You know what would be nice?

If I could go one day without screwing something up.


On a more positive note, some word beauty:

opine slopesfacets averted,
no brilliance should be
demanded to writhe
this way
loveliest prisms
in shatter
on full display
every chiral surface
impacted with
rampant fracture
past sins in
actuarial fables
enraptured
and we all
can only hear
a murder, dear
and stable
these are
our versions
of facts  flatlinei feel the remains of my love lie within a ghost
i’ve forgotten the sweet scent of your breath, echoing
against the fresh, porous sheen,
the surface of my breast, exhaling onto my presence
fingers trickling against my collarbone, the meaning in your movements
that shook you as you reached out to grasp me
no one could ever replicate the way you held me
i could never replicate the way my body felt pressed between your sure palms
clear blue eyes that unflinchingly stared into mine that stung me
too sharp in their sincerity
too honest, too real
i am in love with a ghost
i surrender, to me   self-hatred isn't beautiful, but she isand i can't fucking talk to her
because her laughter
is like birdsong, but prettier
and her smile is sunlight
and my name on her lips is a melody
and me?
i am nothing but cracked lips,
a tired smile, wilting flowers,
and 3 a.m. excuses for poems,
one mistake after another,
and i know she could fall for me,
but she won't,
because no one ever does.

LittleHis parents were shouting,
and hated each other,
flush-jawed and aching across
the cheap table, the cheap hot rash
of kitchen air all filled with meat and
3 veg and everything else,
so the boy went outside,
where it was a desolate and bitter July,
with the paddock grasses of frost-slick knives;
went outside,
sat down,
drew his knees up to his chest
like a foetus
held loose
in the black coiling
womb of sky.
A mad neighbour shouted – a cow
lowed, a soft sad call.
He stayed sitting
for a while
kept small
kept his blood cool
until he'd lined his lungs
with winter, bright.  Salt and Vinegar (Twitbit 5)keeping secrets,
he hides raccoon eyes
and scrubs red from the carpet  the unendingthere's a cavern in this cadaver. noise ricochets off hollow walls,
intensifying the immense desire to initiate my demise.
my soul split after the ellipsis tricked the will out of the innocent.
i have little motivation and the voices make my head spin,
leaving me wasted and short-changed at the frontline again.
let me sink to the fourth regiment. take my bayonet-
i have no need for it now, not when my skin sings for silver
and i'm begging for the end.
we won't be saved til we're dead, but corpses never know they're saved.
i'll lay in torment in my grave long after dirt covers my face,
but misery to me is commonplace, like my disgrace.
"you can't go to heaven unless you get high"- well, i've tried,
but my withering physique is merely shame with a face.
i asked entrance, and the doorman could not recognize me.
he said, "this place is for souls, not for the embodiment of self-loathing."
he denied me admittance and bid me good riddance, kicked me from the clouds,
and i fell back to living