crosshatchedhitman

ten times.

put your hands on either side of my hipbones and press. I wanna hear my own innocence fracture.

snap your marlboro bones & grind them into watercolors - bay-water boy, paint your brains on the wallpaper like a sinner's sermon; you won't wilt the way that deities do, you solipsist: you're just a suicide drone.

fear is licking at this cobwebbed mind & i feel cinematic; like a steam-powered poet, i'll write myself into a misanthropic migraine & outline cinder bones to match - ingenue, you are an esoteric's nightscape & i, your morning's fever burns.

my head has become a hornet's nest— stinging, buzzing, teeming with ugly whispers and most days i just want to get drunk on pesticides. it's too much: sitting in a history class where the teacher just drones on like a broken record about how in sixty years we'll all be suffocating on the exhaust fumes of our parents' sins. driving on a clustered highway in an empty car with half a tank of gas getting passed by people too occupied to live their lives. contemplating a black hole pompous enough to call itself the future as an insatiable debt worms its way into the valleys and canyons of my skin and bones. please; give me a scalp

The summer was so hot the dogs stuck to the sidewalks with the newspapers and the black metal cans everyone left waiting on the curb. You could smell it in the glass pitchers on table tops, and the sheets that never dried on the clothes lines; the canvas beach bags mothers dragged wearily across the sand and the ice cream trucks melting across the highways. Children felt it open up the windows at night and find a corner of the bed to smother, while fathers baited it on hooks or mowed it down in flat, dry stripes as if begging each other to escape. And the crickets just hummed beneath the corn silk and the dry mouth

i'll measure my life in coffee grounds, in summer freckles and you

God’s favorite concert was a ‘98 jam session in a hellish amphitheater downstairs. The producer booked the big ones – Hendrix, Cobain, Joplin, Johnson – one night only, fallen stars rise again! Saints they ain’t, but God has one ear for prayers and one for souls wailing soul into a void with no echo, no applause, no expectation of anything more than their own relief. And when you’re top billing in the Morning Star Concert Hall, the fans are the only comfort you’ve got left.