paperwadperfect.

so.  so.

so i’ve got sand in my hands
 and my hands are holding passion pretending to hold me
                                      so far away from where i am

so i’ve got sand in my sleeping eyes
 sighting a taillight in the twilight
  and my eyes, all twenty, sift out to the
                               knives on the floor

so i’ve got sand in my brain lungs intestines legs arms feet
 sweet sand sifting drifting like anvils in the forecast,
                       ground clutter shutting my shutters

this is no kind of weather for incompetent styrofoam clusterfucks like me!
                                         so i wander off into sinkholes of regression
                                                        just to mute your stunted musk

put away your subatomic tusks
 and put a peel under your suicide pillows

the upper-hand silhouette fairy has delicately,
       demurely, accepted your cryogenic pout,
                                         but she pauses

for weeks and weeks and weeks
            not knowing which ingot will resolve
                               shaggy censored bias
                            
before  it  is  over.

                                   ~xtian rine

un.haunted.

this is the hour.
the tooth falls into place.

baby ravens hatch out of auditory cozy glitches.

to let the sentence go,   one more time,   is just too much.

barely discernible hues fade even further
                    from the cyclopean ducts
               and disappointment gets legs
            to sidestep resonant labor.

hands laid on faces,
              hands removed,
                                 and missed terribly.

            sustained absences.

this hour is ours,              un-haunted,

the light’s coming up.        the towels are turning blue       
and a day of frantic blinking       
and bewildered blind-sided defeat   
                 empties its chambers
                            i  nto my ear.

                                        ~xtian rine