sachalkhan

1. When you reared your head I fell all across England, past the grit haired grandmothers humming horticulture, ripples in the leather-skin weather of their faces, past the ember specked fireplaces in the windows of an ash haven: London, and the commuters that hang like rain in its taxicab fumes; sewage pipes groan under the trains and hairspray. I fall past this thinking only of your grass blade hair (how it all points up at me in breathless photosynthesis), thinking of you only. 2. I would like the way I fall over you, thick thighed lady with a bottle of booze bubbling like your cheeks under your hair, I would like your lips hanging li

i was pulled by an office-light moon to a lone street, couple of cars sailing on the slimy chalk road, there's a CitySprint van by a red brick wall, fear trickling down the trees and i'm a slick street thug mugging all it can haul i was called to a bridge by a burning frost fervent as it was obscene, like a broadsword enthralled in the chest of a working class Paul, poor man mauled and i'm his savings sprawled across the railway like rain i was drunk by the pub, fell apart like foam at a pint glass rim, hanging by the whim of a lady with a body of bed and a radiator warmth spilling like coffee's scent and i'm a street lamp d

i. the rain wrapped impatience around your roof, bored through the wood like a thousand million termites (or one you-sized termite, blind, breathless) and seeped from the cold clockwork like battery acid. ii. you lived in a widow's closet - a house swarmed with antiques that collapsed in their own gravity and combusted - and then you lived in widow's charcoal. iii. "galaxies are either lovers or termites," she mused. (earlier, her fingernails bored into my back Hubble's thousand million stars, all drops of acid branding my spine.) "they are drawn to each other for years and in an instant, once together, eat themselves alive.

she screams like a static alarm clock, her thoughts awash with white noise and her good luck caked with a fingerprint of birdshit. (but i am tuned out, unplugged, by the window, hoping to hear a jingle catch on her cracking voice.)

it's too cold here. every day the celsius nips at my skin, paints it blue as a negative digit, reduces "movement" to nil there is a constant snow on my shoulders that evicts the warmth in my ears, sets nearby follicles in straight salute like spiked german helmets in the "great" war between a sunlight massage and my frosty breath

"My wife grew up in a mining family," he said this morning after a sunrise's worth of silent thinking. "Solitary, no hobbies: no dancing, no singing, no drawing - she drew her bounds around herself from the store room with the barred windows, the wine cellar where nobody goes to the terrace, dirty marble juxtaposed with shiny gifts from the old widows next door, all pristine." his lips sink, seal again and allow a sunrise of silence

she says Imagine that god is the field beneath us, and the trees are his angels - (i pray to them, you know, wrap myself around the bark like vines, each of my thousand fingers curls to catch each twig. but on bad days i am poison ivy and my fingernails are nettles, my long torso is tied in knots and clumps like my hung over hair.) - or Suppose that love is a recluse and a painter, and hate is his morbid self critic - (i'm a painter too, you know, my brush screeches up at me as if to say breathe me, breathe me! but on bad days i am a smoker whose lungs wither like untended plants, my tongue is tied in knots and clumps that

when you tore the ten thousand foot sky leapfrogging cloud to cloud a breast stroke through the blue dousing the nearby stars so the sun could rise anew