naktern

this year is.
& all at once, night and day, orange seats and soot, bowery and bedrooms, brooklyn and facepaint. paper bags. rooftops. car horns rising up canned and muffled from the street. fractures. snippets. summarize. like one of those nights. those nights, beyond fire-capacity sort of deal. near orgies where everyone's dancing and smiling and pressedd up so close and the music shakes your skin and there's hair in faces & over eyes and our clothes freeze stiff outside and sop off in sheets in the spring thaw, and the cabs are talking and the wheels are starting and the trains under our feet are rumbing louder louder like we're back inside, and there's in echo in our skulls that crosses rivers and train tracks, seeps into bedsheets and clings to aeroplane fins and stays with us as our bodies glide away and our brains stay back (for a moment) to make sure we remeber this night and these, and all the people we love, all wrapped up in eachother, all conch shells and dreams and webs, locks and things that fit together. & up here, i'm warm in my 10th floor world, looking out, the stuff below my feet (happening), its all windows and sky they're all out there (you, them, he is too), in one of those orange frames, painted in, asleep, all dreams and doorkeys, and joints and bones.

shh hear it?




ghost:machine.