Checkered Sky

Simple as a mere feather or smoke coming out of the mouth in a dangerous matter as the body resembles a fucking corpus as if it might collapse and under the pressure the world might collapse. Why? Because I'll die and it shall, people die for reasons never finding if it trully was worthy just seeing a faint glimpse of the checkered sky above me. Would it trully be different if I'd trully stand on top of a building throwing candy floss downwards giving all my love with blown kisses as I'd produce no sound going through the gray crowd of chemicals covered in brown as if we'd drain in oil clasping our hands together because there is absolutely nothing else to cling to really, other than people who resemble what we see in the mirror with the music we sing to plastered on our dull faces as we'd guess who we got.
The plain click of fingers and tongue, overgrown fringe in the face and fingers producing the same notes each time as if it were nothing particular as if nothing could emerge from the same keys all at once.
It can be a chaotic icy mix would would recieve dull stares and endless confusion. As passion?
The phrase coming out of now a warm mouth, dried clothes, a coat which costs a fortune doesn't change anything anyway really. I get a long stare and I cannot look at myself in the mirror that I take it down.
The television shows my reflection if it is turned off. I turn it on I flick it through a fucking round of ads and pop with plain slogans printed on them which reflect nothing as the girls make out with girls because it's the next big thing, I flick twice and see no gay men, leaving Tom Cruise with the old big things.
I turn it off.
I see myself the bags, the overgrown face, two brothers smeared upon my face and the reason screaming upon my face.
What I'm I expecting?
Nothing.
I play with the air, biting it leaving bruises, leaving
leaving
leaving
and echo as I hit the television a shard in my converse.
I brush it off,I wave it off, go to the balcony, throw it away, cry horryfyingly as my kid neibhoor with its owner stare at me, brushing the kids golden locks, grasping the parent's fingers treading it with his own as he bites them off winter staring at autumn.
Death after pleasure of watching others die, the sins fade as tongue touches the cheek in a disgustive matter.
I close my eyes with my fingers, spread my fingers, see the boy, the parents are eaten.
He stands, his locks golden in a blue suit with a red tie, leaning over his balcony looking at me in the eye, watching me for a moment the future passing with red clouds in his eyes, he closes death, waves at me and walks off leaving a trail of red dust which I hop to and follow him to velvet civers covering everything around as I expect boddies if all sorts laying but all are eating, teeth caught in his golden hair as he passes rooms and stops, fixing his falling jaw, dropping his suitcase, holding his head, laughing intensivey, looking up rage dying in laughter as his eyes remain like glass, fingers freezing, body in heat, teeth opened as trunks, gold holding from them resembling chewed crosses after a long battle used as swords against pearls caught in the throats as death lingers upon the walls, bony hands carraseing the wallpapers and rugs with square holes which would make geometry jealous that she'd gag.
I ask him if I can leave, he says no, bringing out a pocket piano and strumming it with his fingers his face motionless up to the point that it could slice a paper in two.
It does.
I gag, I throw up, I'm the previous generation, I did nothing asides getting eaten and producing a tune which was done and get my arm kissed in shame as my hair would get cut off in disgrace.
In shame.
In pleasure.
In a luring lullaby bringing myself to a forest full of knives and green, while all dreamt of factories, oil strumming in blood, destroying those who shall eat us with nothing to produce, dying in pleasure, sex and faint glimpses of love which were created to be thrown in the face, dances denied and toes chewed on.
I look into the violet eyes as my fingers are gone and the shoulder
is bitten.
bleading.
fading.
I love the generation, because my hand is gone, the fringe shook off and I am layed into a coffin by the beloved the lullaby sung by birds reacting of oil and fame and gold as they fall upon my face and get buried with me because The body upon me needs to eat with the locks to grow and intertwine the nothing which shall be in his mouth full of lies he once told
now gone
posted
destroyed
he clasps my hand and smiles
pours tea upon my face and tells me he loves me
i love him too
mutual
platonic
lovely
lonely
exiting
purple
green
blue
hang
it upon
us
instead
of
crosses
religion
beliefs
and
oil
laugh
in
our
faces
and
we
will
in our
are hands
on our
kness
tongues
in throats
tongueincheekajokehaha
tea.
oncesuggestedandrankwiththeshardsinthemouthcuttingtheloveandhatredftimeandsoaccesienceandropes.
I'd wake up facing him as if he were a mirror.
The morning actually feels like the aftermath.
There's this quote that when you cut yourself you feel bad about in the evening, but not in the morning.
That didn't apply to sleeping awake with thought reaching the morning.
It takes more than a minute to cope. It's not like falling in love with a washing machine or a french fry you know you'll be the one to eat unless it either falls and crushes you or you choke on it in a moment of passion.
Do people die in the middle of a kiss forever to linger and forever to remain as the tasted of the once greated tongue as it slowly dissolves hinting that you are mine and you shall have it there?
The show that we shared death, one betraying one never pulling the trigger but feeling the steel.
I excused myself from the room, leaning over the balcony staring at females below me their long golden locks, dyed nails, short cropped hair or middle length. No one really wanted to look at the girl from above unless she'd be screaming between his legs. It's the below position, I'd usually recieved which horryfyingly satisfied me up to a point where I hesitated in my role in the great circle of life.
What did I do waiting for bliss as the woman would pay to give birth after nine months of corruption building inside her leaking to life with blood and loss?
We'd never take it upon us the birth of another mouth to feed.
If we'd want to we'd all become and giving.
We'd be caught in an eternal kiss upon the body of a woman.
I walked back as he'd flick the channels back and forth, ranting on his girlfriend, red burnt leaves in his hair. The same person sat on the table, eating on an apple, pages fixed with nails on the table, as he chewed, slowly eyes reading lower and lower until he escaped and looked straight at me.
