white noise at the end of the world.

I came out of the static
with her knives stuck in my hands
left my old self dead and buried
with a gun stuck in the sand
in my heart you carved your daggers
and the streets ran cold and red
if I don't carry you you'll stagger
is the last thing that you said
hear my foot steps catch and stutter
in the back she held my hand
found the alley that she stranded
and I found him as a friend

on the day she killed november
i hadnt seen her in years
her face it never changes
her heart is changing gears



i hope luke arnold wakes up tomorrow and remembers
that we're starting a hip hop project cause ive already started writing...

monsters in the city

and the streetlights

are out.

we felt the noise around

each corner, begging us

to find it; the walls

were made of braille

and the bricks made

signposts in broken

arrows; the mortar

weak with names

written with bullets.

even the rooftops left us vulnerable.

a message written

in morse code, paint

on our hands where

we told our story.

we never found the way out.

"I'll bury you in this story."

i have weird shapes

and jagged stones

in my mouth that

tell sleepy stories

while swimming 

through last nights

noir dialogue; some

conversations are

better had during the day.

conversations in pattern.

the jawbone sat still

anonymously, speaking

in half a whisper.

come to grips it said

the sunlight will hide for months

your time will end soon.

concrete holds us both

and our conversations are

stunted like cold breaths.

out of sorts.

I dread the changing of the seasons

four times a year I feel out of place

in my own skin, as my body gets used

to another climate in which it does

not feel like it belongs at all. I am a

stranger to this land, when fall skips

a beat and winter arrives unannounced

rudely like a drunken houseguest; If I

could I think I would hibernate like a bear.

This summer passed away quietly

and without a clue

brick walls still holding

onto the heat like

bodies just after sex

hoping that it doesnt get

too cold.

too soon.

writing on the walls

I lose words sometimes

in her eyes explanation

for the absence of our 

second natures; 

she says we are all just 

creatures of habit in our 

darkest thoughts, coming undone.

I left the days out of order

and hoped you could

reassemble the calender

in your hearts native tongue.