the six:6 apostles

assembled disciples and rebuked views
drew intricate parallels in our course of trails
and formerly known
selves

the rhetoric of
you and me
can be only best described and illustrated by beating
heartache
a six year hungry
strike
that our bodies eventually broke from...

these easy discomforts and sullen eyes
left
me dehumanized,
and while i remained alive, i remain what i am,
an implicated prisoner in your past-dated cell so often referred to as
your heart

now i sit, concentrating on the concept of your
intentions,
you so graciously function as an instrument of
persuasion,
pushing and pulling as you play on my cello stained soul,
until my strings eventually break in the
map of your eyes,
which effortlessly and repeatedly
disintegrates
these walls you helped me build,
and slowly
crumbles
my newly constructed cities...

conclusions draw to such
analyses
that would prove
insufficient
in the help of closing these old torn pages of you and i

i studied them for
six,
forgot what i read for
one,
and re-opened them until
april
clearly, in the absence of my qualifications,
the epithet "us" does not fit in this de novo story...
and now it's ashes lay
charred
on the bottom of my once cleansed fireplace

i tried
we tried
you tried
...
but for some reason 2184 days holds no charm
like the third time
so now we resort to the past memories that lessen this inadequacy of what once never really
but
really was

while i peel my brain from your tightly gripped memories,
my infected heart still beats red from
sores now closed

this savage god we more than once named
love
is now nothing but my debilitating
facilitator

you
me
never
us

you no longer place
"our"
past sculpted obstacles in the way of my
ambitions and projections
to new minds and
partially opened hearts

and while you condemned me to death,
i chose when and how to
die

...
now we need feel no
compunction
in describing our end

so bury me,
like i now bury you

...
and let our frequently dug-up
graves
rest for good

electric bright

bleed these classical cases of cracked paint chips
and expressed translations of present generation theoretical speculations
that spin round in this mobile of sunset words

...and while sleeping pills and crooked days make for
dark circled eyes,
i sit and stare,

while my teeth chew these words that my throat wont let out

this wicker bag which holds me together is slowly ripping
apart at the seams
and now i wrap myself in cellophane so my heart and all it's ventricles
don't fall out into your blue pained fingertips
and past wrinkled palms

of raindrop days

from this tongue comes tin cups and electrical tape confessions,
and
emotions aren't emotionless just because tears don't
equal cries

these guitar strings pull tight, and my fingers can only play so fast...
but I tried,
I tried.

my coffee is stale, and my tongue no longer tastes...

so tell me the history of these pains made in your legs,

which inevitably inhibit you to run forward...

or at least walk at a steady pace

this beginning was the same as yesterday,

and this unusually sweet tempered disorganization of your mental matter

has mastered to ease my mental instability

so now I sit,

bone-framed in this over sized chair with nothing but pale lips to listen

to your throat cut through my bleak expression

You are the master writer

of paradoxes and insufficient poems, to defend any topic,

no matter how apparently indefensible it be...

but your blizzards give my snowflakes shape

and i only made it 90 pages into these selected papers, which were accompanied by the visiting ghosts to whom we name the past...
but three chapters are much better than never opening the cover at all...

and I am glad I met the author

while you speak these words,

they lack these translations of English,

but there is no need for understanding, because re-entering into what happened in the chapter belonging before

mine

is

yours....

Our observations we have investigated...

they were the ones which first provoked this phenomena...

but through unexpected accidental factors which play a much greater part than is generally known and recognized,

it proves to impossible to manifest this starting point from anything but history books

without eyelashes, this path is nothing...

but truth exists in bloodshot and blacked-out eyes... so bruise these eyelids and lend me

your red-wined lips

perhaps along the way, someone will make me a magician....

to make myself a fire-fly.. so that I can elucidate your crepuscular past,

because sometimes the light

secures secular insecurities


but for now, and last but not least,

i pay my debts to the shape of this bent willow tree,

which loaned me my heart when I thought i needed it

...and I wouldn't have it any other way.