There’s this ******* first shift and she’s ******* magic and won’t be mine because I’m trouble and I break ****, and she’s fragile and lovely.

She tells me she’s unstable and damaged and I could cry every night if I wasn’t so convinced I can get over this.

I half *** so much but I obey my emotions.

When she gave me her number I sang, “what if?”

When she asked if I was in an open relationship I thought, “I wish.”

When I was single, she came over and I whispered, “I just want this.”

However, I try to play it cool and send love subtly, but I’m a ******* and a *** and a loser and I can’t drown my sorrows in anything so they keep me up at night.

She came into my life like a hurricane and I was swept off my feet, but I made the conscious decision to be loving to her. I cut a hole out exactly her size and she kissed me on the lips and said no.

She got diagnosed with cancer again and decided to quit fighting and I want to kiss every inch of her and make her feel like she was always deserving of the best love someone could give.

I want to kiss every part of her skin and make her better again because she is the light of any room she’s in.

I want to kiss her, but I’m ***** from throwing myself in the gutter,

from trying to **** strangers,

from singing sad songs,

from losing more sleep every night,

from hurting people I love

and

hurting myself to hurt them more.


There’s this ******* first shift and she’s absolute magic and I loved her too soon.


She’s fading from the inside, out,

while I rot from the outside, in.

When I'm sad I read john cage,
Play a game, listen to jazz,
Watch a tutorial,
Watch the professionals,
Exist distracted.

I am a meat cleaver of a creature,
I am an old ******* and a ***.
I  am an adorable disaster,
A cute catastrophe.

I am...

Wearing a lot of yellow
To get through today.
Van Gogh ate yellow paint,
To be
Happy on the inside.

Make everything around you like Jazz.
Some variation of jazz;
Cowboy Bebop, 3rd Strike,
Folk Music, Dress in Yellow,
Moon Knight or Doom [PhD]?,
Zero, Coffee or Water,
Late night chinese food for dinner.

Sleep on floral patterns.
Flannel.
Hang Christmas lights inside.
White T-shirts.
Hello Kitty.

Feminism + Nihilism,
Ethnicity? Are you half black,
or
half white
?

Make everything around you Jazz,
or some variation, write music,
write a poem, try to move on.
Stay autonomous.
Keep teaching yourself.

I don't know, I guess.
I was trying too hard to be brilliant,
however, **** it I'm a genius,
and brighter than a million suns,
and they might never look at me,
but at least I'd know why.

Stay autonomous. Teach yourself.
Make everything some variation of jazz.

It seemed like a good idea.

We face the new cliches;
Hell is on earth and we keep it here,
we stand in it’s way.
Obstruct it’s path.

I am certain of very few things now

,but if anybody thinks a blank page makes
“4′33″ [John Cage],
they’re a ******* idiot,
because

If you’ve sat in silence in love
and sat in silence with demons,
and sat in silence in the rain,
or just outside it

You learn a little bit about silence.

You never thought to ask what was wrong with everyone else.

People are horrible, and we will tear you out of the sky,
just because you're above us.
We will push your face in the dirt, boots on your neck,
just to ensure you're beneath us.

You are perfect, and beautiful,
and when you were born all that was missin'
was a pair of wings so you could
fly above us all.

All the bums and shitbags and
silver tongued ******* with hearts like copper,
yet so close to gold.
We haven't got an idea what's up there where you are,
but you have every idea where we've been.

We weren't born with wings.
We had to make due.
We don't hate you,
we just learned to hate the sky.

Clouds are like thoughts passing by,
and so many are beautiful,
and so many hide lightning and rain,
and they **** all over us,
and they strike down on us without mercy.

I'm pretty sure I've killed a lot of things now;
Just shooting into the sky,
and picking up what fell down.
Pretending I'd saved something beautiful.

My life is tumultuous,
and I've never hurt myself so bad.
I seek a season for which I have committed this great,
great sin.

Without fear to guide me, I drift aimlessly.
Without skeletons in my closet,
I'd be alone.

To sin and sin again. I am not a good person.
I am not ready to be this good person
everyone tells me I am.
I suffer.
I bleed.
I cry.

