atti_norell's profile

last time i wrote a poem the sink spit me up, while my belt loops sat alone, waiting for the notches around my throat to let go. the footnotes at the bottom of my heart beat more readily, than the body of my work. i used to think it was poetry -before the lines turned themselves into a noose and haiku's that read like bullet points started to back fire, through the backsides of a few ambiguous water lines, that were just shallow enough for me to try and drown myself in. i used to think it was...

between the ambiance of melancholy and double bass guerrilla symphony- this suit of blooming dynamite with fusing cuffs -wears like an Armany tux. he painted his easel beneath a peace of shrapnel. croshea a civil signature: embroidered in braille fashioned entropy- by the threaded hairpin; he spits the quills to dot the eyes- and watch the kill. with a stroke of grenade -he's to be displayed against the age of reason, below the cranial splinter of amputee and misinterpretation. it was called ...

I take the path almost always traveled simply for the fact they're selling road maps, and throwing bread crumbs below the old tracks; but it seams as though this walk of life is growing stale, as I can't decipher the tread from gravel heads and rolling shale. a home I know only by ambiguity. and, I've got to find a better use for these forks- the taste of anxiety and metaphor are all I've had for the past four last suppers on the forest floor; washing down the taste of hypocrisy with skeletal...

A fragile silhouette slipped on something a little more comfortable- blanch silk wrapped in navy noose: this eulogy is beautiful. She lusts the touch, the stain I spill across her limbs; I'll tell her everything she wants to hear- because I wrote the book on us. This is love with dashed guidelines, margins, and pencil perfect nothings: my cursive serenade. This song makes better braille- but she knows that more than anyone. My little anything I want, welcomed to fold. I'd like to think us mor...