jester season

i am just another
clay pigeon
in the skies
of you.

a jester
of himself. 

You loved me once.

You loved me once.

"In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality."

Franz Kafka to Milena (via man-of-prose)



RIP sweet prince




RIP sweet prince


(via man-of-prose)

clouded on sub away

a monotonous descent
into a lonesome state
of being.

melancholic halls
filling nostrils with
dirt and static.


a tiny moving human
people act differently when
they are underground.

this city is an uncomfortable ceiling,
a mysterious

at night, shards of
glass dance to a
hollow beat

as the dreams of
my piers are buried
away into the
manic concrete.

Going to start making short prose on art here and there.

Going to start making short prose on art here and there.

untitled sadness 03


The waves we made
ended in killings
of all the people
we claimed to love.

open up your books to chapter everyone

drift in me,
after our wedding
flowers all die.

hold my head and
scream like you did
at your father.
////// ////// //////

a wind chime on a
new england porch
in the fall.
an only child’s attempt to
resonate inside;
feel something.

desperate cries flood the
universe with waves; she hears.
the unknown,
the master of discipline,
a professor of infinite depth.

live inside an
amplified heart.

the unknown will hear
the poets.

The Omnicity’ of Two

she melts like the earth,
forming clots inside
the       sinister valleys
of her lover’s fingerprints;

a childlike omnipotence.

you are a flower
inside my mothers favorite
is where i can
love rain.

your stare,
silently floating
two demons addicted to

i see you more,

like we exist somewhere else,

like we broke our chains,
like we feel love again.

our experiences mirror
the first sip
after a drought.


a blank canvas.

happiness is laced inside the walls
of our symbiotic asylum.

it’s us.

like our 
was never stolen.

like you never left.


underneath my silhouette
it’s always “liek” dusk.

i hear a marching band in the fog,
a damp echo; some dilute

i still exhale you.

an illuminated allegory
i will forever see.

i sense it’s fundamental,
like an imperfect cell
wanning away inside;
my smoke filled lungs.


(Source: coffeedirt, via liquid-mindss)

inside a toddler’s water gun
i am asleep,
and probably somewhere nice.