My life is tumultuous.

They laugh meat out from between
their bloodied teeth,
and leave us to ponder this cliche;
"Hell is on earth."

Every day I sit in an ivory tower,
and press my pen to decadence;
live a life of ease.
Few sufferings.

When the ones who deserve what I have
come back to take it,
I will not fight.
I will ponder
new cliches;

"Hell is trying to leave earth,
and we stand firmly in the way."

To call this madness is no longer indignant,
nor would it be a cliche to call me;
Insane, mad, crazy, or wild.

I pilot a nightmare
at the speed of homicide
into the jaws of hell,
the heart of a storm.

My friends are jackals and demons,
With eyes glassy and trapped open.
Heartless as myself.
Howling vulgarities into the apocalypse,
laughing as they bleed
From the mouth.

With death as our bride, and
standing elbow to elbow with legends,
we bear gifts of iron and fire.
We scream into the sunset,
And we are immortal forever,
Even if we die every day.

Remember me this way,
as immortal forever,
Even if I don't see tomorrow,
For I am no longer
Flesh & bone
Steel & fire.

I am a legend.

With love,
Yellowjacket

No love.
You didn't believe in expressing your feelings plainly,
till you were crying vulgarities into someone's chest.
A strange cliche became something to accept, ordinarily.

"How the trip never stops", MC Ride is screaming,
"On and on, it's beyond insane."
Drowning out your thoughts was something
you only heard in music, or something your ex said
back in high school,
until you fell asleep with headphones and sunglasses on
blaring Death Grips.
"Choose this life, you're on your own."

"I never asked to be a hero"
Hanging your Moon Knight collection on your walls;
Cried to words written on a page for the first time.
You need to be loved by everyone,
and want to be loved by no one.
Understood the pressure and wrote every day,
wrote to be not the best, but just to return from your
fall from grace, to former glory.
"I never asked to be a hero, but I beg you;
Make me a hero again."

"Sono Teido?" = "Is that all you got?"
Studying frame data, unable to sleep.
Thought you had a calling, but you gave up.
Realized a hobby is only as good as it keeps you
busy from all the ******* you could be thinking of.
Good ******* to keep out the bad.
Chun-Li leaves her opponent with wise advice;
"Tameraibe Make yo" = "Hesitate and you will lose."

All you have to do is shine and be bright,
you'll be the type they want to take home.
However, angels didn't want me when I was young,
and they still observe for seconds at a time.
You press your palms into your eyes;
They pick you up for only a moment.
Didn't believe you could be heart broken.
Then they dropped you.

Came back from the dead without prayers.
Found your armor didn't make you a knight,
it made you a villain of the highest order.
Spoke in curses and sang a hex,
to banish your love to hell forever.
"I was a God, Valera", Doctor Doom spoke,
"I found it beneath me."

Found it after the fact. Three too many voices in your head;
Prodigal Son, Nihilist Prophet, Feminist Instigator.
Few believe so hard in something they've tried to erase.
Tried to ****, to smother, to maim, and finally, to nurture.
To give up, to recover, to come back, and decide you still believe.

You couldn't make anything happen with no love.

I hate myself for how fast I give up on things,
especially things that matter to me.
The way every moment seems singular
in time, space.

Gravity crashes in when I see you.
Your mouth is a graveyard
Each of the teeth in your smile,
a tombstone.
You say my name as if it’s
written in stone.
Carved.

I don’t think it gets better.
You feel increasingly mortal the more
they know you on a “first-name-basis”.
Working 8 hours a day doesn’t give you
the same distance anymore.
Everybody is doing something to get high,
get altitude, relief, waste their health,
except you.

Live your life like it’s the last.
Smile, for the illusions and lies they give you
are pillows on your death bed.
The courtesy you give others;
bury the truth.

To burn the skeletons in your closet.

Bury it six feet inside you.
Keep it deep in your stomach,
so that when you speak
only the crows come out.
Your tongue is the gravel path.
Lips, black iron gates.

Your smile is a graveyard.

Burn in the deep seat of your throat.
Ibuprofen in your sleep.
Naproxen sodium, whatever;
couldn't sleep so he daydreamed
all night.

