that we'd become smoke

that we’d become smoke

I could burn the taper

of a flame

for every hour

we wasted

and the whole world

would be masked by

titanic waves

frozen and entrapping

millions in a turtleneck

of wax. Nobody,

he’s dead. and all the rest

entomb Nobody’s body

in the clearest crest

and when we gaze at

No One contorted across his tomb

I think of us

and your desert cracked lips

so I rub my fingers

along Nobody’s sepulcher

until the pads are moist

and slather my own thin mouth

because I cannot reach across

from where I am stuck, waist deep

in front of Nobody,

to slap it on your face.

Instead we should forget

that we were wicks

that we were still

that we were tall and slender

that we believed to burn

to be intoxicating enough

that we’d become smoke

that we’d float among constellations

and laugh when we looked up

Orion’s manly skirt.

But we melted with the wax

and are stuck

pretending to ignore the other

though each our flame shines

brightest. 

©2014 Lex Vex

what the rope on that tree saw

what the rope on that tree saw

gravity lulled the swing back

the swing of greying board

the fraying rope on the

right, discolored and cold

was no twin to the twine

of the left

hand side

she dangled

limp and gaunt

left to haunt the hanging tree

the day the broker moved

into the tree’s backyard

he laced his hands

in burlap and

tossed a line into deep fog

in surprise the line grew

taught and the rope

wound like witches fingers smelling

of ivy and gingersnaps

she beckoned and her wolfhound sang

so he took the line

and he took the swing

and snipped the seat

in the wind the rope’s hair

unfurled and when broker’s happy feet

blended over each

other he tripped up vertical

his toes dangling and

the careless twine

cleaved against her weight

to hold another lover

aloft with molted wings

when it was done

and another broker

moved into the backyard

the splayed fingers of rope

were forced to prayer

and she bore another child. 

©2014 Lex Vex

Schrodinger's Voicemail

Schrodinger's Voice-mail

the girl next door tap tap
taps on her screen
judgement pours through me
when my own
buzzes on my thigh

my blood turns
the light of stars through each vein and artery
diffuses the nector
of the spider leaving me
cold

how am i supposed to know
if the static electric
of my phone
is joy buzzer
or taser?

it's like you know
when you phone
and their voice
cascades through your palms
which really are sieves tactile and misplaced

It's only when the voicemail litters your mailbox,
and you wait, poisoned by
the serpent of caller I
D that i realize
i wait with Schrodinger's voicemail


at the bottom of the stairs
when bell's voice has died
an art department atrocity
stares vacantly in sloppy voyeurism
as my finger fails to linger on the delete key

If I never press the play
button
I will feel
your veins are still
the flavor of fresh gasoline

©2014 Lex Vex

Goodnight Moose

As a side note,
Formatting this was a douche
and a half.







































©2014 Lex Vex

a flah khu uff foe neem es