collateral for malicious intent

she's enraged and she's taken to playing with cocaine and propane
quick silver builds momentum with her guild, a solitary molotov cocktail
feet drumming on concrete, paralleling heart beat, minion in tow, she starts to squeeze; this brief union between the brainless heat and she seems to be unpleasingly foolish
disrupting aggressive destructive sessions, something pressing messages questions through her nerves, her forearm tenses, drenched in sweat and second guessing the verb and it's intention

sense and sensibility fenced against a repressing tension, and perhaps i've failed to mention, her intention is pretty clear?
weary mind, dreary eyes, she despises the place where her own space was denied
many nights she's cried, lying weakly beside her sheets where blood stains seep, unable to speak -- a fable, she thinks?
life is stifling, bane and bleak

again her feet graze the pavement, no more pretending to accept amends through recommended recompense
fuck the law, she sprints in amazement with eyes squinted and glazed, her intent is hell-bent on preventing this demon sent from selling his eternal debt
the bottle-rocket launches from her gauntlet laced hands, her demands branded in the frantically fluttering flame
but little does she know, inside, now ablaze is a wife and babe...

basic shit

gaseous gastric acid blasts past his casted esophagus
candid cameras manned as he stands banded o'er ceramic, then faceplants in the space between paste wall and waste
basic shit, gravity.

splattered on the plaster is the source of a brash laughter, his brain remains transfixed, stomach wrenching, picked this position in which to fix his catatonic twist
stupidly, stupid he, frequently he disputes cupid's glee, trading brain cells for pained hells and painted wells equipped with bottomless pits
he omits quick acquisitions of lips locked in a cosmic haven of delayed gratification, struggling to pierce the stratosphere through an alternative sphere prior to the inevitable fear of sheer loss of control when he veers downward, beyond his initial point of departure...
you following me?

follow me, i'm in the lead, 22 shots, best get me a stretcher please
let's guess if i bleed 22 proof, just profess it if it's true, a true legacy
the burning brew broods down the chest of me, let me be,
fade to darkness, rest in peace...

mezzanine (eternity in a night, pt. 2)

abandoned warehouse, hardly before dawn
a swirled mix of lavender and indigo seeps through transparent blotches in the ceiling
oversized bulbs cast golden-amber blankets onto the chilled concrete floor
shadow patches contrast the incandescence; a plaid apparition emerges...

"Feeling the past moving in 
Letting a new day begin 
Hold to the time that you know 
You don't have to move on to let go..."


directly ahead, an infinite platform is hoisted on a structured cluster of steel pallet racks
animated bodies form statues, perfume and cologne perforate the scent of aged stone, the two aromas engaged in a courtship dance
two sets of meandering eyes are brought to a fix, gaze locked, immortalized in the confines of an instant...

"Add to the memory you keep 
Remember when you fall asleep 
Hold to the love that you know 
You don't have to give up to let go..."


resonance, reverberation, ubiquitous flux
swift echoes quickly consume the void between these walls, filling the volume unoccupied by roaming souls, yet still encased in a decaying hypercube of vacated, post-industrial property
trespassing is evident, but there are no signs of forced entry
paradoxical liberation in an enclosed space...

"Remember turning on the night 
And moving through the morning light..."


ten seconds, or ten aeons?
erect sculptures yield plasticity as increasing heart beat rates invigorate the two forms
blood rushes back to skin surfaces, intensified
infinity eclipsed by the blunt reinjection of temporal order
supplying source? unknown...

"Remember how it was with you
Remember how you pulled me through--"


bending and curving space, the two foci cede themselves to the weakest, yet most discernible, of fundamental forces in the universe
pressing forward, they abandon promises of physical conjunction and embrace an imminent incorporeal union;
a fusion of loci, individual essences become blurred, identities are rendered obscured--
obliterated...

"I remember..."

reckless abandon

a hearse,
clutch turned
in reverse
much blur

gives birth
to her
lips, pursed,
spurring instances;
bliss

reminiscing
this blessed
gift,
her head
rests
on my chest

hit?
miss?

souls arrested, but abreast
is this question:

perfection?
do we fit?

INTPs and Architects

scientists.

we spend our lives carrying out experiments, engaging the empirical world, trying to quantify the physical universe. but what we don't realize is that everything is not necessarily physical. perhaps we know that the smell of something comes from the olfactory detection of atoms that are no longer bound to the object; but others might be inclined to wonder: can we ever really just suspend our analyses and enjoy the sweet and slightly bitter aroma of a fresh batch of oatmeal raisin cookies? we are the inspectors of the world, and we make sure it fits our paradigms...



philosophers.

we spend our free time conceptualizing ideas, speculating about the nature of the signified, arguing over the existence or non-existence of the metaphysical and its potential elements. what we don't realize is that it is ok to disagree as no two people have observed an identical succession of events over an identical amount of time; ergo, we seem to have forgotten that chaos theory is a fundamental property of the universe. we are the devil's advocates, constantly challenging old paradigms and proposing new...



aestheticians.

time has no objective or universal meaning for us; everything can be interpreted as the observer sees fit. we understand that the external world influences the internal, and vice versa. it is up to us to find order in the chaos - or perhaps to create it. some of us become these when we take a break from being the studious scientists and philosophers that consume most of our waking lives; aestheticians are our alter egos, they're who we become when we allow ourselves to sleep. for those few hours a night, we no longer succumb to the natural laws of the universe...

we spawn them.