Malaise Contender

To break, or stop, Or undo Fortunate patterns, Disappointing results This isn’t soul surgery, It’s Science!

Our scheme to join our most beloved pain; A courtship of oil, a courtship of ink. To stand, always, and flee love’s teeth But waste instead within Long Night’s laid trap, our promised ecstasy the decaying bait, and the mirror for our unrecognizable portraits. And so resign, and so rejoin. And in such fury smash the easel! To tear our plans and take the pillow; To lay our heads amidst such…

I was meant to save you I was meant to fix me I was meant to try, and that is all (Three Different Points Of View)

A night regressed With choking gasps or slanted views Though clandestine on wet concrete Dissolves in time the common screen that hides our bare footprints To take its place in measured beats A morning sun, so bright and sideways Like Heaven’s own interrogation

A war of yelps A tilt of postures A simple game of Who’s The Most Damaged

To Not Regret The Meals You’ve Made

Scrub the kitchen with no gloves Bury the scraps Fill the icebox with all of dinner’s noise.

It’s there It’s in the deep creaking of the floorboards In each corner of every room Tiny scenes and exorcisms Unwelcome thoughts of dizziness Lost rebuffs and fragrances A storm. A chair. A performance. It’s You.

Long awaited Contentment With such mighty Reverberations The Past shakes off like Dust on your Jacket

My long fabricated Afternoon is over And now for the prepackaged porcelain Of early Evening

“What can I give you, my love?” he asked. “I desire the moon,” she said. “Then I shall give you the sun,” he replied. And so she burned.