He sits on the porch and listens to thunder
Roll on in the distance as darkness envelops
The world that surrounds him,
Which is normal enough-
It's eight in the p.m.-
And there's nobody
Really that eager to see him.
He's a mess and a half, or maybe three-quarters,
His life is in shambles and he's well aware;
The scariest part's that he don't seem to care.

There aren't any predators out for his hide;
Well, save for one, from which he can't hide.
You'd think without worry he'd find time to soar-
But he's stuck in a house built only of doors-
Doors that all open and work perfectly fine,

But on them he just hangs pictures of people and completely forgets
that the doors are doors
and that the floors are floors
and he rests his stupid head down on the floorboards
as his house is not furnished;

it's empty and bare...

save for out on the porch

where sits only a chair.

Had a hunch for lunch,
And as I heard the crunch
Of the hunch
It hit me like a punch-
With the hunch came a bunch
Of realizations-
Filling my mind
With epic sensations-

Will it behoove me to follow it's path?
Or should I remain stagnant, like water in the bath...

Fuck that-
Stagnation will render you hollow-
Don't have to be that one
But pick one to follow.

Alright then-
I'm ditching my compass-
I'm off on this hunch,
But before I go-
I think I'll have lunch.

God damn mother fucking son of a whore's father fucking niece.
Piece of shit cunt slashing triple dog dick suck fuck the Virgin Mary in her Virgin Ass.
Pass the blood around in a goblet and sip so that you might not give a shit.
Hit your mother; hit your wife; hurt your family; but don't touch the animals...
They don't deserve it.

I pray for nightmares to take me away
From this place I dwell.
I pray for a greater pain to act-
To distract-
In fact-
I don't pray at all-
I just fall...

Let down like a (metaphor)

On this mild night.

Surely not a wild night-

Physically speaking-

Internally tweaking-

Shrieking, speaking in one tongue,

For that's all I have-

And I feel as though it should be removed for what it said today...

Clumsily written this poem probably is-

Clumsily smitten I very well might be-

But that's okay-

Because I don't think I give a fuck

Anyway.

As I stare at the wall,
I can't tell if reality is setting in
Or slipping away...

You stole my little heart.
I know you did;
I saw you take it.
I watched as you cut me open
And removed the pulsating muscle.
You thought I was asleep,
But I let you take it.
I thought that if anyone should have it,
That person should be you.
So do with it as you please...
But I hope that you keep it near you.
It's served me well over the years,
And it's also proven to be a real bitch at times.
But it will keep you warm.
That I can guarantee.
Enjoy.

I would like a double-shot of espresso, please.

How would you like that, sir?

In a syringe, if you don't mind.

Coming right up.

the wait.

Would you like a tourniquet with that, sir?

No thanks. I've brought my own.

Enjoy.

~

After I'd found the vein, I stared into the syringe

Before plunging the needle in.

The beautiful brown...

I pressed the plunger ever so slightly and watched

As the drop slid down the shaft.

I thought to lick it - licked it.

Pricked my tongue.

However, it was of little consequence.

Any pain present within would be subsiding shortly.

In goes the needle;

Out go the lights.

As I was driving home today,
I disturbed a crow in the road.
It was feasting on the carcass of
Some small mammal,
And as I drove by,
It flew to the side of the road
As not to get hit by my truck,
And as I passed,
I said to it,
"Carrion."

The words from your mouth act as the most fertile soil
I can possibly find
To fill
This hole that's present in me.

The vital nutrients that can be found within
When observed closely
Under
A microscope...

Kindness; Compassion; Intelligence; Humor;
All working in unison to create a
Concert which helps me
Compose my (p)rose

And nobody knows.

As the month of February draws to a close,
I look back on how dismal a month it's been for me.
Now, February is typically my least favorite month of the year,
Meteorologically speaking,
But personal problems almost always find a way
To add insult to injury during this
Stunted funked up month.

The perpetual cloud cover matches
My mind,
As the pleasant and unpleasant coil,
Intertwined.
The inquisitive, favorable nature I bear
Seems to pack up and vanish as if into thin air.

Let's recap.
Let's not.


Well then.

I'm growing quite tired of girls who aren't you.
It's bitter and cold; however, it's true.
Creating escapes is what I must do;
Escapes to the places where thoughts aren't like glue.

