Hollow // Bones

inarticulation in absence of open 

communication: this is my body, this

 is my blood. exertion seems overrated

 when there is only a bed of nails to

 rest hollow bones beneath (above

 the carcass of consciousness, of 

unsolicited  importance). your 

pretention passes through me like 

lazy light bulb luminance.

(Graveyard of Shells)

Snails in tunnels

lurching toward the

smell of simplicity.

Rain rushes towards the house and

suddenly nothing remains but the

Graveyard of Shells.

Culture clash with a lazy dash to

dream about dandelions and

open fields of fate.

Searching for strength and

my signal is low.

Candy crazed sugar rush

ridicules responsible rationailty.

Dreaming of deserts

disconnects the delusion.

There!  is space.

There! Is time.

There the tide has slunk

down and away to leave the

salt to sterilize and

send you into flavor-pitch.