We got some dead queers here
they're messing up the floor
Too many dykes, too many
fucking faggots don't get
me started on the trans*
We need to move our cars
and stroll the walk with
ignorant future tagalongs
More than need to care
To say, fucking speak up
We got some dead queers here,
No fucking problem
No one know how it happened!
No one could believe it!
Nothing like This had happened
Since the conflict between Moses and the Pharaoh
In the Book of Exodus!
Toxic Black Cloud,
Descended on Washington, D.C.!
Some thought it was a terrorist attack by the DAESH.
Some thought it was Divine Intervention
To punish President Donald Trump
For What he had done to the Earth.
Some thought that it was actually a result
Of President Trump's Deregulation of the EPA.
Black Cloud flowed right into the White House.
President Trump had to be removed from the White House
But the Ambulance Driver lost all visibility in the Black Cloud
And crashed into the White House like a Suicide Bomber
Even though he was a Born-Again Christian
Rather than a Muslim.
The White House exploded!
No one knew what smoke came from the original
And what was the result
Of the Ambulance,
Crashing into the White House?!
Some called it the Work of the Devil.
Some called it Divine Intervention.
In any case,
It was the worst Environmental Catastrophe in American History
And President Donald Trump
Alice Is In Wonderland
Alice got sick.
A dulling fur – a cancer here and there.
Don’t know how, don’t know why,
(We never know how, why we’ll die).
Bad and sad for doggies
And for those who hold them dear.
The vet urged she be put to sleep -
It had gone far.
It went in seconds. Not a peep
From Alice, just one beat, a bleep
And she was gone;
A little soul taken in hand
By doggy heaven land, a wondrous land.
Alice is in Wonderland.
Alice Is In Wonderland 3.24.2017
Birth, Death & In Between II; Love Relationships II;
Mind barren, all clustered,
perched up on the window sill.
I'm shaken, I'm flustered
even when I'm slow and still.
Still as in no progress made,
but my soul also sometimes feels
as stiff as the corpses of yesterday.
Am I already too far gone?
Words and ideals of a ghost
mixed with the living?
so it happens. people die. some too early, some too late. does it even matter when?
life’s full of ups and downs. i didn’t get to experience the best things in life. to get a child. to love someone so deeply, that you know it’s him you want to spend the rest of your life with.
but not the worst either. to loose someone close to you. to get hurt deeply in your heart.
so it’s actually okay. life's the best, but also the worst. i loved it.
We noticed the damned
soon approaching the places
we took years to accept
as our home, to see how tough
our meat stuck to our bones
against their barrage of teeth,
rotten tongues, and pus-dripping nails.
and when you packed the last
of the matches and saw me hiding
all our stillborn dreams inside of
the basement's drop-ceiling tiles,
you told me, "Along the way,
we're going to be picking up
more, I haven't decided
when, but I am sure we'll find
some good ones when we're
digging through the pockets
of those dead pricks, or in
one of the jammed cars
sitting on the interstate,
or in an empty Jack Link's bag,
fuck if I know.
so I hope you're putting those away
to make room for more,
not because you think there
aren't any to have after this.
You don't have to pack so lightly,
I'm here to help carry the weight;
just remember that you're in charge
of grabbing a carton of Marlboros,
if the gas station didn't get
entirely fucking ransacked,
and remember to smile
every once in a few hours
so I know I'm helping you do all right."
and noticing that much
is enough to remind me that
all of this only amounts
to meteoric chances and happenstances,
so even the worst of it will come to its end—
and maybe that just has to do
with the optimistic sap in me.
But even then, you greet me
“Good morning,” and I hear you,
and you sound like you're of the Sun
touching through the barricades of Woodbury,
where the undead fuckers can't touch us.
And you buffer the cold of the wind
and the wet of the rain
when the kindling is too soaked
to start a fire big enough
to counter the draft
coming from under the doors,
or dry our jackets by the fireplace.
Which probably sounds like naivety,
but even after Woodbury rots from the inside out,
and we lose the car and our last can of beets
somewhere during our escape, and the rest of the way,
we're joking about the way things were
before they got worse, while hypothesizing
about the fall of man, epidemics and expiration dates
to forget the endless hills aching our feet, I could tell you:
“Sure, I mean, there are ten-thousand ways
the world can go to shit (and it probably has,)
and I might not live to one-hundred-three,
but if the world's gonna burn on me now,
it's always better watching with you.”
It's an element to that world that intrigues me; the idea of anything that could possibly go wrong, being likely to go wrong, but you have these moments where the shitshow slows down just long enough for you to remember that there's always something, or someone, that's worth laughing at all the bad luck, licking your wounds and doing what you can to scrape by.
