i haven't put anything new in here for a long time. i haven't written anything for a long time. i am not sure if these are good or bad.

yesterday met the evening, your superior body
under these narrow covers. i must yell and grab you;
it is 1:00 am, and you are 5km from home.

you are a violence evaporating from the house.

you escape; you run away. you paint yourself
into the spray of this immortal island, all shoes
and black bridges, with their vaporized colours
and autonomous reserves.

you only discover these high, narrow containments
through violent rigidity and full speed runs; you are
focused completely, speaking nonsense, your
exceptionally inflexible jumpkick executions a
counterweight to maintain.

but it is your morning; a lot of years
plundered, and distant is the sun.
+++

you are the writer; i am not. i am a collagist, a crazy-quilter of words and senses. i am ignorant and i am stupid; my heart goes to pieces. still i try to stand, am silent. i thought crazily that we had changed enough, vainly hoping to be exempt from you.

my desperations of heart are steadfast fact. my heart falls and my defenses are weak; i always fell easily. disappointments are unshakeable. i must learn to surround myself with fortresses, garrisons and moats.

a year existed when we read between the lines of poetry and compliance. i remind myself.

and you. i remember you.

i have a kind of influenza, a sickness where the only symptom speaks for us against thought. nostalgia, thin and pale. it is only perfume, a timely dream.

dust on my fingers.

you have the strength to be injured, my heart's absence hitting like silence and blunt knives. even prose fills you with poetry.

i will stand waving my white flag and remember you. i am a truce-bearer with continuous color in my heart.
+++

i am an example in manuals of transformation,
in textbooks of suburbanization and wifedom,
sadness a seventh sense that weakens
the sluggish remainder.

i will carry on my shoulders every effort
to have the most tragic life possible; i will
make every one diligently, astonishingly.
and between each effort, consciousness
will carry on.
+++

today enters with an outer covering of wasted arguments and blood sucking ghosts.

i still occupy the building where the rain falls, the attic of your heart an incrustate exhibition.

you give me something constant that i must resist, a certain interspecies persistence and luminous intensity. low, luminous intensity in the garrets of your reason. you are the author of words, of solid color and sound; you need a victory, your heart a hardened ore.

you tell me that you are wiser.

these blows and pains, the tragedy that either one is possible; i should be able to bear blows to the end. let deaths bury deaths in this town of detonators.

give me a small space, something. a fantastic extreme. my desire for the small, still diffuse efforts is an abandoned opinion, and the soft nucleus of the years a blind and naked director.

so it is; you throw out everything and the heart that remains is ruinous.
+++

i dance in the narrow space of this shady
apartment, not shy and not afraid.
old under my clothing, a poem printed
on my skin. the cheap respect of fingers
disappears slowly, hidden
in the fire of your eyes on the skin
of my shoulders, on my face.
+++

we remember the distribution of life. we drink the barriers of night and complete the promise of the friends we had been. time is a brother, a companion. it satirizes the intelligence of the world with the promise of dawn and looks at friendship as meddlesome. i make a dead corpse of this entire movement in order to hide from your calamitous heart.

you try to submerge the argument with grief and anger, and this hybrid triumph dulls your wounds. this is where you are sad, completely soft; this is the life i have remembered, is exactly a life of stone. a monsoon of fear reciprocal, and nights of severe meanings a cover of rain.

this of you remains: the debt you let yourself conceal, living nothing but cigarettes and coffee; you are restricted, an unmarried woman in the world. you have run far, for years and days, futile knowledge of a small little girl in a dark box a kind of hope that propagates itself.