it makes its entrance in flashy fogs,
the selfish hog of
undesired credibility,
the crushing weight of "cool."
it's so like
the fragile strength of the rain,
burning on your skin,
yearning to slip in
to something a little more casual,
a little more
******
hexual
textual
we flirt in codes
we glance in nods
we feel in rhythms
we speak in silence,
we dance together with the thrusts and sways of our bony little hips,
feeling and inspecting one another
though never looking upon either face.
it was so real yet so fake,
plastic kisses and the taste of regret,
the sterile defilement of a hotel bed,
your **** in my mouth,
your ***** on my chin,
your hand on my head and
my insecurity's egging me on,
whispering the truths that often try to hide
within the narrow little alleyways of my tiny little head,
"it is too late to save yourself,"
"you were never clean anyway,"
"heaven is a lie,"
"you have no say."
I choke on your ****,
you tell me to shut up,
you slap both my cheeks and
you tell me to grow up.
it all pushes me down so hard,
so strong,
so discouragingly,
so relentless in its intent
like the gentle power of the rain,
the bursting burning on my skin,
the heaviness of unnecessaries.
I make my exits in flashy fogs,
I am a magician,
a wizard,
a ghost and
a demon.
I am a legend,
a fable,
a story with no end,
lost to the cities full
of ancient histories and ruined worlds
and patterns of the Earth forgotten;
I am woven into the rich and tangled workings of the world forgotten.

21,
21,
21,
we're playing a lucky game so
pick your sides.
21,
21,
21,
you're the lucky boy today so
enjoy the ride.
But tonic is so toxic
so tasteless
so bitter-trivial-faceless
when you have to swallow your pill
everyday at 8:30 PM,
sharp.
My liver ain't in the best of shape
my body ain't in the best of weights
my soul sure is dying fast
though nothing ever lasts.
21,
21,
21 more times--
just a number,
though nothing is just a number.
My blood is running poison,
a cut a running toxic tap.
My body is a chemical,
a bitter, vindictive compound.
21,
21,
21,
it all tastes so **** bitter,
all I can taste is bitter.

Ripples on the surface,
light shined through
though
always too black to see beneath.
I've felt this way, before;
I've seen the haze and
walked within the maze and
been buried beneath the sand and
and
and
and
this isn't a dream we weave, though, it's all too much to ignore;
And all my friends, they always seem to leave;
perhaps I seem a bore.
I tried to open that
amazing door
and be within the beautiful mind
that beautiful time
which some have called "Memory,"
others "Past," "Happiness," "Solace,"
"Escape,"
though,
all I may call it now is
"What Was Once But Now Is Dead."
I see red
streaming before my eyes,
screaming into my frontal lobe
just a dream to the wise
but to a fool a deadly probe;
a seedling foully planted
within the loamy soil of the mind,
it had been granted passage
as each root unwinds.
I know I've felt this way, before,
though I can't know what's in store,
I haven't read the yore nor
that most evil, ancient lore
so all I want is more.
I must be ignored.
I must be killed.
Burn me.
Light me on fire.
Stack my rusty bones upon the pyre.
Give to me the power of the Sun,
you my planet that slowly drifts away.
I see red
I see fire
I see great flames a-dancing
I see the Sun
I see life
I see redemption and
I see it shut right in my miserable face.
I see you continue to float on off
into the empty darkness of unreachable
space
those unimaginable distances like
the passages between Memory,
Past, Happiness, Solace,
Escape.
I see you wind on off through
the narrow hallways of my frontal lobe
finally turning back before my face.
I see the terrible, pregnant eclipse
of your body before my body,
rocky to red-hot Sun,
take to my heart like an ellipse
.
.
.
I've been naughty
I am on the run
.
.
.
No light shines through here,
no ripples on inky landscapes
.
.
.
It is dark.
                 .
                  .
                   I have no light,
                   I have no Sun,
                I have no planets,
                 I have no dream,
              I have no memories.
                                                  .
   ­                                                .
                                                    I lose it all
                                          and yet I keep losing.
                                                         ­                       .
                                                                                  .
                                                    ­                                I still feel like a dream inside, though
                                                                                                    I know it's merely
                                                                                      What Was Once But Now Is Dead.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                    .
                                           ­                                                                 ­                                  .
                             ­                                                                 ­                                                  .
             ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­     .
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                               .
                                ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­ .
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                               .
                                                               ­                            .     .     .                                                    .
          ­                                                                 ­                  death                       .
                                                               ­    .
.

Public Correspondence to A Man Called Death:

I have watched you from my window
every ****** day
for the past 3,
and I must have to ask
just why you seem to always
just be doing a tiny bit of
fiddling
beneath your long, blackened robes?
Could it be
that you watch me change,
slip from one post-industrial
piece of industrial garbage
to another,
fat bottom shaking and
curly hair quaking all about?
If so,
feel free to give me a yell,
for I am so very lonely,
Mr. Death.
So,
when is it, exactly,
that you're planning to come in
and stay with me?

Screaming,
though all is under cover
and my whole is still all wrapped.
Can you see it, too,
the myriad mirrors casting my form
my shape across dimensions
worlds
universes of possibilities unknown and
unreachable.
Screaming,
though nothing shall be reached
and the thought is not what counts.
Can you feel it, too;
the trembling and tremors
in the fault lines of the air
causing nightmare images of
a reality that none may know.
He stares at me,
the many pronged deer
a demon in my own right
but never his own.
I mustn't look--
no, avert your gaze--
keep looking forward
keep screaming shrilly
uselessly
against the all encompassing cracks
of a reality already bent out of shape.
I am still screaming
and I say,
"--"

the feeling runs deep;
certain, sunken sentiment
that's been felt before

I need to escape
but there is nowhere to run
so I sink in me

I try to escape
and give a hand at flying
with wings of cement

but the sky's a sea
and it doesn't have a place
for a rock like me

I sink to the depths
and let its gentle blueness
devour me fully

an average meal
for a world that couldn't find
a snug place for me

The strangers sat
before the king,
their lips were flat
and eyes were ringed.
It was smoky in that
enormous room,
the vapors and gases
being ornaments hanging in the air.
"For what purpose were you there?"
asked the savage king,
whose eyes were darkly burning
in a face deeply sinking
in on itself.
With feathers in his hair
and paint dried on his skin,
he floated in the air
far above his kin.
Cortes knew the power
hidden deep within this man,
though alien in the hour
of this,
a continent's last stand.
With hands as white as snow
so deft so quick so sly
the contract was unknown
to that great man in the sky.
"To see and meet and greet you,
O' great man of this
strange
and foreign land."
Their eyes had locked in place,
two triggers pulled back taut,
waiting to erase
what the other sought.
Be it gold or riches or
love or power or fame or
ivory coated witches
that were taught no shame,
the two titans did not know
the immensity of the moment,
the branching of the seed
from the future calmly planted.
The trees now grow so far
they cover up the room
where two great conquerors once sparred
while destruction darkly loomed.
A storm gathered on the horizon,
thundering like drums,
winds strong like poison
greed as fast as guns.
They say the smoke still lingers
in all the old, pervasive places,
and that the forest still has fingers
in all the empty spaces.