Naked Poetry

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

My daily data report shows that I should know by now, that such Brazen remarks on the remarkable might leave far too many marks on the impossible human heart. O, who cares? Who calls? Whenever I leave town to follow Elizabethan poetry wherever it should go, landing in quarries and mouthfuls of ebb and ponds full of useful flow flowing backwards never sorry, allowing me one pose, slightly knowing, however sad it may seem, that i may never be coming back.

Organize me. Suspend me. Revive my laughter.

Just when I thought I’d never hear from the mermaid again...

My signature resembles silence. My hands victims of your hands—leaving me alone. We were half ideal like leaving fire and water in a room to talk talk it out...

But hearing that six note fall in his voice — is the most pleasant part of my day.

The phantom says to me/you’re beautiful, I love you/ no, you are love, I’m just witnessing/you are a prepossessing Angel/at least I thought you were/I was wronged/you win/ you don’t/ I love you / if you knew me/ if I knew New York/ if I hunted more/ if my voice was powerful enough for that/

I had words that day.

12 verses, The body. I can only sing—— when I’m in front of one.

It’s a wild honey night. Listen fierce. Check a pulse. All flowers match the sunlight. Tonight, crawl with me. Quick with stride. We’ve seen this before, death. But when we died we never became Rest I guess we were meant to be left– alive. Snapped twitch breathing–warm–anything but misery, sure. We are not indecisive we just know that’s not what we’re looking for. We float around, watching people get tattoos of things we’ve said wondering if they know that that’s the wrong kind of pain.

     It’s a lonely story night. It’s a pain to control your might, it’s exhausting to try and take a bow after finding out that there’s no honey. And the night

is just as timid as you are.