flip the switch

fathom

a phantom:

smothered inside a fuse box –

flickering bulbs – kill her

watts.

flare electric

cobwebs into current,

burst spirals of

tungsten

under iridescent

surge –

expel ghouls & radiate

with a hum. 

aquiesce

whoartgos:

we rise like the
nascent breath
of a Polaroid,
grasping onto
life, and tiny
borders

all of my memories
are made in glass
   capture the past in
   snow in raining ash

we set like
the final flicker
of eyes, play at
loosened bulbs,
shatter as soon
as they’re accosted
by pavement

how fragile all of
this really is 

what’s that shit called

whoartgos:

traditions line my
bones, some steel
to reinforce my home
grown skeleton

   most wont rust,
   in the conflicted
   rains of early
   summer

   not this one,
   where we’re
   all the same
   as we ever
   were

wont stop
dying…

traditions are
the steel that
lines my bones,
gave me a name
among falling
shadows, the
search for vacant
time

   the right things
   never get left
   behind