Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown

I am pressing into myself, in undulation,
in wrinkle and fold and deliberation
this, you, me, him, her and the other
Lysander, Demetrius, Helena, Hermia
A dream, a dream, a dream! In midsummer—-
In my wakefulness, I am cocooning
(without expectations of flight, or winged colour)
for this over-triage is an effort unto my very small being
I cannot breathe still
We have created, in shape, a four to five banded structure
imperceptible to everyone
but me
rectangle! rectangle, pentagon?

All day I tried
but there you were, in reticulated masquerade and kiss
greek at the seams, so wholly interweaved
as if created, soley for me, o’ this illicit chemistry
This drawing ardour is unprecedented—–
I realize
Hence, I am folding in relative manner
It is rather undersized, still, so, fast! score!
Before
it, like the impulsive camellia reticulata, sets the burst and bloom
rarest oh the rare but if does it come, o’ it does

doe-eyed as young, I hand her to you
but rectangle and pentagon said true, you lean to me still
hush! she does not know.
I do not creep, nor do I respond (on the outside)

In shadow, I memorize our hours, despite my discrepancy
The moments were naught a whole day, but a galaxy
This, himitsu, as I succumb to this covering in half-waked states
(a dream! a dream!)
is edging out of my skin, heaving and chuckling all over me
with a starving taunt
it screams, “off! what is this feeling! you are wandering!”
and oh indeed I stray, and I guilt, and I fear

because despite all, I only remained true
to him and you

as the sad little wretch I am, no deceit be here—he does enjoy
and as consequence, he reaches to me
for my dismal own self
we, foursome unknowing, are tousled now
Lysander, Demetrius, Helena, Hermia!
This is too much for me.

hang out your heart to me, in mimetic structure,
a rival, a stark, a mirror to my own bone-jawed disconnection.
perhaps by archaic means, playing telephone by candlelight.
your paper cup to my string.
my tunnel to your ear. your ear to my tunnel.
i never had that sort of window.

i would give you mine again, but its on loan right now.
it’s parked under monochromatic light. rusting. friable scrabble.
i can’t pay my rent.

or, until, you with your tenancies and agreements
and documents, you shipwrecked here,
myrrh and electromagnetic camera in hand.
heart in a cup.
miscommunication by telephone wires.
but there you were. revenue paid in full, with interest.
i can’t keep up, crashing over myself. yourself.
heat in rocket rumbling, like a natural disaster, in my skin. you. here.
you brought this asteroid. this mid-continent earthquake.

to drop upon an eave, to eve, to be eve, to eavesdrop, i would, before you—
tiptoe up against the faint, cheek pressed to the door.
breath hushed.
tapping lines and microbiological technology was beyond me.
you are beyond me.

and with sudden, a flash in possession,
a struggled likeness is readied.
i’m binging on the set of the unbraid,
unbreak irrevocable curses upon this very sullied self.
angular. this reflection is aquiline.

you can see i’m yielding.

give it back, the loan, the parking spot, this polaroid,
the—
heart.
i can’t even fucking drive.

say what you want to mean, to me.
it’s a close capture with the shutter closed, isn’t it?
i can’t be everything i need to be.
i’ll probably be leaving soon.

i am not sure
if that sound
just now
and that —- trick of light

was
fireworks
or lightening

or the sound
of my
heart

e x p l o d i n

g

pulling it apart from the skin
the tinman, who had not known love
also
could not know
(this)

once upon a time, some moments ago-
sunlight began to
leak
from his chest
(falling o’er iced white blossoms)
but

he did not notice.

o’ tinman
you make easy for transitions in the snow
(harried conditions in the night)

tinman
you do not notice me—–
still.

(of course.)

Yesterday, Pheromone girl, with her vacillating magnetism
leapt out of her heart, for a short, transitory moment.
But just as swiftly as she had let fly on hands, feet and knees,
She crawled right back in.

In her dizzy, she would rattle in cacophonous words,
disassociating from elation, from unwavering, untiring optimism
Was she perhaps tired of wearing it as a shield?
In creaking silver would then arrive
the emergence of the mechanical girl
Robot girl, made in China. Do she hear anything at all?

Retreat! Retreat! little motor, she stands oh so still.
She would rather not feel, anything in this time warp, if at all.
Swallow back those little pills.
She is no longer adroit, or even slightly volatile.
Flat, vacuous eyes, depressed into her metal skull,
they sculpture into her nouveau self.
Robot girl.

Robot girl, oh she told a lie, the other day.
With an orchid periwig and a tube of lipstick, she smiled, “I am Pheromone girl,”
as though, as though that was all she was, these days.
The sheer ridiculousness of the outfit will not go unnoticed.
But, oh, lies, what a spice! they create an uncertain perfection.
Don’t you see? Despite this, none can be too sure,
which is which and whom is for certain
As for, watch for it- robot girl, she is slowly
deteriorating before your eyes like only machines can.
His concentric melancholy is her unadulterated, winding rage.
Robots are often set to (explode).
Hardware failure, y2k gone right.

Let’s divulge a secret:
This is her sinking cloak-and-dagger.
Pheromone girl will always be, fucking utter mechanical—
motoring, Robot girl.
Simply.
Simply a
Stupid, self-destructive, leaking, rusting, acrid android.

The demons in my head have become my only friends.
It’s hard enough getting out of bed each day…

Why oh why should I depart for your gardens of fay, when you cringe when you hear my tale? When you flush when I digress, when I impress, when I stress. You ask, ‘how shall I wake you from your slumber, shall I name the ways? Open your heart to me, dulcet one. You are simple and shade, my loquacious ingénue, the allowance of this panoply. ’

Oh love, if only you knew.

