new roses

olanzapine tastes sweet
melting on absent tongues.

...sour air. beneath the skin
there is immense room for doubt.

the haziness of a half-formed

comfort zone, of a half-formed 

glance of not aware.

wholesome dispatch, a promise of 

white space, illiterate warmth. 

a lifetime to learn

not to care for what is 
on the other side of sleep.

beauty only exists within contours of defeat

we might have lived centuries of sleep ago
as forlorn hallowers of a damned descent,
defenders of beautifully bleak cities of wreckage,
an army of sullenness.
the inside of our fabric is written in melancholy,
a dictate from Saturn,
to swim relentlessly through spastic dark waters,
drifting into liquid-eyed, blood-eyed, hollow-eyed creatures,
just to find out we are not any larger than
the trembling space between our thin, tired lids.
to shield a delicate canvas for narcissistic decay,
probably the reason we were manufactured in silent undoing,
our eternity hanging by emaciated fingers,
an unfinished projection,
earthen, disturbing dream of opium skies.
the only wisdom is to love the iridescence of ruin,
for there is nothing worthier or lavisher
than the charge of impossibility.

love song

do you remember it? …the arcades
breaking down with the
flood of petrified voices,
the splitting ground breathing
vengeance in immaculate spirals,
the vestal black sky…
and us, for the first time,
we didn’t have a single question to ask.
as I clearly recall it, we were walking
lightheartedly like enamoured ghosts,
hand-in-hand through the millions of shards,
laughing at the burning buildings
with our heads thrown back.
sweet velvet dream.