Little red houses

lined the streets

In a red neighborhood

full of red.

But you were fuliginous,

pushing red clouds out of the way,

puking up your inconsistensies on a reliable suburb

of perfectly predictable colors. 

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I miss you in an unconventional way,

the way I miss finding strawberry colored candy wrappers mixed with lint in the bottom of my drier,

and how the crinkled plastic envelops small pieces of dust.

It’s a feeling of comfortability — security.

I want you in my bed,

wrestling with sheets that slipped off corners,

and fumbling with switches on lamps to find your clothes.

Looking for shapes in the splattered paint,

and laughing at soft-core porn,

it’s sort of a hobby – an escape from 9-5 and catch 22’s.

We want to say we love each other,

it’s the elephant in the room – smothering us,

telling us it’s too soon.

Let’s just lay here,

and touch each other until the words come out. 

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Run To Me

I hate you like I hate rushed people pushing their foot in the elevator as it’s about to take me to the seventeenth floor,

but I love you like I love their subtle fragrance filling the moving room.

Hold the elevator,

I love you.

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July 7, 2013 · 1:38 am


I married a pill bug. I usually call him Rollie Pollie, but when there’s a quarrel, he is referred to as Armadillidiidae. Our relationship is transgressing, though. Initially he would roll to me like beads off of a breaking necklace, but now he is stagnate. I loved (love?) him in a cautious way – the way you love a rabid cat you just rescued. Will he scratch at me if I come at him too fast? Will he run away if I don’t? Three years and twenty seven days ago was the first day he told me he loved me. When I didn’t reciprocate he compressed his Pereon to hide his legs and face. It just caught me off guard, I suppose. I rolled him next to me and whispered it back…”I love you like I’ve never loved anyone else before…” but I don’t think the words crawled through his Cephalothorax. I held him there for quite some time, until the room’s beige outlets looked like faces and the air became dry. After that night, I don’t think he ever heard me. I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you. Please unroll for me.

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I watched your fingers grasp me in the mirror,

like moss grasping trees when the wind is at an above average speed.

I want your mannerisms,

to stay in my room forever,

the way shadows became permanent after an atomic bomb.

Take me to a forest,

and we’ll plant a life,

and remain there until the moss no longer clings to trees.

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Dear Love.

To a Past Lover

                Your name starts with “A” and ends with “A” and contains three syllables. Your brown eyes melt into your tan skin, which melts into your dark wavy hair and becomes one condensed ball of shit. You lay me down on my blue velvet couch and touch me ever so gently before you mount me and fuck me. I look back, and catch you admiring yourself – watching your disgusting, long brown hair bounce off of your toned chest as you push me off and onto you again. I tell you I don’t want you to cum inside my mouth like usual — I want to feel you inside me, and you take the hand that was caressing me moments before and push me to the floor, ever so gently. You scold me with the voice that was grunting my name, “You’re a tease, if you don’t do this for me I will leave.” Afraid to be vilified I pursue your wishes. You kiss me goodbye, you love me so much.

I want you to take each side of your carefully parted hair and wrap it around your neck until your face is as grey as my pride on the ground. I want you to take your seductive brown eyes and pluck them out with the fingers you tasted me with. I want you to smash your face into the mirror until you look like me wanting you. I want you to kill yourself.

I love you so much.


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Horse flies, fruit flies, dragon flies, house flies, drain flies, blow flies, bottle flies, phorid-humpbacked flies,

fluttering around like foreign exchange students in a school composed of minorities.

“Am I pretty?” asked the house fly to the bottle fly,

“Fuck you, cunt!” the bottle fly hastily responded.

“Sounds good…” said the house fly suggestively and complacently.

She swam through the humid air to his palace of rancid ramen noodles,

and intertwined herself in their stiff loops flavored with garlic and anticipation.

The bottle fly stomped his meager legs to the submissive house fly,

and entered himself.

Her compound eyes rolled back as she yelped, “Harder, harder!”

Until her tarsal segments dislocated from her thorax,

and the timid house fly split in two.

The bottle fly continued his relentless thrusting,

until they were decimated particles seasoning noxious garbage,

in a house full of flies.

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Aleph's Heretical Domain

Hinduism is one the oldest religions in the world, and was around thousands of years before the time of Jesus, let alone the first religion of Abraham, or even the first dedicated monotheistic religion. Surely, then, it would be no surprise that such a religion would have spread far and wide over the course of its development and evolution. Hinduism as a religion is not commony practiced in Japan, and is considered a minority religion, with only 4,000 registered Hindus living there. Nevertheless, Hinduism has played a very significant and important role in shaping Japanese culture.

Buddhism, which shares a common root with Hinduism, came to Japan in the 6th century AD from China, where the Buddhist teachings had been translated into Chinese, via the Korean peninsula. Buddhist missionaries would introduce gods from Hinduism to Japan, as well as Buddhist ideas, most of which were ultimately born from Hindu thought. Hundreds of Hindu deities were adopted into the…

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She bought me a shirt with one of my favorite bands on it,

she said, “It’s a late Christmas present, early birthday present, whatever you want to call it.”

She cut two holes in it and put worn and washed out blue jean patches over them,

because she knows I like the torn and tattered look.

She took a few more milligrams of the anxiety medicine than she was prescribed,

and passed out on our blue velvet couch teleported directly from the 70’s to the thrift store to our subsidized apartment.

Her head was especially heavy on my chest that night;

her cheek resting against the patch,

that rested against a brilliant Goodwill find,

that rested against someone who will love her profoundly.

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The schizophrenic across the street,

plants her grey worn shoes sturdily in the gravel driveway.

She wraps a stone in the peel of a rotted Macintosh apple,

so the crisp air doesn’t fill its pores.

She religiously recites, “It’ll be okay, cold one, the apple’s organic coat will keep you warm.”

Her faded green hair falls over the peel that falls over the rock,

and she falls over a blanket of voices she can’t comprehend.

She shrieks, “I love this driveway, I love these shoes, I love this apple peel, and I love this rock!”

Then her frantic eyes open to watch a needle penetrate her skinny, fragile arm,

and she is wheeled away to a place where those thoughts aren’t allowed.

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