consolecadet

I have you trapped in amber now. All you wanted was to leave, Stop the hurt. All you did was send it flying. I was a cockroach. Were you?

Even though The grass is plastic The dirt is plastic These boys still run the old fashioned way As peasants did in the Middle Ages Toe first, in leather shoes Toe first, As the body intended Toe first, As they did in Athens Barefoot In the rain

Nothing much is here Red Naugahyde on the booths in the old-time ice cream store at the end of the block A five-and-ten Wires falling out the back of a traffic control box Inside, we cook We don’t clean We don’t talk or touch each other Outside, I climb the big tree, The biggest tree The tree I always feared would fall Nothing much is here

no noble willow bending taking kindly the counsel of the years no big-haired flower turning to face the sun no sinking orbital star the numb pain-cold of your youth so simple to the knives of windchill caressing your body now remember the summer you threw your back out putting in the air conditioner? you lay there in the too-cool room crying into your pillows for days scared it'd be that way forever but knowing your next appointment could cure you remember that summer you drove everywhere? you really thought you would stay well forever there is no graceful surrender even with the sunrise beside your partner you are older every

staying in, because you have work to do, even though you've been writing about conventional people, ex-public-schoolers, who go to parties and drink, not to excess but just for fun, who you might understand, sometimes, in your dysfunctional little way staying in, getting your free ice cream and then coming right back, reading the whole time, taking a shuttle bus seat next to a four-year-old black girl with glasses who can't stop staring at your astronomy textbook coming right back, even though you have been seeing people with bags from the new department store have been talking to your sort-of-friend, who you took pictures of wr

she calls you worthless without knowing she is they call you home without knowing they are hole unholy whole

furtive in the cafeteria out by the crab apple tree startling at passing headlights taking the 80 bus the opposite direction as usual to get antiseptic and shears at Sally's 90s zine style sign small stack of 20s Ziploc bag of Reese's Pieces tall glass Dollar Tree jar full of scissors and combs you just can't keep your big mouth shut, can you

eight years on you and I have more in common than you might imagine we both like the red hot chili peppers we were both little gay boys, only I didn't know it only you didn't know it eight years on, I wonder if you ever remember pulling my hair

A cup is just a cup until it's the last cup that she touched, and a car is just a way from a to b until it's the way that she arrived at z. A picture in a frame is lovely to see, even if only ever viewed in the background, passively, but when the image locks in place the last smile on her face then your grief turns to regret for the memory trapped beneath the glass. An old pair of slippers, tucked neatly beside the door, stepping over every time you cross the threshold, until the day when you have to toss those old things away and they are as heavy as anchors and more treasured than diamond. A scent that fills your head, the comfort of a f

Yesterday afternoon, I invited the part of me that holds Adam in for a few drinks and now, I know why the chair in the front room creaks apologies from its black leather. I heard it in a dream that happened in the mocha-colored room of the 1973 House and still, I cannot recall why I slept there or what the bed sheets taste like. Do I always smile like my brother, or really, only like Adam? Tell me the shape of Adam’s Body, please, since I can only gather his entire tongue and even that spills from my mouth. The time I couldn’t move fast enough, he blamed me for the fire and all the fire took and the time I spilled coffe

this pearl is no treasure, no perfect shining sphere of silently contained fear, idly awaiting ruin this pearl is no treasure, only a dull aggregation of awkward answers to questions unasked this pearl is no treasure, just a clenched fist of hope, an ode to obscenity, a surrender to mystery and dismantled dreams.

one. you cannot stop him from leaving. chances of him leaning towards someone is likely. men don't lean unless there is something to catch them. you could risk it and give them a push, watch them bust their face on the floor, nothing to cushion. or you could wait. maybe he isn't leaning. maybe there's some inanimate thing that captivates him. an idea. a story. paint mixing videos on Instagram. a historical site in Derbyshire. that is likely. it is also likely that it is a body. a she. a he. it has legs with a sweet spot between. it moans his name. two. accept that bodies only stagnate in death. temperatures fluctuate, pulses fluctuate, and