through the bedroom window blinds

Pin the butterfly to the board and lick the ice off as it forms on the outside of the window. Listen. Imagine this, the lack of hair on the cat stemming from an incident a few weeks ago involving scissors and a certain elegance. Love is a flower in flight, rather, it’s no butterfly, it’s something rather far from this, from any word touched to any of our mouths. Home is where the butterfly is. The hair on the cat, pinned to a board, a licking at the milk and looking out the window. Sensitive and electric current moved into, love, an idea of a bowl of milk, a knife, or a certain lack of evidence. Love, and a current ran through me, flight, and an incident that never ends.

We believe ourselves to be an unreality, a hole cut in, where rules don’t apply, just around us. We’re butterflies or bees, irreal and strange, scary to a toddler and dropping their ice-cream. An outdoors house-cat killed by a coyote. A sunset over this earth, neverending. strong or in love with it, sad or just a bald headed old man staring dumb at what sits over the ocean; sick of everything that ever claimed to exist.

Prove this is what you think it is. Surface or surface or surface. A trick of the light or a trick of a light; take flight and all smoothed over top of it all. You’re a camera zooming out, not in. if you killed yourself it’d wreck me. Tragedy or vanity, i’d say it’s just plain tragedy., zoom out and see a swarm of them, bees, their wings, and other things. A butterfly perhaps, a tall glass of lots of wine. I’ll remember you, a sunset over the sky and into the bottom of it. Pinpricks of light peek through the blinds, there’s no stars in this light. I write for everyone, I know two people.

Love is a butterfly, and licking is a playground on the roof. and wet pants. Plush animals in the closet and butterflies in the sky. We’re ducking behind a cloud, we’re sinning in a garden. RESEARCH AND DEVELOP. There’s no city just a husk, a suburb, a set of condos and maybe a low density apartment, maybe it’ll only take half an hour to walk here and back. On the nose. And off the booze (god I wish)I'm gonna cum. Out to the races and into a mouth out into a couple of months of a broken sort of stylistic registar. My hair catches aflame. A mouth wrapped around a nipple. An eye rolled back into the head. Nothing is anything. Everything is somewhere else. I look out and onto it, I see an old fruit rotting, to see anything else is a betrayal of conscience. We’ve been here long enough; pin it to the board, who cares, It’s only a couple of decades, maybe a century.

A razors edge and a dream half sung, drunken rambles through a night where it’s all cold and all relative to itself. A character will walk into the frame and never leave. A horse bites, and leaves towards water. This is what it is: A butterfly, blue in hue, flying across the ocean, cheered on by cephlopods and cetaceans? A chorus of the dumb and wet and misreable, eke out a failed relation to the world around them. Pinned to a dartboard, a moment in history that screams out it’s lack of an ability to end.

A half crushed skull against the side of a roof. Leather straps around the ankle and the wrists, crushed sideways into the wall.