August, I kept telling me and he through the never touched by any marks apple, aiming at my bed hair, but I dodged it easily, that it left a bruise upon my index finger.
August looked down, the red tie loose, hanging along with head, as the eyes were closed reminding what failure and desire were like holding hand in hand.
A month appart, september our child, someone it between.
Like two sexes we were two, a third lingering with its pride and hidden sexuality.
I was afraid to look september in the eyes as his feet would kick off his docks, her body laying on the table, his lips hers and the hair cut short with an endless laughter aimed at the neibhoors above in a suggestive manner as the threads of the tank top are loose.
August would kiss it, slowly dying the bones forming until, dying, one eye closed, the over covered by the hand, he'd press a gun of fingers to my head, slowly travel to my mouth as I'd swallow him
as a note of passion and devotion, I'd tell november as she'd tap her long fongers back and forth, my jaw dragging august, september and november, last years out and she'd blow them into december's face, laughing, covering her eyes in utter disgust as december shall come licking her forehead and forearm until she'd shriek and the rest of us would be born in heaven with a bunch of monkeys chewing bananas as their rating starts to grow in the afterlife, as old ladies discuss the ever ever after as the sun would die and the toes will turn blue as I'd lay mouthing august's red tie because I'd be afraid to confess as he'd trail fingers into my mouth.
Romeo and Juliet.
September laughs.
She laughs, tears trailing as I open the safe the notes stuck in and out of my mind.
They remind me post-its the cheap already used yellow ones, as september lits his ciggarette done and he is burning his fingers, like boys on the lawn she says biting off a nail and feeding it to august, hoping that he'll die.
November smirks in the corner, her hat falling off revealing her bare tress on her head and white pupils.
There is no global warming she giggles, showing her blue hands with icky red nails.
I kiss her.
It resembles something mutual, as she pushes me away taking august's cig and swallowing it her white pupils on mine.
She kisses me.
There is no music apart from septembers' chats and loud making out with her twin brother,
it's like a school dance with no confetti and no roof above as it was sold for a couple of mars bars and a rocket to shove into the fridge so that I'd be on a diet in order to stop being below, all for a month's desire
before I move on, tearing the calendar, bending it, shoving a burning faq in my mouth, grinning, displeased
i'm in love, amour, love, I stop it, I kiss her.
I tell her I hate her with passion, she takes the silver ring off my finger piercing her nose with it, displeased
I tell her I'm displeased as well.
We'd get married and be stuck in green baby goo.
Stuck in four walls, I take out the post-its crying that the order is mixed with mayoneese which is on august's lips I lick off.
He stares me, smiling turning me into our tenth kiss, shaking everybody off, tearing the room and layers, dragging me above, to look at the newly bought with a thought roof. The stars as they fall onto his eyelashes as I shake them off, as if he's in a nightmare.
He is.
August says he is not, that he ate his brother on purpose, the year of the cat, no month as he never was born and he ate the fruit, savoring it, the taste of death upon his lips
upon my own
as he drags me over him, hands holding, desperation seen
love held
bagels shoved between lips
creamed cheese above
smeared with love between fingers
as he tries to confess
kissing away the nightmare as I get a dry toe in my mouth.
You're stale as bread and wasn't that the love we once feed on. That thought lingers on as I thread his golden hair smiling, telling jokes into his ear, our legs tangled, covers upon the floor as I discover a famine side of me, as my hair grows and shortens with each style, as he watches me play upon the piano, the kids screaming, the lady denying her attention, her span reaching zero.
Everything seems like a flash, delicate as a dance move when everything is forgotten reminding somewhat of a deja vu in the kiss, the touching as we both laugh.
We laugh a lot, as we close our mouths as we age on and on seeing old lovers and long forgotten keys which no longer remind of something we had but something we shall get as love is poured in in endless doses between his golden laughter, even as his hair turns red brown, as my own whitens.
We waltz.
We never knew the moves, but we do it anyway, to some energetic music, because love is waltz an endless spin of two characters which their lips pressed and hair on the floor, skulls ripped together, until death do we part
with tongues in our mouths
not our own
but the ones we trully earn
the ones marked by love.
forever and ever
until the worlds rot and we are left pointing and watching
and laughing
laughing
until we can't hold and take over
drowning in the love we once created and fed on like birds, little by little until there was none left
and we bought more
in the supermarket covered in red velvet scarves we both wore
until spring came and we took them off
now the fingers upon.
We'd stand there shooting rockets out of our mouths into each others, eating ice cream on the terrace upon his brother's bones, crunching them as we'd laugh heartily, tearing tears from each other's eyes, smiling up to the point that our smiles will turn into marshmallow.
Our laugh into watermelons the seeds resembling our love small easy to bite and bruise but nothing reminding of a shatter.
Our love mutual, our love shared on a silver platter as we lick everything off, our fingertips touching, eyes never raised, ceased to never feel reality, dancing in a dream with joy division the soundtrack artist with Curtis smiling on the cover, dead.
The glimpse of love once ceased to shatter, as the teenage years went on but the mark of one at the beginning.
They say that some life a full life by several years.
What about the never born baby?
Was the dna so full that there was trully nothing to complete?
The love already shattered, full and given?
With the concept not understood as the smoke shatters with the chew on the birds and the bees as August lies there once more laughing, his hand no longer covering the frown he was once given from a kiss full of blood and passion.
What if everything ended or started with suicide all forming from the thin lip ending with blood or immersing as if a golden phoenix? All so deepressed and feeling the loss of love up to the point that vomitting is needed?
I get pulled closer.
Then the spin starts with both laughing until one stops holding, vommiting on the other.