flesh, fickle helmet

white stains like skulls on the bedsheets

she wakes up buried beside me

a miracle of morning clambering for coffee

that she could choke on

if only today didn’t hold the confusion of

why aren’t you up yet

you have to get going

no one can know about this

her butt bends light

with questions of what took einstein so long

when i can see we’re relatively screwed already

i pull her into my gravity

my belly bounces

the butterflies burn in acid

she claws at my throat

with a ferocity that hawks would be jealous of

until my head pops off eventually

she gets up with rigor mortis restricted to the legs

after mine has faded in a third

like the echo of an eventual ring that hollows out the technological criss crossing

where one can google how to knot a noose tight

before wondering if the forum was their last words of advice

against a yelling like

i will be late and late and late you ass hole

she is not wearing underwear

her anus looks like a starfish

i seem to be growing another limb too

after having been cut off from life

causing me to yawn for

more blood more blood

there is always more blood bled

when emptiness enters

yet there are

nothing but belching noises

where i am the warmest body i know

and i feel it will be cold with whether

i stay or leave like sand

remembering the fondling of a wave

long since dried for the salt was too much

for the ocean to carry

the curtains are closed

inside is being blocked from the out

or perhaps its the reverse

is that rain i hear

or am i just spitting

her her

onto the blossoming skulls for a last kiss

i am gone

i am going

where is there to go

what is left to remain