that isn’t funny, she had issues and i laughed, you think you’re the only one with mixed emotions, and she pushed me down onto the sofa and i smelled her hair and she kissed me then and everything was alright again until i woke up on the other side of the river in a basement studio apartment where the music was this constant static and the roaches crawled under everything.

the hidden codes of leopards a sound this wide eyelash flickering in the dark i could see her by doors almost leaving after having left polaroid fascination afterimage shocking retinas into a frenzy half done half kiss wet and falling tears into gravel and bruised gumlines of teeth if only so clear of it, so clear of it all.

running hands. running hands with scissors clipping open clumps of hair from foreskins. hung from bare trees out in desolate fields like all cliches promised of murder with a stern and undeniable hate. unspeakable finger-paint. and there, and there, the tongues, dry into muddy water, choking. you dreamt this and made me sick with it. made me a part of it. like crushed wheat underfoot. like husks of bones sucked dry.

what was yesterday? something gone, just there, beyond the sight line. perspective shift, we were all there, one moment until another. like rinds before they sour in the sun, basking heat. break down. it all comes to breaking down the constituent parts, the constituents. we laughed at that, by the fire, by the shore, by the curb. she grabbed hold of her hair and tied it in a such a way that was improbable if not for the moon. shiny, pock-marked, ultimately marooned. something blue and wilted, tinge of green, promise never to forget. was it yesterday?

something like the teeth being jarred loose, an impressive force of will that shatters the jaw, leaves your mouth agape. how could you do this, biting oh so lovingly, like a bird picking a a worm or was that the wound. twice as much but painful slow. the seepage into everywhere else, dark rooms with invisible corners and even shakier walls. curtains, he said, we need curtains to hide all the stains.

my daughter picks dandelions and makes wishes while i sleep a deep slumber very much like death. the head clouds, my son babbles and razzes and gives off a tiny growl. annoyed, my love bares barbed wire that snares and catches us all. one moment after all others, all i want is one singularity after all the rest.