A cigarette burns at the tip of my lips
As I sit here and write this while coming to grips
With the fact that I'll never be blessed by your lips
And I burn like my cigarette, stuck in my lips.

The ashes they fall on my shirt nonchalant
As I hope and I pray for a mental détente,
But commanding my mind is an ill commandant
Who is ever-salacious; forever in want.

For some,
There's no escaping the daily grind;
Only the inexplicable tortures which plague the mind.
For others, however, there's a blooming gap
Which presents itself
In the form
Of a nap.

How simple a pleasure;
An enchanting endeavor.
Those words do not rhyme,
Though I do not care,
For I've just awoken and tainted the air;
Clouds of tobacco smoke poison my lair.

A dream lingers briefly so I jot it down.
Angels from heaven appear -
Oh the sound!
An orchestra plays something I've never heard;
It's hauntingly beautiful -
Mildly absurd.

A box pushed its way to the surface through dirt
And inside the box is a sparrow;
It's hurt.
I do what I can
To help it to heal,
But a cat comes along and decides it's a meal.

"I know you're a cat, and that's what cats do,
But wouldn't you say you were just a bit rude?"

It replies in baritone, southerly voice,
"I am what I am and I hadn't a choice.
I'm driven by instinct,
As you may not be;
However, these feathers
Taste curiously..."

The cat then exploded;
Its innards now out.
That bird was a bomb,
I haven't a doubt.

but whenever I'm presented with an object
capable of causing harm,
I can't help but envision myself
utilizing it in ways most unpleasant.

In the kitchen when I'm preparing a meal--
the knife enters my throat.
In the yard when I'm wielding the chainsaw--
the blade enters my throat.
When I grip the pistol and point it down range--
the bullet enters my throat and exits through the cerebellum.

Yet, I've never once attempted to take my life or even
threatened to do so for attention;
but that's really not my style.
Perhaps these thoughts are perfectly normal...

yeah, for a guy who hates his fuckin' life.

The nights often grow cold where I live,
So I try and do what seems logical--
Build a fire.
I hastily take to the darkness in search of kindling--
Success!
The storm from last night seems to have littered the ground with
Dead branches large and small.
I'm unfamiliar with this type of tree, however...
But it seems quite promising.
I do hope it burns well.
Back in my cabin, I find the smaller sticks break with ease,
And the larger pieces split at my command without hesitation;
I then proceed to load the stove and fire it up.
All has gone according to plan--
Save for one minor detail...
Despite my efforts to further stoke the blazing inferno,
It produces no heat.
The warmth of my excitement from finding the wood
And subsequently constructing the fire has now subsided and I'm left with a
Beautiful orange flame which - no matter how hard I try -
Can never fully satisfy.

Ham sandwiches remind me of the days gone by
When I'd fly out the door to kiss the lips of glass
That would always kiss back; a kiss to get me high
Quite literally speaking, sneaking out the window
Just to do it again, sometimes I'd forge a pen with a nut
So what, yeah I've had the plastic in my lungs
But I'm climbing up the rungs with a quick two skip,
Slip n hit my chin on the rung labeled "dedication"
Forever changing stations in this ADD society we livin in today, pass it back or go away, ham sandwich.

Regarding some thoughts on a talk
moments prior,
I outline some traits for a date
I require.
If passion trumps fashion
we're off to a start,
And art is another way into my heart.
It doesn't seem fair to care
about age;
Those dastardly digits depicting a cage.
Which ain't to declare I'd pair with
a minor;
Save for maybe an E,
Since I'm such a G.

I digress and confess, if you'd like it
much clearer,
For all you've to do is to look
in the mirror.

December 31st of twenty-eleven;
Wound up in a place not so much like heaven.
No celebration - just cards and some chess,
Reflecting on how I got into this mess.
I must confess, I thought it'd be worse;
Violence and rape followed up with a hearse.
But my inmates were kind, despite their transgressions;
Most of them hauled in on counts of possession.
Fiends all around me, missing their dope;
Counting the days with a glimmer of hope.
It made me depressed, though I could relate;
Recounting the highs and how now they abate.
As I lay in my cell on that cold wintry eve,
I found it a bit easier to believe
That I fucked myself dearly, right in the ass;
But I mustn't forget that this too shall pass.