upset stomachs, ducktape glasses, crystal-punctured caverns under the beach

balloons bouncing off bodies bouncing off bodies bouncing off balloons under blue and red and orange lights (while her scream flows over each one of them), blown out amps and broken guitar strings, limp sweaty shirtless sticks of flesh crashing into cymbals, fairies and pixies and nymphs armed with bells gongs horns as they march off to war

klonopin mistakes
sing-along fuckall

bass and beat bumping and light switch on off on off now black black room streetlight seeps to smatter orange glow on curves so delicate and moonlight shines through dusty window pane to hue closed eyes blue hair twisting and twirling against strange face blue and in the corner knobs and buttons for electric dancefloor jolts from ground up through feet to hips to chest - bodies pressed their jigsaw bends and bows into one another rising and falling and fitting into others making puzzle-pieced pictures never seen in the dark.

and then on the porch more beer and whiskey and wine and gin and grins filling lungs full of smoke and blowing back filling sky full of smoke and cackled laughter rises and burns out a twinkled star to fall,

make a wish

wish you didn't see him dancing with her, wish ex-lovers wouldn't grab you by the arm for the "talk and walk" around the block, wish what you saw after the party in bathrooms and bedrooms wasn't so pathetic and meaningless and sloppy sloppy slop, wish you had stopped putting things into your mouth an hour ago, wish you could remember more than blurs and sounds and someone slipping on wet kitchen floor in the morning, wish any of this meant anything.

(b.e.)

"bodies pressed their jigsaw bends and bows into one another"

deja vu intravenous drip in gestures and -- the ascent up into blackness, into an attic loft bulging with space faces and i'm already drunk off wine lamenting my inbred smallness but he's drinking whiskey straight no chaser, voices vying for a place in the center, singing "la vie en rose" and everything's peachy in the midst of a nostalgic past present panic attack as i watch him disappear into the blind flashing fluorescent

with some girl and he tells me the morning after another other night that seeing me disappear into bathrooms with those skinny perpetually sniffling model types made him want to vomit and i write that it's always snowing in california and my baby wanted me but now things hurl into mirrors dull reflecting nothing of the ness(t), i write that you're sleeping or steeping informalities into my skin, these damaged furs, this follicle braille, you satyr lusting after me like a milk-thirsty mandrake

i don't know what i want but did i ever and i know we are tired but who else will i tire with?

(a.n.)