take her apart… piece by piece dissect her (delicately) count her bullets learn the complicated mechanisms inside her find the trigger and leave fingerprints on e v e r y t h i n g recognize the danger memorize every click of her capable cylinders oil the machinery fall asleep to the heat in…
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a recipe for disaster requires an unexplained obsession for counting the remaining arrows in my mind’s quiver speaking with a mouth full of swords a quiet appetite for battle because, after all fighting, fucking what’s the difference? — a. duncan, 2018 Artwork: Frank Frazetta – Original Art of Nude Woman with Sword…
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this bores me, to literal tears perpetual discussions, monotonous monologues paralysis and polarities, dubious tendencies the hypothetical hindrances, tangled tangents metaphorically maddening, relentlessly rhetorical unceremoniously subconscious, lamenting the laborious dispositions of literature, the ire of intimacies waxing poetic clinically, with narcoleptic narcissism half assed heresies, here and there (sometimes it’s so hard to care) but he’s…
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the suspense is killing me, occasionally it reverberates with rust and reluctance a mechanical fortune teller spitting out a cliche about you and me (retrograde in mercury) serendipitous to believers, perhaps this shallow wisdom helps like a bandaid over a severed artery false hope zodiac is it ancient wisdom or the fool’s almanac tarot or torture…
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sometimes I imagine your bed and you, in it murmuring incoherently between restless gusts of sleep frustrated by the dreams where you still can’t escape your own idiosyncrasies stomach in celtic knots fate’s clever and cruel manner of reminding you that you’re handsome not invincible so the story goes i linger like the moon a…
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“Kiss me?” Words so delicate they dangled from my still-open mouth, like a spider swaying on a single thread of silk in an unexpected surge of autumn wind. He was, on some level, not unlike dying leaves flying past me in a metaphorical storm, causing a startled flinch, and clinging to the tangled crevasses of…
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unveiled before an invisible audience to artificial applause she was designed to be a monument the indestructible ingénue a pillar made of granite and butterflies she stands tall, a towering ballerina a handful and a heroine brutal and beautiful at the same time a gorgeous slab of stubborn femininity trying to love herself as much those…
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in sentimental dreams I return to levitate down haight street with chrysanthemum’s in my hair where a beggar once told me “there’s no gravity in memories there’s no actual point in lucidity” so I just surrender to the skies behind my kaleidoscope eyes here, where my mind’s time machine is powered by polaroid’s flipping frantically…
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