scales on butcher paper

i knew, never spoke again_
spring
breathing like
form bleeding function,
like a child spilling
paint,
knocking over knowledge
(it's dripping off veneer table
edges and
stealing all my attention)
needless distractions
breeding a useless interconnecting
theorist's destruction. i am a scorched
ball of mire
burning holes in some
evening blanket
because this feeble daylight is
(_no longer)
lovely. snow melts;
endless
stop-motion photography
(stills) in a descriptive
series
documenting all
my
failures (a laundry list
of demise)
lost connections
because i no longer
care. this
pent up aggression and some swollen,
explosive ego
will strike to bleed til there's
no volume left to
extend a paper wet
vile
appendage beyond a
single mound of
dirt.
wet and frozen,
tracking puddles of grey
along stiff
linoleum; stars writhe until my collapse and i
sleep like a fever
hours after the alarm has
already
commenced to screaming.
i need the spring like bloom;
just to feel something pure grazing
dirty
greybluebrown, cracking
ink-stained pores
clinging to
thin agile fingers (there's a hint
of grace there_
somewhere.
i thought.
mud stain snow ages
through a stop-motion
documentary of
all
my
failures (a laundry list
of
demise)
stealing a throat full of
words
(proverbs, i swear)
they wrap around
blindfold eyes, breathe
like silence
and i'll never
speak.