Heart beats and paper wings,
Tattered clothes and souls that sing.
Beauty that relies on grace,
Salty tears that run down the face.
Hopes that give a crown and throne,
Fears that wittle down to the bone.
Angels protecting with all their might,
Demons killing out of spite.
Making sure another dies,
She won't live to be a butterfly.
I'm not sure what exactly this is, other than a culmination of my mind.
A pair of phantoms hands
clasped and held to center
Symmetrical as Hell.
They pull apart and in their wake drift embers sparks and calcite.
Colors where these hands just were make-out and roll around; they leave their imprints and their stains when they are done.
Out of the unwashed we arrived
A symptom of passionate cries.
None comes from creation besides the thing that we made, just pray that it is ugly in all the right places—we pray, but not I, me, I make eyes at the mirror and punish myself until Hell's tides become shallow ends against mine—then frivolous, yank myself from sinking lifeboat to cloud-nine,
Let helping hand erase my demons, baby, I must be omniscient because I just personally faced damnation and swift rapture all within one bathroom trip.
I am my own savior
You are the deity I suffer for.
For whom I could create under conditions of such self destruction and from you only disassurances to fuel my flame; watch it ignite
then go out,
Me in a panic,
Rolling newspaper together, heaving in the embers—making winds to toss that heat around, frantic cause I feel the maelstrom tossing inside me and it is quiet, nervous, commonly occurring. You can avoid all of that if you just GO.
No destruction required.
No promises of plans gone unmet if you never promised.
I only exist if you see me
Now shut your eyes: this is the remedy for lame creations.
I will still see you, Deity
You will still make fun of me if I am visible; I will sell fragments of my truth to the same machine that I loathe, and it will churn that truth to muck, my spirit to a discard pile, while my heart and the entirety of my body will belong to you.
Watch dust gather on my lashes as my eyes wait for a clever opening.
Aren't my thoughts eerily possessive?
I think I want to be one of your things so I can watch all of your successes from the shelf, and cover my eyes when you have visitors
Pretend I am a man to you
Not just something that your curiosity alone birthed. What is this blind responsibility I throw at you?
Myself I do not fully recognize, but I won't censor what seems logical to me, though visibly unhealthy.
I'm just trying to explain because avoiding didn't work: you are all that I think about. So much for NEW, maybe improved is still within me.
I'm sorry for all of that. Believe it or not I have been trying to be less dramatic lately. Honestly it has been a very long time since feeling comfortable in here. You raided my thoughts long before I ever considered finishing the fucking thought
And then you left, so everything I ever/never said (or read or showed or wrote) to you was wrong and I had to change myself accordingly.
According to every flaw that I could find in myself. Income trouble.
Kids my age aren't supposed to go inward, they are programmed to fuck, fuck up, and forget. Success is just around the corner!
Don't worry, I'll go back to poetry format soon because this reality shit as it turns out is pretty depressing.
I think we need the
many moany broodings of a teenager who is white and straight—can't even write straight with this inky, bloody pen. That joke works better if you can physically see my notebook and the smudgy black Hell that it embodies. Seriously, it looks like some grabby octopus with parkinson's and seasonal mood swings tried to write the word "parkinsons" in here and then spent four to five hours sobbing about their meaningless existence and self-harming—just deep enough to make the ink drip out and fall into a pattern, maybe good enough to read aloud in public spaces which I would consider an honor in and of its
wobble and of the nerves that fire in like some unsteady chorus.
Still not good enough to sell. So bruised, so heady, Please Collin almighty I am ready
To be shot down in wave after wave of this stupidity. Oh how embarrassing it would be to face a firing squad if she could see; how could I ever imitate your immortality or even just your shine...
Here! More Pretty Words!
Pressure builds and compresses the body performs more or less—a little shaky.
The DANGER is in the mind right next to the safety.
Beneath the skull there is a small office-room plastered with disheveled documents, maybe important, the ones that I hired to clean up in there are actually four well fed cats, using the pages for their waste and spending their days pledging to untangle an endless, brain-sized ball of thread but—you know. at some point.
Like once they figure out that their cheap new carpeting is getting redder and redder the more that they tug on it. And—also they need to learn the color RED right after we have a professional explain to them what colors are.
Oh! Also. That they are FUCKING CATS!
Wait—don't leave. Please don't leave!
I'll be relatable. Wait.
I will only say handsome things. Wait.
I'll pretend that I am not thinking about you even when your breath is pumping somewhere within the same enclosed facility as mine is. Wait—
I will shorten my sentences significantly.
You won't even know it's me
Or that my lips could be so sure of anything
While my tongue so eager to betray.