skirt the forbidden arc of this incandescent foeship written only in tongues and 50-cent words i am cross-stitched into the fabric of this pandemonium descended into glass shards and hollow jaundice born from fault lines pale as airplane lights. i met a stranger who recited sylvia plath and knew my secrets told me to go to he/l but i ended up here in the city on the laundromat floor stained with c/garette smoke, 24-hour gas stations tall as one-man cities. i paced across the far side of infinitum downed wh/skey in november like a psychrophile woke up and wondered why the moon was hung a lover until d/eath for the sake of a vintage execution; i caught monet between the doors masquerading as a window—looked out and saw a city, or was it just a pond reflecting the stars? he asked why they were round like marbles; i said, gravity—but gravity doesn't explain why stars are bright as eyes. i sat down to write to you. i stole a fountain pen and returned to the lakeshore, sat where the switchgrass stood closer to the sky than the mud, spiraled into wordstreams christened ‘insanity’, realized ‘genius’. i call you in the middle of the night i’m fever-high and tear-soaked, i ask you questions you can't answer placed under the harsh lens of morning, we met the brontide trickling in with the rain far-flung and far-fetched as all of my worst ideas you fell into the ocean and crawled out yesterday to tell me the seafloor was the same shade of ink as midnight and alice’s sleepless eyes were redshifted like the universe; i read a maniac’s journals and pretended they were science but if i couldn’t hear you from the far side of the moon and you couldn’t see me at night, maybe it was only lunacy.
to be honest, i'm mostly a poetry writer - i only have a couple undeveloped characters in the realm of storytelling. so, instead, i chose to create a character aesthetic for the narrator of a poetry piece i wrote - the moodboard's a bit of a mess, but honestly, so is the poem.