A room with more than four walls.

Sprouted from the concrete
with resentment and defiance
in his DNA.
Double
Helix-
Hell is two more aspirin to
get through the rest of the shift
and realize it's not enough.

Sprouted from between the cracks
in the sidewalk, birthed into a fight;
sunlight as your first caretaker.
Screamed in his head,
because you think in one volume.
Never bit the hand that fed.

Sprouted from the sidewalk.
Crushed under hurrying heels.
A love story in two weeks.
Died in sunlight,
under white collared boots.
Rush.

"Smothering me,
setting me free.

I was three steps from heaven.

A voice told me to drown
in feathers and darkness,
let myself down, down, down...
six feet in
I was swept into the space I kept my demons.
I was conflicted. I was embraced.
I was home."

That's all I had too.
Shouting in my head across the kitchen table,
and everyone understands in their own way;
We just need to talk and be heard.
I need to speak and be affirmed.

I just wanted to say something to let you know
I'm still here.
I'm still alive.
I'm still human.

They are hunters,
banging on the doors drawing the blinds,
putting the children on their knees
with automatics.
Firepower on firepower,
we are more than we need

and we behave so crazy,
so paranoid.
Blood stained carpets;
we sit in a cage and say we're
safe
and still that blood stains grows
to keep us content.

I heard it in the sugar skulls.

They said, "the dead men are still dead"
but somehow they lied as they hissed
exactly what I wanted to hear;

"the dead men are still dead."

All lined up with nowhere to wait,
they seek a great escape.

One last perhaps

till the weekend's funds are all gone,
and we only sweat for rent.
If we get caught in the crossfire,
it's hardly a consequence.
Risk and reward are one and the same,
we just cant die on purpose, but we're

okay?

If I was god I would hide in space,
tell everybody that I died,
tell them I never tried, skip the truth,
behind the curtain is another lie;

If I were god I would go back to day one,
Tell romeo not to drink the poison and juliet
you just met this kid, put away your knife,
I'd teach Shakespeare how to write a love story,
yeah, uh, yeah, uh, yeah, uh, K.

If I were god I'd be a deadparent,
I'd leave the planet and never come back.
As a deity I am a hack, and a poor artist;
I've made creatures so heartless,
watching as these flames grow larger,
they pray to me like "father,
you said if a poem rhymes it makes you a sap."

Do as I say, not as I do, and never as I act;

If I were god I'd abandon my creation,
I've seen the richest nations turn men into rapists
leave women with discolored faces,
we're all swallowing words that are now wasted,
you wanna pray but you can't say ****, uh,
yeah, uh, yeah, uh, yeah, uh, k.

You turn your back on an angel,
and swear you'll set it straight some time.
Sort it out, you guess,
except,
these fangs keep coming back
and this venom burns on contact
curdles the blood.

They never mention that just sometimes
you must rend the body from the serpent's head.

Trust that I know many secrets,
and of those kept, stolen, or borrowed,
the ones I withhold from you
are what strip angels of flight
and leave them in gutters
with alcohol dampening their feathers

too heavy to fly.

Entering the room, you'd notice
the faces are young hopefuls,
or old amateurs.
Each know a handful of material,
and are desperate to play
the entirety of it.

Eager to play jazz.

Frantic cacophony
in sweet harmony,
confidence and innocence
as common bedfellow.
What they lack in form,
meter, and style

they fill with a pain
hidden under confidence.
Innocence.

I ate nothing for several weeks
and in waking lucid starvation
I dreamt I was an assassin;

a pacifist when everyone was looking,
a warrior when eyes were closed.

I stalked prey that hunted,
and as they rewrote history
from centuries away,
I could even hear them smile.

Deep grins, ear to ear,
like blades running across throats,
ear to ear.
Grins wide like rivers,
mountains and deserts,
wet like lakes.

Faster than hell.

I woke up in a sweat,
air conditioner broken,
cats outside meowling,
looking for a ****
and not careful
what they wish for.

Some people live with ordinary nightmares
on a daily basis and treat it like we treat
passing a beggar.

