Brevet Wilson

She wore faux fox furs
dyed blue,
she said it matched her purple hair.
and ate nothing but Ramen noodles with miracle whip.
...

I know you;
You are the reoccurring dream I have had
since childhood.
The one that leaves me exhausted all day the next day,
...

I am waiting for the world to explode
I am waiting for the oceans to exceed their grasps.
I am waiting for you to start carving flaming words in to the air
with a silver forked tongue.
...

She drove as I fiddled with the radio.
I was stealing looks at her,
young, fresh, clean.
and oh my god her cleavage was hypnotizing.
...

It's cold and raining
4: 04 AM at the shelter.
From my office I can see fires lit in garbage cans,
and everyone is wearing silver 'emergency' ponchos
...

So many people
with big mouths,
and glass jaws.
When they talk they don't make words
...

He hung there,
not like 'strange fruit'
but like a body.
...

I am sick with your corpse.
The sickness entered through my eyes and the infection has worked its way in to my brain.
In to my sleep,
In to my dreams.
...

There is a room where everything is broken,
a room where gravity even slips gears.
Scrawled and aborted love poems
have been burned into the carpets
...

The moment I met her I thought
'You know, she would play the 'tortured widow' really well'.
After all, if all the world is a stage,
then the cast should at least be adequate
...

Sometime I get homesick for places I have never been.
I get wanderlust so badly it makes me grind my teeth till they shatter..

During the grave shift, at the shelter,
...

I'm sick of f\%king Facebook,
sick of emails,
sick of people talking,
sick of my work radio beeping,
...

I have plagiarized your flesh a hundred times or more.
With words
with paint,
even with bone and paper mache sculptures.
...

She hovers on my headboard.
Hair wild and shoe polish black.
At night she hovers there...
screaming her deranged and distorted thoughts
...

I use to know a heroin addict.
one time she tried to 'tie off' around her neck
after I told her there are veins you can 'hit' in there.
Operative phrases:
...

She lives in the spaces in between the spaces.
She looks perpetually and terminally bored...
as if she will die at any moment from the banality.
The lost Gashlycrumb Tiny.
...

I could write about the snow,
the silent white death that covers the city
and mutes everything... just silence.
But there are too many lousy naturalist poets.
...

This city is full of animals.
Base and depraved.
Scavengers dressed in suits and ties,
women looking like panthers but attacking like rats.
...

We sat on the floor,
surrounded by obsolete maps.
Planning our 'great escape'
to places that no longer have names.
...

Sometimes I wonder
what has happened to all the lost souls
I have known through the years...
...