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2 Poems

The Roommate


all the calls bounce off the unemptied inbox stacked sallow yellow papers creep in sheafs beneath the door undivided attention absolute solitude are of utmost import at this stage much maintenance is needed to sustain this stasis this routine is demanding of my steadfastness of devoting time that i plait your matted hair to bind the slipping strands in place scraping behind your molars with this brittle copper screw the swapping of your shirt at intermittent intervals replacing the towels below the mattress catching seeping sap and greywater pooling stagnant amongst the recalcitrant box springs whimpering i no longer smell our room as much as i feel it worming underneath my collar viscous congealing beneath my nails for sustenance stale bread ground daily through your calcifying jaw an endless intravenous drip of sprite and battery acid blistering light may touch but a sliver of marred hardwood should the rays consume your skin gaunt flesh swelling requiring your careful rotation an inch counterclockwise every sixteen hours then entertainment consisting of your decomposing sweat soaked mid aughts skinemax podcasts about love island considering this diligence  inherently necessary means within your end begging eventual resurrection by this severe enough prompting sufficient pressing prodding a birdcage a fishhook an amputation a deadline there’s been enough lying prone already you were supposed to win the emmy by now the group chat is waiting and they’re livid


           


ludwig ii


i thought to paint him

back—at neuschwanstein, his crown

limestone, prussian blue


solvent coaxing starnberg from

his lungs, the hilltops verdant


impression revives

the fairytale, drawing him

new breath, old lovers


opera, the stablehand, 

the prince of thurn and taxis


returned affections

not predicated upon

plain conformity


reconstituting the man,

his eternal enigma


and yet, they still look

upon the swan only through

the rifle’s harsh scope


these brutal inclinations

towards what they cannot know


an intolerance

to the ink in the water,

the obscured keyhole


his pursuit of seclusion

is not one to be trusted 


demanding answers

of each who would imagine

an alternative


for still this is a world of  

dreams made inhospitable 


architecture fails

the theatre’s barred the entrance 

tristan dies once more


pigments are muddied by dust;

i cannot reach the canvas



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