kid_hideous

something i'm working on...

elegy

dawnlight trickles in through half-liquid windows like cooling cum down a young man's pale thighs.
yes it is his. pissrigid now withering.
in the morning mirror ghostpale as bone, as an echo of himself dbouled and redoubled by the hair-spray spattered pane behind him.
downstairs they are having it again. for breakfast. a child's face floats in greasepool disintegrating like cheap makeup-mask in the rain. its spine, already denuded of flesh, brittle as a spool of barbed wire curled 'round the faux bone china. sun-yellow yolks bleeding out like broken hearts.
there is no flesh like this, he knows.

here, it's easy to get lost along a lane of associations.
take a wrong turn, wander
that long
lost alley
find
the brutalization, all over again.

that boy's breath hot in the soft
whorl of your ear, his strength
throbbing against you,
remote and thoughtless engine.

her skin starwhitehot beneath his hands, occasionally a whispered scream, seething up, rippling like a hot stream of plasma beneath sliding shells cooled to a relative darkness, erupts from the cavity, the unhealable wound of her mouth.

strange angel
at his window, perched
atop the sill, long fluttering silk-
en folds of his
coat hanging

with the bruise black eyes and that strange
brilliance below (white
blush, or was it, foundation,
he'd find out,
later,)

that boy from school, yeah, you know,
the one,
the strange one,
that
quiet boy, from school, yeah,
not a lot of friends, yeah,
the silent
you
know

the queer
one
funny
one (not ha-ha
funny, but
you know, but,
funny,
weird)

strange the febrile solidity of what is ninety percent absence.
water and nothing. nothing flowing like water. water like light. light like
nothing. not thing but light. terrible light nest of nothing

she lies enrapt in black
velvet folds of her dress, thin fingers spooling the spun-
gold of her hair as nails worry the fabric. her.
hair like halo

it's easy to get lost here.
when he leaves the house it is like a withered balloon loosely tethered to some unimaginable solidity far below underlying this blank black dark empty lights inside like sussurant pulse of blood in ultrasound
images. like light beneath membral noose of placenta.
fetus. hanged man.

light
he knows
ripples space's
velvet folds
as wounds
worry the increasingly
gravid skin. eventually
scars begin to speak us.

the books always say its anything to pass the night away
he knows its more about anything
to let it pass him

silk green smoke unfurling in his lungs, unspooling into tired limbs recumbent in the warm, worn car seat, heater blasting against the invasive unbreath of the night outside, velvet soft pressed against the fogging shells of glass, scratchy throated radio pumping 'she's in parties' by his request. they'd stopped out here, in the dark only nowhere knows, the stars somehow brightbrittle as the cricket's song somewhere out there in the tall, rasping, green-gold grass. eventually it dawned on him to ask,
"we're not going to yoga class, are we"
soft laughter of the other, soft as night

there is a still of him, long ragged curly gold hair spray-painted orange, hi long, serpentine tongue extended to brush the tip of his hairless chin, hand up,m fingers splayed into stick-thin, wrinkled devil's horns. behind him a cone of darkness where somewhere the band contorts into the arabesques of music.
he must be having the time of his life.