Nature is not a lie I know

Time is lessened by less than lessons

but couldn’t the crescent remain iridescent?

Descending into decent dissent.

Developing a flow chart for a lost art

Returning home to sadness

nothing is wrong when you hug me, I sink my face into your skin

and you tell me you love me…

~WCTank

he filled up his boxes with ocean water and the sand seeped through his pants and the floor was wet so there was a spot for the swans to reflect the white essence of his perfect mind that could tell his mouth to say the word boundless without spilling his cup but before the Christmas lights were lit again they would have to find a new  sort of generator, the energy it took to power it came from the back forth minutes of the life of a commuter named Astrid, her birthday was on the 104th day so she would be sacrificed when her time came.

we rang the bells of blood and wine and hung our clothes out on the line, we used our flags as cleaning rags and our silent scent as deoderant, my mother’s satchel hung from my teeth in the darkness of the cave, I’m in hell hotel with a bucket of ice is all I could bring myself to scrawl on the wall, stabb’em in the back that’s the name of the game, like a geyser of wax pumping out of a whale, a solitary life out of practiced patience, life is a fraction of a dead told lie, but where do I go at the end of the day, when my thoughts are bigger than I can move my arm?

at that precise moment he received a note said he had two microwave minutes until he died, he spent them hungry and with his eyes closed,  with a dog begging to chew his bones, with a woman begging him to fill her glass or striking a match with the skin of his ass, he chose to go by the hair of a vine he gave thanks and cried deep breath and died, his mother was there and his father was not, his sister had helped her pick the plot, the team arrived at a quarter to dusk, and the pastor spoke of the days of dust, all rise and their eyes were on the horizon

the eye of a hurricane
watching the people inside
who are watching the lightning
inside of the eye of the hurricane
watching the people inside
who are watching the lightning
inside of the eye of the hurricane

~WCTank

Once a lie, seeking truth withheld so taut a stomach reflecting light sorid as a drizzled book title bought in a supermarket, pass the time with unnecessary language gluttony.

Words such as these were only writ for those who can afford them, damned to hell for unaligned sidewinders.

She’s impatiently bouncing her knee, I pretend not to pretend to know why. Engrossed in decadent expression, didn’t bless a sneeze, choosing to be annoyed, nothing I didn’t do permutation, frozen permeation, changing thoroughly, exchanging anything to distract from a current extraction, get high and write or drunk and fuck. Never in the intimate moments between obligations could I cover enough of myself up, I only long to become the vapor I walked through.

~WCTank

Kissing an expression’s intent with raw pomegranate juice

translucent through Wisconsin October morning light

make that slathered in facial magmatic oceans of existence

intent on boiling from the heat of the brain,

mind moving chi

moving body

never not going for the furthest point imaginable,

running over ages of graves

each golden arched dynasty falling prey to its own reflection,

getting what is given by the live of the living.

Licking envelopes with sweaty affection, in desperate attempts at solitude.

Arguments cry from loneliness’ division of loving memory and

medieval sexual love evolved from love through attentiveness,

carefully steadied effort; sodomy with a boy evolved to pederasty from souls alone.

Loving memory, memory mind…

~WCTank & Valerie Valentine