In lieu of hurricanes, there is the abrasive, itching, me.

That, perhaps, is far more worse. Each breath of wind promises the taste of erstwhile rhapsody. There is no music left in me.

Could you, Good Fortune, with your redolent plethora of aqua-coloured providence ever possibly understand the isolation in me? Most days I am heavy with dream, numbed from the sweet culling of the horsemen, o’ for my own apocalypse.

So then, I discuss lightly, at my own indiscretion. My halted, half of a shadow is all you shall receive.

You tremble and stutter, you would greatly so most gladly lend over fragments of your heart, in place of my own cataclysmic resolve.

Oh what a hallowed savant you are, offering over whole hammering longing breaking portions of yourself, in exchange for your idea of sanity. How shall I wear it, then, as a dress, in shades of wine and white, made of velvet and gossamer, and hush, and subside, and I shouldn’t be so selfish?

So now. So now.

Instead of seeing the cadaverous, bloodless creature that I am, I am now your saviour, your Isis, your rejuvenation. I am a mumbling damsel in necessitation, I am a soldier, I am a survivor. Realize this, I am simply an industrial accident waiting to happen, ready to trample over every trace of life that walks my way with a grin and an “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize.” (You’re struggling for air as we embrace, didn’t you recognize?)

It doesn’t make sense. I don’t make sense.

So I keep quiet.

Instead, the words I speak are of polished hodgepodge, the soft of a prince’s touch, the fifty-second relentless gentleman caller, the loving rivers, the onomatopoeia the neighbours make as their bodies wax and melt together in fiery fervour.

Instead, I stand at the offing, with the impression of harem girl, switch quick concubine, lacking fawning subservience. Instead, I am the uneasy trick of light, the edible vixen, the dulled mind. The primrose pollyanna, with vision tasting of rosemary and delilah.

Instead, instead. Why, oh why.

Let’s not breathe over this, and agree; I will harbour these secrets, and you will not ask, for some things are best left unspoken (when you could most possibly not understand)

I hope I have not created a ripple in that sanctified heart of yours.

Yeah. This is where I write. It’s crap, I know. Don’t need to tell me. It’s just to release, this is my air. My train of thought, completely random yet not. That’s it. Don’t try to understand it. It’s not physical or emotional or sexual. They’re not about a boy or a girl or a lover. They’re just words. Or maybe they are. What do I know?

If you really want to, ask me about my regular journal.

OLDEST ENTRIES: here. Here you can say “ohmagod Caroline!”- and then I’ll be all like, “What?” And cough. Silence. “Who the hell is Caroline?” Be careful girl. Caroline might set your hair on fire. You never really know, with kids these days. True story, heard it from a friend.

the pain, that day, was inevitable.
conversely, the smell of
fresh grass on the back pockets of
our jeans brought about
an unmistakable vivid tenacity for life, the kind that leaves your
shaking palms drawing blood for nameless gods.
i would then press my damp fingers over your eyelids, and tentatively
bite at each and every indicia of vertigo-
hungrily, not
even as testament of our liaison, but as snow white, as eve.
in benevolent curiosity and abysmal indignation, in genuine,
back-aching, cardiac exploding, nail biting candor and naïveté,
i would let crucify, just for you. i would cautiously desperately
foolishly exultantly
acquiescently do what i can
to elate, as to your appeal.
when i would wake, i would find
myself alone and arching, with greened knees
and
your fever
wrapped around me like a bouquet.

You— set a virus in my skin. I am sienna and gold, and lavender and brass. I am the fragrance on the back of your neck, etched into a synthetic tattoo sighing our mathematical equation. You and I are not ellipsoidal. Erase the surface area. Shade over my scent with the syrup of her cordovan painted perfume. I was never there. It’s better this way.

I remember when the dusk was maliciously hushed, (unstirred, like my own encounter with mortality) and you would call upon me to set your heart aflame. The chronologically instructing (disparaging) (shifting) space around us would overturn, almost, as you would begin to move backwards unto me. It would set in sequence the wicked beginning, a lawsuit of lovers and collaboration of heretical swindling villains dressed in three-tier lamb and velvet ashed fay. Searing rocket kisses and gritty sweat-fashioned fingerprints would dirty every rolling recollection, metallic and stinging, oh the itch .

I remember how then, then, then, I would respond so hesitantly, until you would renounce my every negative vocabulary. I remember the shape of your skin, as you’d refrain from your conscience, arcing away from everything you knew.

But me.

But this.

But what we were.

I realize now I should not have been your late-night insomnia-induced anodyne, your daylight coffee proxy. I let us both down, with my indecision, and inability to call upon the naught. Perhaps I craved to be your plastic rose ragdoll, lilac and murmuring in your hands. Your rumouring coquette, seduced by the probability of capture. Oh what volume, the flirt it speaks, crashing into synaptic reflexes.

I refuse to trace back my steps.

This doesn’t mean anything you think it means.

I want to form a trapezoid with our legs
and crush lemons and strawberries
between our toes-
lick off each film of blistering taste, until we turn to dust.
I want to see you in sepia, in slate, in pearl-
shuffling your steps towards pressed elation.
I want to corrupt and debase every tangled
misword against your temperate name.
Flush them down the sink,
along with the toothpaste and of course
your self-reproach.
In the high of your chafed scowlings,
I want to let you keep my sedulous adulation.

you know
We could be electric, rhythmic, elliptical.
If you let us.