Sounds with rythem, like the gritting of paper
whistling inside a typewriter
    helps me to drift, with a needle
pricking the beholder
    of a field, prairie, graveyard
a girl won't leave my sight
    I hear her eyes tuggle with mine
slipping through doors with a definite pitch from the lighthouse
    return,
all words edit the deceased
    plucking and pulling
plucking
pulling
moans from heaven's sexual expansion
expanding to finger's manifest
with white grapes along the block walls
      A rider yields to submit identification on a bareback branch
kissing a white flag
    A doctor grabs my balls and tells me to cough
A prostitute grabs my balls and tells me to stand
A cigarrette tags the engraved seamen on a Roman Candle
asleep with an alarm and child play things
junk and a blade
whispering plastic
Editors are trying to catch me
perhaps I should navigate them to a glass screen
Watchman's theme
lacerated triangles
spoilt cream
footsteps and a ruptured grin
damaging a perfect sin
please dig a crippled dream
indisclosable relapse
of another small thing

                                  CAN'T SLEEP
                                     THEY'RE HERE