mortis nostrae

got lost in the pattern of his shirt

lost in the rows of white shark teeth

lost in a hum, a pulse, a beat

lost when tongue met cheek

live a good life in between the days

and just lie the whole time you’re awake

he wont think you’ve learned predator and prey

and he wont see you braced for the stabs he’ll take.

spectral evidence

you know im a sucker

for a zippy synth and a rumble beat

i get caught in it

like ghosts caught in complex geometry

i need you to stop me

haunting hallways at night

make me gather my strength

and go into the light

quickly, now

one hundred thousand spirits around me

keep them close for when friends make you ugly

taking up arms, all this phantom weaponry

when the ghosts come they live all of this for me

vicious cologne all over my clothes

ill wash them again once i get home

or maybe just burn them then say its a joke

because its not the first time ive dealt with such smoke.

threes and swords

and i wonder what your mothers say

when i quit coming

when my name quit sounding

any way, they must say its a sin

and we’ve known this, seperate, since we were kids

i was never good at the games we’d play

and i’d give up, maybe, too easily

and i’d let you, maybe i’d let you win

and rule the radio

and adjust the stereo

but now i run and jump and stretch greater than

and would that we’d never touched, or anything

and never sitting, close enough to feel the heat your body made

then i wouldnt know how to miss it all that way