MyBlankInfinity

Black printed letters, how fast they forget that brother by brother once was lain dead. Who will write gravestones if there's no regret? If no one remembers how we used to fret. Rooftops on fire, and wrathwinds that spread black printed letters; how fast they forget words of disdain, throats poisoned and wet. "Our language permitted, yours not!" they said. Who will write gravestones if there's no regret? After they shot down our final gazette, her tracks almost gone, no feet left to dread black printed letters; how fast they forget wires and fences, and thousands unmet, text substitutions, deletions, no bread; who will write gravestones i

We used to be so great, the You and Me. You used to scream the silence deaf searching your thoughts on my calloused back with your freshly painted claws. The melting snows and the pelting storms would run to wipe the windows clean just to catch a glimpse, a single peek of when I was in you, and you were still in me. Sweaty, sweaty blurry shapes sneaked their sighs between long pauses when our lungs stood still. Tap dancing, jittering West and the East waving white fabric in eager resign of frosty, boiling, whispering shouts: trembling white notations on white parchment, under white sheets. I used to break your thoughts in half when Self a

My mind is an abandoned airplane hangar, with stacked propellers, wheels and engines out of use, forgotten planes with cracked and rusty wings, and blinking lights that nobody can see. My mind's a decommissioned cruising ship, left to waste by ebbing, tiding waves, with no crew to steer, nor passengers to cruise, and all its lifeboats rudderless and lost away at sea. My mind's a dancehall, bright with dusty chandeliers, ghostly steps rebounding off its abject walls, and shoes now running down the worn-out floors leave hollow sounds in once a tip tap toeing sea. My mind is also open fields: vast terrains of never-ending grids, of byroads cu

There is not a thing that a raven won't raven and a ravening raven won't do; and there's no such thing as a raven won't ravish when a ravishing raven's in you. So you may call me raven or cravin' to raven, but there's not a thing I won't do when I'm ravening ravishing you. - *raven (noun) [ˈreɪvən] - A large black crow, Corvus corax (family Corvidae), widely distributed in the northern hemisphere, feeding chiefly on carrion and having a deep croaking call. *raven (verb) [ˈrævən] - To consume greedily; devour. To seek or seize as prey or plunder. To eat ravenously.

We would do things no one’s ever written of, but instead of writing it on paper I would write it on your skin. Words would be our bodies tumbling through the sheets, our taste buds filled with sounds of slowly sliding twirls. Nouns would press on you with penetrating thrusts, while verbs would curve and twist your spine. And how we’d love the gravelled commas on our path – a mouthful said, yet so much more to give. Then we’d feel the end come near and wait the ink-splash in that final dot; the dodgy semicolon saving drift, giving ebb and flow to coming lines of print. Our words - they’d intertwine and dash

Dreamy fog lingers on as I open my eyes and get the aftertaste of life back into my mouth. Click crackle crack! my neck snaps back into place. A hard-on crowns my sheets and a hangover crowns my head. "Why do I drink?" I grunt at my trousers and curse at my shirt for stinking of piss. And I rise. And all the fog dissolves into nothing...ness replaced by aware...ness As I remember why I drink.

I We're on desert planets; stuck in never-ending days, trying to get off to shut our Is, but we can't. Like a sand clock with its mesmerizing stream, we're trapped inside these domes we call our homes. II There was no antenna on the radio and the clocks were missing hands. Wind was clawing through the cracks: a beggar reaching through the bars to grab the keys - just out of reach. Opaque clear bottles biding time on creaking shelves slowly filling back to brim - grit by grit. A sandstorm trapped in deja vu... Fluttering and flashing light! ...a wall deciding if it's fight or flight. This crumpled letter is my ticket out. Unique impressio