the gospel of the lamb, live from the slaughterhouse

the gospel of the lamb, live from the slaughterhouse
the early days of murder and savagery
confined and veiled,
the pain filling the walls,
heavy and soft, childlike.
(a rose glow, a silver glint)
she is a child, she is light.
(a white mist,a blur)

too late, too loud for her decry.
the knife to her throat,
skinning her strip by strip.
slowly, precisely, but all at once.

her wisdom, limited, but existent, will disintegrate with her brain matter,
all that is her ruthlessly ripped from existence.

i should have lived when i had the chance, she thinks, her stomach a well for her tears.

she is sinking.

the guillotine is lowering, but she sinks farther.

the lamb cries,
the well is full.
the lamb gurgles,
but does not notice.
the lamb cries for herself, because nobody else will.

i am a light and i am no i m i am  iam iam i am iam i

stupid fucking lamb, you waited too long to live, and now you are dead.


my thighs and stomach are
soft and my belly is full of
cheese and wine and fruit.
my skin is cool and pale but full and my hands
give me nostalgia for when they were small and padded with childhood’s natural safeguard.
now they are rough and leaner and a big vein protrudes from the middle of the back of each.
i often don’t recognize my body.
i look down at my forearm or feet or
feel my shoulder or hip and i don’t know who i am.
but right now, it’s okay. i am content,
i feel melancholy on the opposing edge.
soft and passionless happiness.


love is IT

beauty is light

found purpose is


dreams are part of IT



is.    IT

the whole is purity

and purpose


rest in your war, wake in your peace.

don’t soak in sludge. clean.

live to share

not a machine, but powerless if not clicked in place




your turmoil.

solve your strife.

love your stains

take care and be well