i. why didnt they say to me
when i walked into that room and reached for you
there's nothing here?
i wouldnt believe it, they live to lie to me
see the windows and the centurys i've collected?
they wouldn’t let me anywhere near earth
through them, humans are capable of somehow waiting for a pattern
of some kind of anything
when i first heard the powerful victrola
my bloody heart numbed
bare hands inches from the fireplace
no one has ever died, you can feel it
no birth no death no nature
the bad smell of copper, the shape of cats
grey bile betraying a living creature
this place below deep sleep
that room is there late at night
i'll see what i can learn
you have to go inside through loud present death
and climb the next ladder dead
ii. there's a box of honey in the air duct
that outweighs the classic millstone of the past
and never the twain shall hibernate (please)
i take it with dramamine
felt more comfortable to awaken
than make me seasick
i think we have to love the lack of horrible violent qualities
and never give it a second obsessive compulsive thought
it begins with cold hands
cutting a perfect liver from a cat
it took cover from encounters
please leave a small trophy at the tone
hoping to look at what you wrote now
everyone thinks i am a monster
hidden away down here
bars on my own windows
locked far enough away
they don’t want to hear your impurities dammit