These days those who put their hands out have sharp teeth
and I'm proud enough of anyone
who'll bite any hand that feeds.

Dying so slowly they think they're alive.

I can't imagine a word that
means anything close to what I'm
imagining.

Utopia to some, post apocalypse to many.
I had to describe how someone can exist
and cherish a person,
but hope to annihilate their species.

"Imagine someone hands you a glass of water.
You imagine they mix tap water with something filtered,
still drinkable right?
Imagine they mixed in poison, or waste.
Would you still drink?"

Love me like a kettle,
like a sea of consequences
like a brick in
your glass house.

She is a dreamer,
who breathes through
her skin,
and lives
with her regrets on her sleeve;
boldly.

We dreamt we were mountains,
and put our heroes on our backs
because we couldn't bear
not to look up to them.

We make peace with closed fists
and sing poems to our children
about war;

“It only happens once in a while.”

We spray everything red and cry in our hands,
we crush our heads in our palms.
Shake tambourines for spare change,
and claw at untuned unfinished guitars.

Daylight fades, and darkness stumbles in,
alcohol on its breath,
a mix only sailors and their widows drink.
It’s harassing someone for a **** or a fight,
because it longs to be touched and feel it,
to shed some ****** fluid
and feel drained of the pressure
of desperation.

So we continue our bastardization
of everything beautiful
and praise ourselves
for creating unnatural symmetry;
undynamic, sterile,
processed.

A running theme is that mankind,
we think we're special really.
Life is rare, but not phenomenal.
We are just as we are made;
unfortunate accidents
conceived in circumstance,
heat and pressure.

We are not miracles, we're mutants

formed out of the trash left unattended
by a thoughtless and lazy reality;
Reflecting nothing, like the waste we create.

It's useless.

Also, I am useless to describe
any situation where
I get out okay.
I want to take the blue line to
somewhere new and mysterious,
and try to fathom life
beyond,
"Giant Steps?"

No, that was John Coltrane.
"..."
That was John Cage,
and somewhere we roll in our graves
because the best references are lost
and the best ideas, spoiled,
and the greatest thing
about it is

who we've wasted it on.

Can't get closer to the floor now,
you should have fibbed;
You're so good at it.

****** it up and drew the strings together
lost the strings, fell, fell five stories,
fell through all your stories,
felt light like a feather
with a stomach lined with lead.

You're a mess again,
and you sleep in clouds
and sleep soundly all the while
a little voice in your head
wonders how.

Something disgusting
like a mutual friend,
or the feeling of
drinking
dishwater.

Aspirin like breath mints,
the blood feels liberated
inside the vein.

What the head puts to waste
sleep feeds on like a starving cannibal.
Everything that matters is
lost in the minutia.

I'm not very impressed with
these modern advantages,
especially
ever since I grew a beard, and
now women tell me I'm sensational.

Didn't like the sun very much
till I spent two weeks basking
in computer light,
might get a warehouse job, it's nice,
although
I'd recommend never letting your
employer see your affiliations
with unionists.

Ever since I started blogging,
my face feels less appaling;
my cheap ties feel expensive,
tooth paste stains seem trivial
by extension.

Now that I've started complaining,
I feel like I'm inspiring a younger generation.
Must be what my parents felt like.
I hate myself for the similarities.

When I tell people I think I'm gorgeous,
they tell me I'm not a big deal.
For the record I never said I'm important
but I like myself sometimes,
and sometimes enough to be a priority.

Now I'm an East Coast savage wondering
if the other side thinks we're even stranger.
Less free, somehow.

Sick sick, but no one cares,
everyone's tired of murdering me.

Or just trying, maybe everyone's just trying.

Took a map to the bathroom stall
and couldn't quite find where the
hell I am,
just know that
this place is pretty ******.

Can't sleep can't stay awake,
trying to take a break but
where the **** is the door?
Is it another place to live,
or is it something else?

I'm having trouble trying to tell,
and I don't know where to quit.

I'm just really anxious right now, I guess.

It was 2:47pm;
text: "If they could just look between the cracks,
they'd see I'm really ******* trying."

Trying to sleep,
couldn't.
Wanted to be
strong for everyone.

