too much blood boils like street-side chicken soup
(no healing for human defecation, oozing brains
between mottled fingers) and too much blood
boils like playground monstrosities
blue-brown bark flakes simmering under touch
taller bones entail nothing more than knee jobs
the kind that whips joints into unknown spaces
and tells toddlers the best way to live between
broad strokes of childhood euphoria is to pull
jittery teeth by yourself
full stop now half stop
gums letting scarlet sorrow escape from old skin
don't beat the strangeness into thin toenails
they stretch for miles like unfinished pastures
fetch a pail of water
and drown in it
too little madness in this crook of world
apartment filled to brim with cold bodies
pressing numb words like birthday cakes
squashed flat under unsuspecting happinesses
did the echo of wisp-stung hazy dreams sound
too familiar? did they sound like unrelenting
streams of salty tears cascading down marble
cheeks? sometimes, too little memory
births itself into ordinary neighbourhood tales
of road-trips so lonely caving into aquarius chests
of moonlight swollen-eyed cravings for nostalgia
of the sense of loss
nothing to name this vast space of emptiness
did you want love? did you deserve it?
if there was one thing you desired for someone else, what would it be?
would you look for yourself in them?
don't be in a hurry to grow up. if memory evades you, curse and thank it.