Dreamhouse

Refusal of a farewell to picket fences.

Adjusting the metrics of memory to compensate for loss.

Exclude present thought for a dreamhouse fit for ghouls;

a past fit only for dolls.


Dressed up in expectations expired,

luring in for discovery with bright walls and passion calls,

visiting rooms of unborn embodied by industrial recollections.

Current views through the mirror scrape off the paint.

Relevancy infuses disease into the bones of a home.


Out of state to the rhythm of children’s footsteps

as they rove about a dreamhouse fit for ghouls;

inhabitants fit in a vision of us

that died in a closed door,

severed phone conversations;

hurried steps from the imaginary.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dissected Attention Span

Hers was a fatal nothing.

Stretched across to negate awareness,

a back is pressed to the wall,

scratched delicately with fingernail signals.

Savored sensation

absent of substance;

inundation through imagination,

searching for more in laughter than reaction.

Caressing impressions ethereal,

mere mites on a mind

lacking conscious form to compose itself,

registering desire in tandem with attention,

in purgatory perpetual,

undermined in persistence.

The foe is an unspoken encirclement,

existent in the air between bodies

so meticulously intertwined

without ever been close from the start.

The Villain Has a Butterfly Net

On a proper dose,

I’m blinking through the fogged windows,

having clarity when viewing the shapes of your arms

and the damage done by a scavenger’s talons.


Left scratched up in the far side of the ward,

there wasn’t a phone ringing.

Despondently turned towards the infinite blankness of white walls,

you brushed your fingers across my palm

and swore this had to be forgotten,

and if there were any vultures peaking under the door,

the story that’d come out would clip away your wings.


Shaking in an unstable state,

I felt I turned to paper in the plea you made,

softly resting on the tiles without a heart of gravity.

Peering through the spyglass of a drained capsule,

I saw you as the pen writing the narrative out;

two shattered bottles of ink embracing in the crash,

focusing thought to bring a solid out of a melting dream.


Yet in a flash that reflects back to me from the black,

a carnivore’s face is bursting through the hospital,

and his blazing eyes are locked into your stare.

Yet in a flash that reflects back to me as I tremble,

I spy ten thousand lies described on the shadows dwelling on my face.

We could trade our scars for a chance to pass the stars.

I’d tear and twist the fabric of our foes

to build the escape that’d see us careening out of step,

but so dangerously alike in the limp that plagues our wrists.


I couldn’t promise then if the door was wide enough.

I couldn’t promise then there’d be no letting go.

I couldn’t promise then and I can’t promise now,

but I’d wish more than anything to take you home.

Nurse the power left in those beating wings.

There’s a chance in space where spinning out is ever closer.

For this, I’d charge through debris with you,

further every mile away from the sway of a vulture’s preying.


On a proper dose,

I see the handle turning

as you take a plunge outside.

It was as if I never knew you.

( ❤ Mitch)

Affection in the Age of Wiring

A brightness permeates in a shadowed room.

Another sleepless twilight beckons from beside the bed.

The next flash could be a sign.

The next flash could be a chance.


Sound pierces a quieted space past midnight’s hour.

The morning crawls into view a second too soon.

I’ve yet to rest when sleeping on a cliff’s edge.

I’m waiting for the next message you’ll never send.

( ❤ Mitch)

Every Win is a Loss

Dip me into a bed of snakes and I promise I’ll breath fire.

These worries will not survive another calendar page.

I’m at the task with nothing to ask,

only for a bridge between

to map out the continent we’ve come to create

with an arm linked up beside its holder.


Is it enough

to hold a marching people afloat?

Is it enough

or should I wait for an answer?


Thrown to the pack of wolves from your rage,

I’m taking teeth marks to drop your rapier

as you’re taking a fable out of rock,

willing to lay down upon a could-have been

for the would-have been have done their work,

and the lifeboat you’ve seen across in my sea is deflated:

False hope to a dreamer.


Is it enough

to guide you towards me?

Is it enough

to guard a speared self?


I’m here waiting for an answer as you’ve gone.

I’m down here waiting for an answer as you’re scrambling up the canyon edge.

If you’re calling then your voice is too distant to hear.

If you’re calling then I can’t see any lips moving.


At the flames I’ve beckoned I saw fear running

and thought it was fair enough to call it enough,

yet all I see is a cracked gray,

encasing memories around it,

and all I see is dried

into scars that surround me.


And I have severed hands,

laced with the single stress

that if you’d go to battle for me

there’d be no fire from your mouth,

and I don’t think you’d be there at all.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dante Didn’t Go Far Enough

Tell it again

exactly how it’s planned

from forearm to cheek bone,

where you’ll lay down an empire of stone,

buried into skin’s fabric

where razor edges cannot grant escape

and a heavy touch comes a weighted reminder.


