december sixth

attempt at funk + alienated sex life = weird conflict.
I wonder if we write about each other at the same times.
Inability to translate geometric shapes
into comprehensible english combined
with not mentioning obvious lies.
Sullen silent treatment.
can't piece you back together.
can't build puzzles, never could.
three dee feeds me seedy wheaties with derrida on the box.
look I even name drop in prose poems.
new jacket new jacket new jack swing;
prince and bath towels: everything is DAMP,
your body is COLD, your face PREPOSTEROUS.

each memory aching with retroactive anticipation;
each phonecall a piece of bad news;
each and every, hot and heavy, weightless.

your beautiful eyelids
smoke exhaled
the full body cold shiver
that never often
enough
big toothed
grin

this is not the way I remember you

half dialed
dialated pupils
the masquerade where
I dressed up like me
but didn't feel
anything
other than hunger
nonsexual
and the wonder
of how
I
can
even
pretend to be a writer.

A brief song idea.

Am I on your mind?
Would it be too unkind to ask this question of you?
And am I in your face?
Would it be out of place for me to put to test the best of what you've said?

Fogs swirl ambient
the lust of sedimentary
symmetry in layers
Euclidian nonsense
can't account for your shape
across the void
a choice;
I no longer hear your voice
louder than my own

And am I on your mind?
Would it be too unkind to ask this question of you?
And am I on your face?
Would it be out of place to make a graceful gesture?

Perks of understanding
a cemetery map
the male heart is weak
stale when complete
soft imagined skin
the loss inside the win
a choice;
I no longer hear your voice
in scarcely audible physique

Patrick Joseph Grant is in lava.
WCWs.
William Carlos Williams.
World Championship Wrestling.
Why Create Woefulness?

Massive shadows sink in my cells
and I wonder why I've never written a slow jam for you to dance to.

In fact, I've only ever written one real love song. Blah. Fuck meanderings. Back to Karamazov.

ooh, what can I do.

I imagine the glass enclosure,
screaming larvae, looking in
on our lovemaking.
You take my fluids hungrily;
I would not kill because I can,
but because I hate,
because our nights
blend so seamlessly together,
fur pressed and elegant,
a paint set unopened,
a canvas unstretched.

new incredibly joyful pop song.

gonna have a shower and shave my head

it's funny how things turn out

gonna have a shower and shave my head

it's funny how things turn out.