half-lidded and leaning back to stay alive she ate a wilderness of children the anonymous animal and it would look pretty the margins of objects my touch spreads across the beach some diseases will give you symptoms: your faces spinning in bleach for bursts of sun on chrome coffee’s warm hold on the tongue stalks the room like the shadow of an innocence heat and quiet the cat on it’s back with it’s belly in the air we found dirty magazines throwing them to the curbside it won’t work as well electronic literature the rain infuses everything with jaundiced light i was drinking your flesh think of the squirming kittens you hate the mindfreak never enough text innocence was your century the victims mist slim methods please let him be on his way something had to shock him to change desiderara on thin fabric warning squirming moist and mewling cats afternoon threads with sleep something to wash that taste out of your mouth? once laying down in glass the failure of safety the fewest dropped calls of any wireless network mud from the pores just under the edge of poor soul the cat on it’s back with it’s belly in the air storms flow in and out watch how it’s all reflected in the screen ftp.solace give me any excuse this pink fire i wrecked your life threads of heats of cinders i would lick that light from cracks and i’ll screw up your laundry wrapping himself in televised leaves

–generated by The Moon in Lake Erie

You wrestle with an essence. Curling alongside someone’s
analogue brogue, you can gorge yourself on animal fat
on the hoof; you can pounce on opulent ventures still latent

with sterility; you can grow your order over every other
face until you walk on unrippled undappled pathways

and no gaze savages your form. The lookout on the mountain
grazes unheard trees, even weeps when she finds
those broken limbs; hot hazy days, the blood of the conquest,
puddles lapping at the margins of the Lake. A marquee

on the Lorain Plaza Theatre says something that reads.
I calculated the lacerations, their rate and their tarry,

and turned red over end, over and over and over again
until you walk, striped with tertiary operations,
through my door. Then you might have looked at me–

Everything is software to me. The nostalgia for potential tenses as I push forward, and you receive again, sparking petals and latent aurae. I do deliberately with your language as I wish. Showing beneath a thin bed of debit cards your children’s voices to them, amazed such serration aggregates this way, like your purple-striped dress from the dark ages garnering royalty could lock cobalt, tawdry across my face. Or maybe more like Kokoschka? It’s likely Dahmer could only experience gratification when the Gaze was turned away, or snuffed out, and this the gratification you and I would feel in intimacy. This method precludes intimacy. We will have to banish the word “test”.

Troubled, as if burned where the nerves trellis out
into thought: and running murders in the oxygen

In generations the nurture had rummaged among loud crags
and garbled PIN numbers and still not found the relation

to get themselves past Monday. Accelerant is used
around the base of where my helix sings yours

out of its mouth in a puddled olive stream. I’m on fire
with you, really I am: always worry what you’ll think of me

signed and sung, sometimes heartless, like a glass hole.
Annulled, as in burying in, as if worrying under

I’m trying lately to include myself
as no less than the trees and stars
in my landscape-to-be-acted-on. It’s
always such surprise when I see how

I’m an object-for-others, and they deal
with me or move around me, and sex
blooms sticky in the calls of birds, and
love collects itself in the difference.

No-one knows the trouble I’ve seen.
We can’t even assume the existence
of one another, at least as anything
other than refracted light. But lately

it’s comforting to think of myself in the dark,
waiting for you. Sharpening. Sharpening.