reypulque

Midnight doesn’t leave a mark as these bones ring out the hour, the clock clotted with the myth of digits, the telltale heart chiming in daily decline. Hollow gathers around the sound, the ringing out getting around to where the tolling slows, the linger of the afterimage after a savaging of shine. Here where the light undresses into some feathery resonance, where the toothache grin...
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It starts in the shadow thick hollows, these excavations to your nature where conversations built the station where these longings wait at bay, the depths touched most at the drop of dusk. The sky trends dark and falls down, this breathless crush to extinction, a story that holds its promise as cliffhangers and prophecy. A dimming square between the shoulders, a burden upon the revelation...
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The rain runs through its prepared remarks, the sneak thief moon is coming on strong above the roofs and trees, days washing up upon the daily everyday. The context amorphous and ambiguous, old hat and hanged man the token of efficacy, the moment peeling away like casts of chitin as shapes bleed into the periphery. A notation of sore bones, mixed analogies and assorted alkaloids,...
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There are no mice, there are no men, just the scratching rats as the chord progression is filled in. A soft flatter of words on the wing, the usual waste of space and breath, a trudge up and down the steps. A little sick about the seams, a little sea foam flecking lips, the tongue somehow does alright. A prophecy of the imminent tide, rising...
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The door is open despite the cold outside. Cobwebs cling to the screen, the latticework of steel and neglect cookie cuts the passage of perception, the sequential shimmer of the tv and the dull insistence of the bare bulb socketed on the front porch. A little bourbon and the air weighed down by the smoke of cigar after cigar. The attendant fiction spilling out into...
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It’s not the day it was, it’s not the clock I’m watching. It’s not the crow in the tree or the dogs in the yard. The lines are off, the rhyme is broken, the light is bright and useless too. Blessings and curses come and go; neither are enough. The riotous rain is gone, but the damage is done, seeping through the ceiling in the...
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The light turns on

a blessing and a curse,

eyes pitted in alarm

between days and dreams,

this bell brought down by

a face beaming out

our uncertainties so sure to

me, this image sticking to my sight

through the dead weight of this

burned up world, pins and needles

smiling in the dark of this life alone.

Dawn and dusk, kitten paws and

unmarked...
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The mountains too will melt and crumble

tumbling into the sea, and every castle

ends up made from sand. The list

ticked down from one thing to

the next meant to put the world to order

or at least make some sort of map

contriving all these whos and whys

painting a description of the dervishing down

the drain. A face, a name, some defensive...
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There’re days where it’s down to the charge on your phone or the cat in your lap, waking startled to wake again, this shadow steeped ceiling, this eternal alarm. Some stone rolled, no longer there, now risen. There’s days where you’re drunk on your porch and someone fires nine rounds in the yard next door, fireworks showering sparks showing above every roof. It’s just the...
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A flinch of eyes

a gust of rain

this picture painted

so dutifully dumb with love

hanged crooked and touched

gently with drowses of dust,

intimate pledges of flesh and

bardo, sage and bobby-pins bound

tight in rubber bands, light

drowned in blunt weather

the incandescent halos

secreted away, tenders

slipped in between

beloved pages,

dear traveler,

fixed star.