Then it was 2:58pm;
"I'm just so tired of trying to
prove myself to everyone."
Walking to my old job,

but it was 10:46am;
"I just found out I'm one of 3
being interviewed for the position."
Inner panic and smothering
all the voices in your head
with

"received 11:44am;
Fingers crossed"

Americana folklore,
the modern vintage spoiled.

Early 2000's became the
dystopian 80's nightmare;
beans spilled by bloodied action heroes

part time self fulfilling prophecies.

No religion as a crutch.
We slay God as a fire breathing dragon,
and go to war in 1st world countries
because we're ******* mercenary psychopaths
America as patriotism is nationalism is
patriarchy is violence is a tautology.
America is America.

Has been and always will be;
stupid, violent, full of "grace"
[grace like plastic china].

They say Abe Lincoln was honest,
and they say Jesus wept.
Yeah, Jesus Wept, *******.

Run rabbit,
they say you live a second time,
wrote a bedtime story that was
pornographic in nature/features.

Heavens on earth, and earth is in hell.

They say they're gonna teach you
They say they're gonna learn it to you
Love me like a child and I'll
betray you like a father.

Prodigal son come back from
a land made holy by tongue-worship.
He said, "Now is the time we set aside
our petty bloodshed
and keep quiet where justice
fears to reveal itself."

Blah blah blah blah blah;
My name is Armageddon,
weak arms, and nuclear thoughts-
spring box cyclops, unwashed dreadlocks,
lost the the keys and came in through a window,
and no one called the police because
this is such a safe
neighborhood.

Lock your doors or not,
we are coming in now.

The nectar shoots down the roots,
and sweeps sweet fruits from the dirt
to the doorstep, a forced laugh,
footprints all the way to the last
body.

Bury us or not,
we're coming home now.

Tacit compliance as an unspoken alliance,
and where we're going we don't need
the secrecy of prisons,
we need radio silence and people
too distracted to listen.

Well, listen or not,
we're going to scream now.

Gods and kings and their sons and daughters,
and it means nothing if the kingdom burns
like people rot; from the inside, out.
Doing nothing got nothing done,
and if our dictators own the world
we'll destroy that too.

Like it or not,
we're going to riot now.

It's late enough already.
Scrubbing your gamepad, salty at A.I.,
thinking of cleaning metaphorically;
Scrubbing behind your ears.
Scrubbing behind the skull.

Contemporary 80's synth-rock in both ears,
I wish I knew what you were singing about.
I wish I knew who you longed for,
I wish I knew what you did, where you were,
on evenings like this when you can only

think

of the people you wish you were closer to.
Skin and talk out of touch. Imagine;
Conversations imagined aren't enough.
Words you wish were out loud
will eat your sorry *** alive.

16-bit racial stereotypes onscreen
pummel each other to mush faced
ground meat caricatures.

Groove like a shark trapped in a box,
make yourself sharp to the touch,
then make yourself tangible.
Absence lets the shoulder grow colder,
but this?

Things imagined and wished for.
Fantasies a child would seek,
pulling the words off of your tongue
An apology, a love letter, a eulogy
/vulgarities and praise as bedfellow.


Words you wish were spoken
will eat your sorry *** alive.

Truthfully,
you remind of someone I'd know
in my dreams;
a strangers face made recognizable
by lack of initiative, or curiosity.
Impervious to actualization.

Confidence in nightmares;
reflective of shock-waves of Nagasaki,
mutants in our collective DNA,
monsters wading in the gene pool.

Atheists with superstitions.
A viral nihilism befuddled by
religious idioms and anecdotes,
held together loosely by
scientific mysticism
&
hypocritical moral
superiority.

She reminds me that humanity is just,
"everything that mankind is capable of."
Builds complex doomsday devices in his head,
and plots to rule the world.
Meanwhile Manhattan project seeks
to either rule the world
or open it's
throat.

It pains me to write a puff piece
on hometown, love-life, hope/etc.,
yet I can wax lyric lusting for the apocalypse.
In this fashion, I can look into crowds
[sadistically romantic]
and tell them, aspiring to the Manhattan
in our everyday savage grey matter,
"We all have dreams in our hearts."

