To his beloved by Christopher Anodyne

Oh dear god, must I generalize?! Must I?!

Everything here is monochrome.
She left,
and took the color with her.
And the pigments
in the pavement
marking her impatient
pacing
are fading
much slower than I am.


the elusive cause for the gut in your gulliver

people
only chase
dreams.
their ideals,
and their
saviors.
you can look ahead,
to a future dimly
lit.
where fog has the
thickness of a cloud.
you can look behind you,
where clarity has became synonymous
with burden, and hope, loss.
You can look to your sides,
where all things becoming, become
undone or run headstrong into
the mist ahead.
Where you'd have to look
to grasp ahold of whatever peace
isn't fleeting or getting married (or
divorced; that which is broken refuses
repair if it is too profusely aware
that the
harmony it once knew
has been discontinued).

ah, but no one is chasing you.
from your side, from behind,
from ahead,
no one is coming.

Sans the poem


Christopher looks in the mirror.
He looks at his dick.
Christopher cleverly
refers to the object
euphemistically.
Christopher speaks
in himself, honestly,
hoping for the flesh hanging
there like the carcass of a
once free floating
balloon
to one day soon
be used for the loveliness of a woman.
Christopher mentions
something about hopelessness
and it being invalid,
but inevitable.
Christopher
shrinks life down to size
for love to exist.
Christopher considers
some woman.
Christopher considers all women.
Christopher writes a love letter in his
head.
Christopher wants to tell her
something.
Christopher says he weeps once
considering she won't even listen to him.
Christopher makes his pain far greater than it is.
And Christopher says so.