Ntebrx

The universe knows she is dying like a shark knows swimming; she knows how it feels, the ebbs and the flows and the slow realignment of matter and energy. There are certain laws she follows and some days she curses thermodynamics (a bitch). She tries to savour moments (measured in dipoles and galactic rotation) but finds most indistinguishable, and the great furnaces of her home rotate, burn fiercely and explode. She is threatened by the edge of time, cutting her evenly and sapping her warmth, scattering stardust on eternal winds; she knows soon she will sit forever and unchanging. The universe is a fighter, and with some stardust crafted, i

It’s funny to think I loved you once, or to think I thought so; because who knows what love is, other than those who’ve found it and finding it can’t have been much more than the familiar flutters and nonsense that’d get me incensed to be around you. I see pictures of you now and that’s all, little snapshots of your heart-stops and it’s numbing knowing that I’d had dreams of (what comes to words as) being yours or you being mine – I guess what I wanted was your attention, your time, because in my eyes it was valuable. Like corvids I collect shiny things instinctively, like the corner of your ey

you’d hardly notice him now;  in fact, you’ve probably passed his ruffled form before; he used to be like everyone else, on the bus; he’d get on here and off there, heading to a someplace or somewhere sometime; he liked buses - they were quiet and steady, usually; maybe as a baby his parents took him on car trips to get him to sleep, and he felt it then; he could relax in the steady motion and soon he’d take the bus just ‘cause, when he didn’t need to and just for a couple blocks, a guilty pleasure; watching the other travellers come and go and imagining the froms and tos they had while slowly finding fewer

It’s funny to think I loved you once, or to think I thought I did; because who knows what love is, other than those who’ve found it and finding it can’t have been much more than the familiar flutters and nonsense that’d get me incensed to be around you. I see pictures of you now and that’s all, little snapshots of your heart-stops and it’s numbing knowing that I’d had dreams of (what comes to words as) being yours or you being mine – I guess what I wanted was your attention, your time, because in my eyes it was valuable. Like corvids I collect shiny things instinctively, like the corner of your

I used to spend a lot more time in days than night. But now every time the pendulum swings and brings me out for another round it seems I spend a little more time in the darkness, not the light and now I wonder if I live in darkness and light is becoming just the in-between and moments of lucidity are in the darkness, all else is dreams.

In the ashes of the house he might find his wife and daughters or maybe they are spread in the skies like solar winds or butterflies; one spark. he imagines summer – warm, light breeze no wind chime, quiet, sweet – it seems like them again. he has their laughs at the edge of hearing; sees their smiles, flush of their cheeks; their serious, their quiet, their mouth twitch as they sleep he lets his dreams take him hardly feels the sting

We’re pacing by the polished floors and cinder walls and wrought-iron doors but find the wardens quiet, hidden – gone, even, from this prison, to other dungeons and dragons; villains to build little brick-by-brick creations and cages and pin little butterfly wings on murals but we hadn’t noticed that their hammer blows and blocks on rows had faded; they’d found that man was both the sculptor and the piece and we’re pacing by the floors we polished and walls we cindered and the doors whose iron was wrought by the chains we coddled on our arms. Day by day we’d swing the bars of cages and pin the wings of but

Sometimes the air I breath is just air. Sometimes the air I breath is everything, sometimes it’s a river of calm. Sometimes the air I breath is a headache, heavy, chemical and damp. Sometimes the air I breath is god and I sit as still as I can and breath slowly because I don’t want to lose my hold on it. Some days I run my hand through the air, as my fingers tingle with electricity that sparks and snaps through my veins; some days the coffee is better, I inhale it and then breathe out roasted honey verve. Some days the air tastes sweet, and yellow leaves on grey sky is all I ever wanted; some days the rain tastes like spearmint

You are in the eraser dust of every unwritten line lightly written in pencil fine, so as to hide from prying eyes. You are the white of my mind when I’m reminded and found a million miles away not lost like they thought but searching. You are on the back of the scrapings dropped from my scratching at the ceiling of the sky, tapping on the floor of my dreams. You are the filled-up spaces between my fingers, the scratch to my every itch, the fever to my cool and the space between my every aspired star. But you are the path that leads a walk through solid walls. You are the eraser dust that falls in my eyes that I get from scratching

Take me to the fire and turn me into coal I’d do it all again, I’d sell my happy soul I’ve got the memory of that snake black gold To keep me cool in the hells of old So douse me in holy gases and rub them in my skin Light a dozen torches and tie me up therein Sing a thousand psalms and tell your god I’ve sinned Take me to the fire and brand me in wind. I love a little lake of cool with eyes blue as the moon hair like straw in summer hot like summer noon. So take me to the fire, see, for loving liquid gold; I’d rather burn in fiery hells than drown in frigid cold.