My name is a hiss of paper torn. It’s goodness shred by livid pulse, so
Choose for me my narrow future. You who’ve caught my wrists in rings.
My legs may well be smashed below the knee. I’ll walk no world away.
Since woozy coalescence I am a thief attached to living souls, and
I burned my tongue to leather on the iron sweet skin of dissonance.
These days since, the morning resembles a swallowed whole light bulb.
I’ll stay running my wheel until the crackle sends me twitching, curled out on roadside.
It’s just okay to sleep in the belly of murder ‘til screaming free and storm birth to bleed.
Now I’m hooked to the one-way table. My mirror eyes
To you flat death as heads of hammered nails. Through these I see you.
My skin is cold. My teeth. I see you fidget on the strings of uncomfortable heart.
Blood vessels burst in my conscience. It was spring I stole out among the lambs.
Regular filth of a curious hunger played through fields flirtatious with dawning horror.
After dinner I’ve took a soul into havoc or simply driving off knotted with patience.
My skin is shattered lacquer dragged on dirt and though I did kill life
It was all to stir the cream with blackest ink and poison me too.
Young I could slide my whole arm down a man’s throat and pull his stitches from within.
Tonight I am a jackal skinned and salted, hissing funny with my eye in your socket.
You poisoned sad with stoning veins,
I dream of you in morning street
With angry hair, with open teeth
And drinking meat in concrete shade.
How lonely you to bleed your song
While heaps of buzzards crowd the way.
My hungry touch across the stage
Elaborates our hidden flaws.
So nude to quiet flash of dawn,
We swallow almonds with our eyes.
In barbershops we drowned alive,
And woke so bald our eyes turned blonde.
The empty weather of my face
Found ping to your bent Avalon.
Soft roses swim beneath my tongue
How you decide to kneel and quake.
Our touch is pigment skim on sea.
We part with stones into the tide.
We stay two songs in different time,
Though felt a phrase in harmony.
We have been alone and I love you
Under watery darkness with clear gone silence,
my eyes are slowly open and the illusion remains.
Animals speak without moving and
visions dissolve to silt, we are
the river growing still.
We are patience into stone.
My soul is flecks of sweat sent hissing through the fire,
weakness I hope will pour off abandoned-
you are behind me alone,
no longer breathing.
My fingers close on conversations of snow,
our bodies run off through the bitter cold
surrounded by brittle and sour words, acidic pitiful.
There is no great clarity here to slit your wrists.
We search for miles but cannot remember the world.
I don’t know. I don’t know
what we want.
Wrapped in leaves, bodiless and apart from life
and real sounds of living echo the way
with fossils of movement my fading sorrowful eye.
We don’t speak but stand naked and drowsy
seventy years apart and dying.
The waves close over our shaking heads
but I feel no commitment
to the vain charade
I’ve been here and wandered through distastefully.
I’ve been trying to reach you
with knotted strings and dust.
This moment remains alone, only.
I squat in the empty road
where ghosts circle a thin white bone,
soft murmuring hands, my blood shakes.
Our bodies are glass
which shimmers like water, darkly
and we disappear into each other
with hands outstretched and
charcoal blood, shut eyes sticky
with chance and doubt.
Kyle Trujillo lives in Seattle, Washington with their partner and two cats. Between writing, they arrange and perform leftfield electronic music as ‘Uncanny Dandelions’. Since 2017 their poems have appeared in both print and digital formats, most notably with Unlikely Stories Mark V and Genre: Urban Arts. Kyle recommends the Sex Workers Project.