Tag Archives: art

The inbetweens

Light a candle
Put a stop to them
Put a stop to them
Put a stop to them
I like to sit
Watching plants grow
From a window
Scrolling down
Down
Down
But it lags
It lags
It lags
It lags
& I know
Somewhere inbetween the I
And these requests you sit
Collecting
& I muse
Do you feel a pang rewarded
Like I do
Like I do
Do you
It’s sticky
Like a web
Like the cum
On your hands
Little humps
On the top of tinted SUV’s
Watching screens
Watching screens
Watching screens
It doesn’t matter
We’re the inbetweens
The inbetweens
The inbetweens


Lost girl

                                           A girl lost
                             in the back of the cab


 peel your lip back
  what’s it say


                             a pink tentacle
                            flops across the
                           suicide seats
      stained red
      with a slap


                                she closes her eyes
& touches her clit beneath her black 
dress
           to the rhythm of
              the window wipers steady
or a piano


                             they wanted three hundred
          now it’s six


                                   who was behind the wheel
                                  driving the lost girl
                                 to her destination
              deep inside 
this nothing nowhere
                        no one knows but her


I need a ride
she said Where to?
I don’t give a fuck


             her hooded eyes as blank as her face
                                           like a black cats or
                                                a new moon’s


it was Thursday
as we watched from afar
     the door open
             the door close
                        the black cab
          with the suicide seats
 stained red


                                        she touches her pink clit
    the tentacles coil
like condensation on a window
 like misterioso being beamed
  down by a vinyl crackling satellite 



People

There are those who speak
for hours on end
about other fragments of the land
we call each other
like rocks sitting in a river
unable to not ignore
the water flowing by

and I sit listening
like the melting of a candle
flickering the imminent
waxlessness of my creation
with nothing but nods to add
to my fluid disposition.

There are reagents being burned
by the fire spinning boys
making art in the dark
out of the shooting stars
that we are
left no trace
until something was injected
behind the expansion of consciousness
that looks like a universe
or a puzzle
or a mask
that when revealed
collected everything
behind the curtain
of the dead event horizon.