Sectsygoatleather

I saw a mosquito stuck to the pane outside the train window, adhered by its half-crushed body. I thought its dead legs fluttered loose in the breeze. But when the train would stop at a station, the mosquito's legs continued to stir in primitive, mindless malfunction and panic. The sun shone through the clouds and, in the aged, dirty tint of the train windows, appeared aflame. And the silhouette of the mosquito against those clouds trembled with ignition.

He never learned to smile correctly. It's always been crooked and lopsided. Sometimes, his jaw is slanted since he never learned to smile correctly. He can still eat. He can still drink. But, it's hard to believe he was able to lead his life as normally as he did. It's hard to believe he survived being a kid He never learned to dress himself. He claims to be comfortable and satisfied. Though, we all know that this isn't possible when you look like he does. Why doesn't he just fix it? Why doesn't he wear what we wear? He makes me uncomfortable. He is wrong. Make him fix it so that we can stop thinking about it so that we

Wind and setting sun; a casual passing over. I spied a dead bird on the factory floor by simple happenstance, whose limbs folded tight against her ribcage, twisted underneath dry leaves and curling paint. The wind and sun again, more deliberately stirring. Revealing the spine, by then, in a perfect frame; twisting back, displaying proud and radiating ribs that diminished by her shoulder and throat. And now her skull and delicate throat – removed of song and sinew. Only sharp, hollow jaw and piercing eye that leers both up at me and out through the shattered window – both up at me and out through the shattered window.

high leaves freely drop. dark roots lie still, wedged into soil. stiff bark seals yellowing flesh, growing tannic like castor oil. dead roots release, but retain depth while middle branches inward coil. and bitter, yellow flesh thins to liquid, bleeding wordlessly into soil.

So get this - I was in the living room when no one else was. The whole place was empty. The whole place was quiet, except for the trains outside the window that crashed and roared and hissed and broke through rusty joints and screamed in the pain and made all kinds of pervasive noise because it was 2am and what else are they gonna do, y'know? So, I turned the lights on in every room even when some of the bulbs were long burned out. I spoke each word out loud of the book I was reading until it grew into aphonetic droning. So, I went into the bathroom and took off all my clothes. I shaved my beard in a way that I had never d

As I lay, Drinking Mountain Dew From a moistened bottle, While sun is generously draped Equally across my hardened face, And the soft, green grass and dandelions. As I lay in my car, Reclining in a sought-after peace, I notice a whisper, Lighter than air, Just as silent. Breezes of cotton from the trees; Clouds that fly across my window. One enters the window above my head. It does not catch. It does not lose stride. It simply curves in the stilled current, And exits out the other side, Lost in the haze of cotton going by. The rain clouds of worry Shower no permanent puddles. They simply run off into the gutter, Evaporat

A cry out in the wilderness, possessing more than two wolves thrashing in the snow, or a forest burning out of control. More, even still, than a rupturing mountain, billowing smoke like a fiery fountain. Of greater magnitude than these - I fell silent to it. At the darkest and most forgotten edge of the night, I bathed only in candlelight, a song I heard. Through this most empty of nights, across the roaring river, past great fields, and over rolling hills, there was an old tree. And in that old tree, a bird. Or, so I heard. Through this barren night, Quiet and lonesome night, The bird sang - great soaring cries, resplende

The even kilter, And the hollowing breath. There is a myth of correlation Between substance, And balance. That the world is realized: Brimming with a vibrational hum and Explosive wholeness. Its edges are shaking, With massive quantity, And wildly reacting To its expanding surface tension. What of a world Whose fleshy, steel core Drains out through A single, unbandaged wound At the south pole? What of this wholly realized world, Empty and shimmering with resin And oil? What of the aching muscles, Or the tired sinews of this world, That distend completely At the blinding dawn of its most full? The world, I realize now

The world is too safe, and it's a shame because its not a safe place. We in civilization live, like standing on a moving walkway at an airline, except it doesn't quite move in any one direction, merely fluctuates in and out as the fringes of a desert city. Its border is simply a few inches off the ground and its quick and jerky progression and recession can be seen with the naked eye, but its moving simply frustrates most of us, like the naked panic and hot spit of stubbing one's toe on the edge of a door when the blueing sky awakens them. That's really a major point of instinct, isn't it? Like that split second after you break from REM sleep