dont you wish you had those nights back? the ones you paid rent for, but didn't stay? / by D.M. Jerman

don't mention the fog.
bring silk instead into the bed.
the place where our minds could be.
don't lean against the doors
when you could be under the covers.


coming like a message
hemorrhaging pink under Venus.


From the wide windows, sky.
A view of the high elec cables sine wave.
Cigarette ash in the upturned beer bottle cap.

Clean wide brown
paint brushes dried and
Three in a clear jar with a wide mouth.

Glass tarnish
shimmy the light back toward
crumpled paper and crumb tatters
of gold leaf.

Sunset falls,
long and final
over the worktable.


Those times when
deja vu
doesn't feel like anything
other than a wave
of extreme perfection?

I feel that
every day
around you.

Cloudy Tuesday. Rainy warmth hangs in the air like a deceptive blanket. the threatening insulator.
I went into a tea shop and drank white tea. Slow, and with air. It provided a stillness and a clarity that let me see colors and hear the city sounds with more purpose. As in a film. The cinema of my mind is vast. It makes me smile! It swirls inside me and spreads peace... or maybe it's sloth instead? My movements feel sluggish as if I was just aroused from rest.
The end of December. Already the bright retainer of spring thrusts itself into view. It is about to be deceived but it doesn't care. Even in deference, it is grateful.
People go out to breath heavy. Boys and girls move their bodies to music. Whatever becomes the light in them?

The board. The larder. The pantry. Empty.
Almost completely. I don't mind the look of it, all individually wrapped crackers and box of cereal with one bowl left.
I cannot eat the sound of my drum being played. I cannot unspin a curtain into spaghetti.
Coffee plays an uncertain cadence over my heart.
I dated a caffeine addict whose cum tasted like the coveted roasted cherries of that naughty insurgent bean. The grit and the flower of its taste. Pressed like saliva from bark. Rain run-off juice from a washed city. Burned rebel-drink. A bad substitute for prunes.
It's a thing that makes a tummy feel more empty after awhile. Hungry for grease.
I cannot whip toothpaste into eggs, over hard. I cannot breathe and take in the air like milk. I must fill myself another way.