tom cat:

mouse, why do you love me

jerry the rodent:

i love you for the things that cannot be. it makes me write poems of things that can be.
i love you for the immorality of this. the danger sounds of an entire rockband spitting out curses at a nun’s face.
i love you for the distance between us. it makes me long for something i am already nauseous of.
i love it when you get jealous of her. that’s when i know you’ll never really get over me.

a toast to a happy happy birthday! 

seriously now, how do you
count days without daylight
measure water underwater
or lift dead bodies under piles of
dead things?

for when the universe entire
will have to rot altogether,
who will be sharp enough to know
the difference between an overriped banana
and a four-year-old human skull?

— “ashes to ashes”, mud to mud.
but since even floodwaters taste clear 
under a moonless night, a toast
to a happy happy birthday.
seriously? cheers.

Sit brain, sit.

Take that weight off my hair.

For now at least you can let go.

Get a round of liquor bath, Morphine

Spa and maybe some coffee sleep

In our Russian café dreamland

Where every clock says 3am

Where everyone is me and him

And he’ll need not ask how I think of the

Moon tonight, for we’ve drawn it together

For the rest of the world, let them see

For themselves. But he doesn’t have to find out

How I always dream –

Core, be still.

You’ll hack a hole out of my chest

If the goddamn mad dogs say

“It’s never going to happen, you fools.”

Then it’s never going to be. Us, fools.

Go brush your teeth. Minty breath

And an intact torso, what more could he ask for?

I’m counting on you in this 24/7 shift.

Plus on days you beat more than

You are asked to. If you could just stay a silent cat

For he doesn’t have to know

That until we bail out of this sighing land,

I’d still be dreaming –

I sweep the floor
The floor too swiftly
And never realize
I was listening to “Auld Lang Syne
And holy, Holy night”
On an April’s height of daylight
Who does that,
On a sunny April day?
“Ask the stars.” them, Magi say.
Of course, but
On a Sunday, sunny day?

I do the laundry
The laundry so intently
And never realize
The clock says five,
Five after nine to five
(And it’s the year 19-April-night)
Who hangs their clothes to dry
Under a month of March moon’s light?
Then the cat says “Just mew,
You, little foolish mew”
F*ck. What a mocking Monday moon.

I do the dishes
The dishes, now audaciously
Then a hunch, I had a paper
Right in my right pocket
Was the annual letter
On an April Fools’ November.
And how you wrongly dated it “September”
Year 19-April-forever, then under,
You wrote here
“Dear, I’m leaving.”
Now isn’t April Fools’ addicting?

I’ll sing to you a lullaby
Early tonight
If yesterday, we dream awaken
To Fate’s fragile faith, and Her faults
Turned our nightmares
Tomorrow, it will be
As if the songs
And the words
Have never been written,
Nor heard existing
Just as the stars have fallen
Between the cracks of the daylight’s skin.
So go to sleep early
Tonight.
Near Sunrise, I become only
That gentle wind, silently
Dancing in one of your
Faintest memories
Where the dark hours have been.
(And the Earth laid flat),
Where us has become
Except, through some twisted chances
Or by Heaven’s choice (or joke)
Shall never be.