The Bright Smoke of Jetlag, Tumbling

Awoken by the bare minimum, run amuck, a chorus of chrysanthemums falling from the ceiling with one eye star struck. Cool and quiet, the sound of wrecking ball nausea in cause-and-effect scenarios, a story board caught up by falling to someone else's knees.

And please, you're fucking with my brain much more than you have to. These flowers, odd and ugly, remain oblivious oblivious and unsteady.

And you're wanting more. The appeal of tragedy. The provocation of regret. And destruction.

This is not Romance. This is death.

The bump of a moth will break your neck, the slowly arching evil of resentment a claustrophobic wreck. "Take care of me take care of me until there's nothing left!" emptying your mouth into paper rolled tight.

Standing strange and uncomfortable by the mailbox while Catherine yells over me. I'm receiving letters of thick disgust to add to the pile, like the mountain of trash on my doorstep. Like the slow rotting of elegant empires. Like disappointment creeping in. The realization that not all is well 

barricades itself in your office. And writes photographs into your ceiling and into your chrysanthemum heart.