I feel a compulsive need to burn most of you,
or rule a few thousand with cybernetic underlings,
because robots can't say no
based on moral principle.

A season ripe with yellow jackets.

They wanted laws without control,
orders without rulers,
and religion without gods.

We made them fight for what?
Liberty? Justice? Freedom?
Not even glory...
We made them fight for a cage,
and they celebrate
even as we shut the doors.

It's absolutely hilarious.

We invented god, and fear
ourselves
and our
own creations.

Torn in flesh, worn in faces,
I like it when I walk somewhere
and the sidewalks are suspiciously
empty of strangers.

Thumps like clockwork,
and speeds up for all the same reasons.

Listening to Miles Davis,
******* a stranger in the bathroom,
falling in love again,
screaming and crying
and banging your head against the wall.

The clouds dissolve and when they
almost see you face to face,
you burn down your bridges
and make them start from
square one.

We put gas in our tanks and pretend
all our claws are clean and pick at the bones
and the guts and we’re not satiated.

We give our souls and smiles and bodies and ****,
we’re not gifts or garbage, we’re human slot machines.

We are sterile in our thoughts,
and septic everywhere else
in a fashion that’s tasteless,
yet not obscene.

Donate clothes to the poor through
homophobic institutions because
what else can we really do?

Powerless, and yet so convinced we’re going to
fight the bureaucracy some day, and **** yeah
spell check writes half of my good **** nowadays.
I navigate online dictionaries seldom and cowardly.

Most of my writing is anti-revolutionary in the sense
that I hate what I desire intellectually and sincerely
but only because I want it so ******* bad,
and in the end I’m powerless
and empty and distant.

This fear is not that
someone is frightened by your mind,
but that they find it
both typical and mediocre.

If you live in this fear
you are slave to your own supremacy;
Create a devil and live in it's shadow.
You can't even be
the filth you sink to, fully.

If your question was a tree,
the answers would be the fruit
and every one
is ripe
and low hanging,

yet somehow you manage to partake
in a feast of rot and harvest sickness
where fertility is rampant.

Withheld fortunes of spring's past
spoiled in the jar,
yeah, you ****** it up.
It was really simple too,
but you break your own themes
over your knees to be correct.

You fail anyways.
White noise in sheets like
rain over your party
and your guests burn you
for treachery.

Whether you assume responsibility,
or it is forced upon you
these consequences will be yours.
The answer is simple then really;
Don't **** up.

...and haunted by
undead royalty.

We sink to extremes
and discover solace in finality,
because we yearn to be
morally black and white.

Engineers of blood-driven machines,
garnered in fleets, unsinkable,
parasites, unkillable.

Your wights and revenant
wander around you like
brain-dead dogs caged in
useless human flesh.

Finding ease in ownership.
Bliss in the wavering ignorance
of taking orders without question.

We are gods or insects.

Whats the matter with you,
little cloud,
heavy today
close to the earth
closer to us.

Closer to the same people
who will wax lyric about
violence
to the kids they're trying
to send to war.

Closer to the wolves.

Wherever you send the rain,
know it won't wash away
the sins of those
who believe in sin.

Drop your weight and
float somewhere
far from here.

Wrapped around an
overdeveloped
finger.
Possesed, yet
wholly worthless.

Next to me, you are nothing.

Sin as something
gorgeous to death.
Crafted from curses,
lizard tongues and
snakeskin.

Soft as satin.

They broke his bones in a bathroom stall
with pipes and left cigarette burns
on his eyelids and I
washed my hands, cleaned the blood
off of my shoes and shrugged.

Some days is all you can do to throw
your body on a cursing poor *******,
but most days you seem like you know
humanity is going to eat itself alive
so you just close the door and stay
in bed for a few more hours.

They say his lies have gone too far
and they know they don't know
whether he's gunning to give up
or run away and try again somewhere
where freaks on the inside stick
out like circus sideshows.
Home is not where we belong.

Christ got nailed to a cross
and I stared and said, "So what?"
that day and every day since
I've been cursed to give zero *****.
I tried and it almost killed me too,
if you know whats good for you
keep to your own.