I watch you sink deeper in my dream hell

poking a pitchfork from floors below

to prod the anxiety to action,

prompting inaction at the doorstep,

seeing a blank parking lot

and the only path taken by its population of you and me,

as I got along a separate way

drinking in the fear of my dream hell

as a disrobed obsession rings the bell,

guiding her off on an odyssey temporary,

providing nothing to chance.


Pulling the plug out of urgency

to drain the pooling jealousy,

knowing now how it’s planned

from frozen toes to ruffled hair

where you’ll construct an empire of stone,

tucked into nooks beyond reaching,

all feeding the nervous engine to splutter

in the depths of my dream hell.


Lurking low in lost landscapes,

it’s an eternal calling card

of a sinking, sad fantasy.

( ❤ Mitch)

Closed-Heart Ventriloquism

We stopped talking about the blaze.

Kicking about in the ashes,

scattering remnants of once-proud timber,

we eliminated all mention about it.

It tracked on the carpet.

Soot stained the sheets.

A day’s shine could clean for a time,

but the thought proved braver than ignorance.

We stopped talking about it,

yet we know it will never leave.

Unfortunate, to be the Fault

To fail forwards on a single message,

I am wed to be at beck of your convenience,

my expectations consequential to your command.

And in tracing steps in rubble,

no footprints match your own in dust and discard,

as if I were but a passenger to this obedience.

Outlined in rags is where my reflection lies

when understood in the veins of your demand,

crawling to craft snow angles out of fragments.

Failing ever far forward for futile fables,

I am awed by the absence of convenience

when my own messages are unheard.

You’re Officially Yesterday’s News

On the other side of reflected frames,

I’m wondering if my body is stood where it’s seen

or if I’ve been caught in a wake’s drift,

tugged into somewhere seen in imagination alone

where there are coffee stains on the table and soft lighting,

laughing out strings of stories from unchecked time

as two travelers color in empty frontiers kept hidden in passing years.


From a seat at the table,

I’m wondering if you’d open to see the opposite end of an eyeglass,

or if a locked edifice would be the lasting impression I’m to be given.

Performing a manic dance simply for that tangible glance sneaking out of reflected frames,

the rhythm played out to an expired tune damned off a heartbeat’s radio,

humming dully to the pace of an accelerated rate;

the same graces I learned copying your ballet,

where I’d brush against and feel a key slip into my breast.


The clutter in my pocket’s rusted to an indecipherable mess,

and in its indifferent stare there was I likeness I feared to see,

as if my body was stood in the palm of my hand

but my mind was bailed into a life boat,

coasting on the edges of Bermuda to find truth in a dead end,

scouring myths for reason when the facts are confined to numbers,

and in between the odds and evens is an eternal gray where no answer reaches.


Where to would you have me tap on your memory?

On the other end of reflected frames,

are you to block me off the stage

with the diminishing reverberations of our tangled skin the sole ring?

Are you to push my body back to where its mind rests,

nestled in the embers of a soothing remembrance,

where any hint of your looking my way feeds the coals?


I’ll tend to this camp until the monitor is out of tune.

I’ll try to shake the debris out of my head.

Your rhythm remains trapped inside.

( ❤ Mitch)

Choreographed a Step Out of Time

Take me to task on the chin,

whispering “what do I owe you?” through chipped teeth.

I’ll tend to the debt I’ve incurred,

reset the balance that’s brought you swinging

if only to keep the calm when you’re around.


Drag me aside to scream my confidence away,

blaming for what I’ve owed when my pockets are empty,

but I leave feeling full of liability.

Break it down to paper and the parallels will defy themselves

for the signals I’ve positioned so to pour on your pride.

That’s the story that’s told for when I sour your insides.

Must have been a fault of mine.


This room becomes the surface of the sun in a poor glance;

a wasted chance to connect

turned to a faded memory to file away in our biography,

the ending typed into the beginning and repeated every page,

but I felt something different in the first sentence,

and when I fumbled over the punctuation and delicate language,

I called it nerves in the presence of a praised critic,

their beauty demanding performance akin to Hercules,

slaying that which came in the way to prove an unself-worth.


The time when you bent me over the t’s and the spikes of the i’s,

I called it a pleasure to be in the arms of a grace,

sensing attachment never picked before,

guising the aches in my veins as a bond to fight for.


Coming into myself means coming into you,

and I shake in soaked clothes from a redirected storm,

bruised lips asking “what do I owe you?” to a brick wall.

Indifference shines back.


It feels like the best bad dream,

in the presence of an absent hand,

hoping to earn its fingers.

The only cost is whoever I am,

left limping off to sunsets without a triumph to blare;

only the impassive sun’s glare.

I call it a love and all I’ve managed to deserve.

I’ve only ever wanted to call it a friend.

( ❤ Mitch)