Binary Love

Galactic dust bunnies

accumulate in arabesque forms around my feet.

Physicists in aseptic coats all know, what I wish I knew sooner:

“the structure of a brain cell is identical to the entire universe”

and I want to cry more than tears: blood, bile & bone.

The one dream I do remember,

is the one with the clock made of chocolate.

Can you imagine the watchmaker’s molten eyes

when I mentioned confectionary time?

I gawk and marvel at the stratosphere of human life

around my damned body,

The corporeal, pink flesh that means everything on this holy earth

and the celestial forensics of love & grounded passion

that mean next to nothing without it.

I know how arresting we can be.

And one day I will ice-skate in my bathtub

forging seraphic crop circles around your naked body,

covered in soap bubbles, which are dying

the most

beautiful

quietus.

We are, too.

Verisimilitude

If any one thing breaks too many times

It will eventually turn into ash.

Glue, not even spit on my Grandma’s handkerchief,

will fix it.

Having a belly button means

that someone during some moment

loved you very much,

they did.

Lets all fill up our minds

so we may hum like

six billion vanity-mirror light bulbs.

The hands on a clock

frown and molt like petals.

More seconds bounce, like fleas.

And that one boy with ice-cream sundae eyes

who is embossed inside my fleshy aperture, evermore.

The metal in the mouth

removed from the auric heart.

Let go.

Oh and my vampire brain

that will never be allowed into

yours,

truly.

Milk Teeth

Only trust blood.

When I had my baby teeth,

There was no cherishing

the entire mouthful.

Not this maiden grin.

Now I just dote on the shiny white fangs

I once could wiggle out of,

grow out of.

What I would give to

endure the itchy feel of change

and this bodily accomplishment.

I close my eyes at night

and know I can't stop myself

in this theatrical pursuit.

There is no human mercy

for my spurious phantasm.

Holy Mackerel!

Every very person is a bit rotten.

The hedonism in me keeps my angels around

who never unlock me from the bed.

The muscles of destruction & decadence are easier to clench.

We're not gods or demi-gods or ecclesiastic fanatics.

We are men and women who wear hats and

call each other boo and say that Kafka is nice.

Laura is in Italy & I don't think she's coming back, it's sinister.

That's what Ginsberg said about Burroughs.

Except both are dead and we are not, but

I'm not too alive, either.

Lizzy is in a mental hospital

being cared for by Machines of Loving Grace.

I know, like she knows, like Laura knows, what no one knows:

Soon trees will come fully equipped with an integrated circuit system

and blossoming microprocessors.

The chrysanthemums will have an external hard-drive

and the vines, a proxy server.

My brain is cauliflower.

Death is far too

important to be left until the end.

Some say the world will end in fire,

others in ice.

I think it will end in mayonnaise.

Niko Sonnberger is twenty-three years old and has spent her life being a nomad. She speaks three languages, lived abroad for ten years and is currently acquiring a degree in filmmaking. Originally from the Czech Republic, she now resides in Hollywood juggling cinematography, poetry and sanity.