This world isn't made of flesh,
it's made of dirt and fire,
you'd do good
to keep that in mind.

We had no chance,
and it takes and it takes and it takes,
it takes pounds of flesh and leaves
polluted waste in it's context.

Permission slips into seizure
-please let it be a scream-
grind organs on permadeath
and instant failure
without an afterlife
or consolation.

Consolation prizes,
trophy in defeat;
Suspect yet accepted.
Gifts from your enemies,
presents from your past,
disorders from reprise.
Changeless.

Undetectable by the naked eye,
you slip threatening euphemisms
[Bruce Lee yelps and noise]
into the softer parts of my body.

Sleepless unlike god-fearing mortals
drink wine fermented of kitchen tears,
fermented in Dixie cups
held closed by the pressure;
image of a social butterfly
with wings torn off by
childish tyrants.

Sneak into my tonsils
and tear out every crown
on your way to my lips.
Pillage and loot and riot,
bleed from the mouth.
Held together by wire.
Sewn shut with iron.

Eyes as two independent souls,
each a decoy of the other,
hidden, even to themselves.

She was a trap built from
tigers and rusty pieces.
Feral, rotten, effective.
Eyes me like prey,
and I am.

I am falling slowly,
so slow they think I can fly
so slow they think I glide through
life and love with my feet on a
carpet of marbles and oil.

21st century type.
Sharp like a knife,
but not like a suit.
The music is so loud
it’s muffled.
It is smothered by itself.
I lost my wallet and limbs,
and they were replaced with
alcohol and prosthetics.

Gheists flooding
the contraption,
singing mantras
in tongues.

Now I seek a greater machine;
Skin carved from marble,
and lips from bleeding
citrus fruits,
acids becoming
nourishment.

I'm so happy you invited me,
I've been basking in netflix
and swimming in coffee
marinading in the bathwater
I was using to drown something
close and special to me.

Gave me a reason to open the drain,
take a shower and take off to the city.
I can gawk at your underage drinking
buddies and eat whats on the table.

They'll pass out on the balcony
or whilst ******* in the bathroom,
while I take the next train to
see a professional nothing
to fix my dreams
and the ones I have
while I'm awake

will be lost, but loved while they're alive.

I'm so glad I could catch the last
bus out of this train wreck,
and sleep sober under youtube's
angry celestial glow.
Listen to coconuts buzz acid low tones
and low-fi digital screams till I can't feel
a low tone or remember
a real scream.

Spent years learning how to scream
with your mouth closed.

American liberalism;
How to explode on nuclear levels
without burning a single calorie,

and we're all just
painted blue.

Silver-tongued soothsayer
with a voice of gold but
breath like mercury,
sing me a future full of
blue nights
&
days that seem to always
sit at the horizon.

Feed me opiates through dreams,
through tubes
down the back of my throat,
where I turn them into
poisons for my body to feast on.

Force them into my genetic make-up;
let me replicate a beautiful nightmare
out of my marrow and exhale
careless sociopathic lies
to ******* strangers and
******* with first names
I don't need to remember.

Let me be Ohio's last astronaut;
my head is past clouds,
my body, beyond earth.
Sympathy will be reserved
for those who have lost
their hearts, their hope,
their homes, their minds,
their control,
their bodies,
their functions,
their...

Yes.
Their dreams.

You thought you knew anger,
but it was spite in a thin foil wrapper,
poised like candy,
poisoned with tiger's whiskers.

Harbored depression since elementary,
but didn't know the weight till it was
in your stomach and your fists
and you cringe with pain
every time you talk.

Relieved to hear somebody say they can't
give a **** about what you feel like.
Medicine; snake oils,
cured to hear that you can't
give a **** about what I feel
like anyways.

God graced us with it's absence.

Thought you knew absence
middle school crying
in bed over how insignificant you are,
but bitter nihilism
dropping out of college twice
taught you emptiness.

Keep thinking that thought uncovers
more direction and technique,
beauty through function,
but
John Cage is meaningless as a system
and chaos as a instrument of
wonder and progress.

The amateurs think
about what the legends do.