#haley always

Annotated Peoples Make Connections: if they walked around in love/for love/by love with SFX labels to their chests

My feet feel gravity ungilled. They shuffle how an airplane lands at night. The towers hiccuping bubbles like they just had a habanero telling us which way is up and which way to burn in inkwater. Here a padded slope with the headlights of trench fish, bifarious and lighting the turning down, down, down. Aisles of a hushed sway of seaweed heads. How to show the fish a mirror since they live in one? Would they find solace in the doubled-lumen and wish for a field of suns to warn us? Cameron, you couldn’t have imagined the abyss better. Cut lights, action in seats. We don’t need a crowd, just the silver screen and the octo-armed creeping of you to shroud shoulders. Oh, Mariana Madonna, forgive me. The chamber dims next to nothing, the fish swim even more alone unlike us. A mint, monsters- kisshandshouldershoulderfurrow, some screaming, and a whole a lot of carnal mystery between electrified pinky fingers. We never have to talk in there, only with our hands inching closer. Nobody, even me, knows something in this very room enjoys red velvet turning black more than we do. End credits roll. Your many thumbs-down review looms over the mountain bigger than Everest. Your EXIT grin naphthazarin. You hiccup all the way to the parking-lot digging for kernels with my humerus.

-8 Haley Always purplemonkeysexgod69

Annotated Peoples Make Connections: if they walked around in love/for love/by love with SFX labels to their chests

Let us. Let rays. Let the light carry down. Let us end upon the pavement for eggs. Let us hold the line together and play it, see the blurred story in between double bows. The tendrils we pull apart loosen as girls touch and girls know how. The soaped slack tendrils made of smoke, gold flour, and bodies pressed together thicker: toast ‘em twang ‘em. Make it all snap back into place slightly welted. Let the sun snap back into place by the time the last of the storm is clinging onto our fur. We’ll hold down the fort, hold down the band. Hold down the trombone, hold down the fulfilling of growls. Let us watch the thief enter the mountain. Let the mountain know someone is here. Let us course, let us condense all night of the filmsy things, make ‘em leave rings on the table. Discuss a cavernous bone tide shaking its whelps into braids. Or convene on the subject of a sugar-rough heliopause and us on its edge, the Goldilocks Effect us. Us of the bonafide tendons. A catty tone, seriously though, lets us stretch things that lock, these things that wars are begun over; a flighty foot, a lifted lid. Let the heat timbre of us strike all silent until all that’s left is the density of hips unto hips, celestial buds of the purring evaporation. The window greets us, the world beyond steals all the dark things we disciplined, with the same marks of our ever-sorry hearts written backwards as replied letters from the stars dashing the strange blue. How else can we see what we have said through our nostrils coarsely of men.

Annotated Peoples Make Connections: if they walked around in love/for love/by love with SFX labels to their chests

His hand is on the latch as I latch onto his mirage. I think picket fences and Tom appears or Huck. White-washed. No water passes through these slabs. He says, open or doom. Says, room or perish. I would have circled the picket in zen. Or stopped as an O, away, taking in. My friend, auditioner for Avenue Q, has no clear idea of the profanity of rules. Move along she muppets, the voices of New Yorkers pushing through. The sign lofts high, as his eyes audit, ender of worlds, ender of traffic footing what was once a street corner. I put my hand on his hand on his latch. Is there room in this square, I ask? Prophet says, do not question but know: a migraine is a gate. See God in this intestifiying point of light beyond the foreground of Earth, tight as orbits. Sweat oozes the buffer, the pores of fences under the picketing heat. Protesting the flow of water past dead wood resembling asylum walls, Tao Te Ching limns the fool-hardiness of a members-only club. My hand on your hand into the life-jacket washed white for launch. You say it is to help them spot us in the clearing. In the cleaving of gravity. I scrunch my hands to ease the premature imitation of flight. Flames must near the skin, along the fence, until it surrounds us as everybody chop-sticks downstreet. Surrender, and the migraine appears, pouring, a cult of light poison, chime goes the hand ruffle. A raffle, a raffle, prizes for the beyond. Your hand on my clench on the latch.

upon sighting a star sign i took it as a glimmer of a sigh of blood rushing like a sun-ray to sluice me in images

as i raise my arms afloat the light that curves off words descends seeping to my heart the capillaries roll in a splay giving oxygen to my signs

show me what to breathe and how to know what you mean to act and say to show in the air that drags between your teeth and wraps your fingers signing your soul away into space