Dedicated to stillborn fetuses, 99 cent Malt Liquor and Existentialism
1.
Nymphomaniac tree huggers
And overweight bisexual vegetarians
Swallowing phentermine poison to stay fit.

2.
Funky fresh *******  
throwing pigs at St. Augustine’s pear tree
and frolicking abortions over Moloch’s philoprogenitiveness,

3.
While sipping barbecue sauce dipped in Lipton tea,
dancing around adhesive bonfires
reciting memories of holocaust, the Kristallnacht nights
and beautiful words suffered by ancestors lost.

4.
Inhale chicken noodle soup, with a side of Lithium,
And prance to Literacy class to combat envisionment
With free association conceptual constructions,

5.
Computerized like Prometheus’ fire burning through SmartBoards
In classrooms where the poison of heterosexual history
Is fed to boys in skirts cursed by Adam’s apple,

6.
Baptized by social norms and locked away in hopeless closets
According to the Tautology of Leviticus…
until they cut their breath by the vein of soteriology;

7.
Misunderstanding of God’s words
Covets the innocent to early graves
In biblical paratactic irony…like God betting Satan for a Job.

8.
Rub fried chicken oil on Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ skin
and soil his white pride with ***** flavor,
for revenge  On the Properties of Things

9.
and howl out in glory of victory
over totes of  lickerish piper methysticum blunts
that beg the conundrum,
'What is the origin of this world?'
'Ether,' he replied.
But it is not ether!
Nor Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
It is Dada. Dada. Dada!
  10.
For this is a record of the life stories of the greatest minds and geniuses of your generation,
written in boys and girls
who mimicked Basquiat’s genius and tagged bathroom walls with abstract philosophies like “Love is a prime number” and “ the weight of Duncan McDougall’s soul can only be found on the 15th of October”
who drank vampirish gulps of Vicodin while consoling themselves with aphorisms such as: “don’t rue the misses, you don’t need a Mrs. when you’re elevated by chemical kisses”
11.
Who stood naked in mirrors, weeping, for they were a mystery to themselves, but a great talent and soon to be legend to some.
Who lit cannabis in loneliness and waltzed naked with their ghosts, fantasizing about ****** tomatoes and Corpus Christi Mexican Jazz.
Who composed psychedelic anthems from dreams that were lost in ghettoes where virginities were lost for loaves of bread, for the hunger of bread.
12.
Who wrote suicide notes on a toilet seat, contemplating the texture of Marshall Mathers’ favorite underwear and whether the color green was an invention of **** Germany.
Who used to love their lovers in darkness and colored the streets of Manhattan with rainbows on June 24, 2011 to mark the date lady liberty finally bought a new pair of glasses.
13.
Who lost musical talents to a Wine-house and ended up in a whine-house where lobotomy was subsequently prescribed by the milligram.
Who indulged in pharmaceutical vices and when asked why replied simply, every recursively enumerable set is Diophantine.
Who diagnosed themselves with “start ****-itis” and self medicated by eating Fifinellas at the stroke of each midnight.
Who rubbed paraprosdokians on their skin and occupied Wall Street in search of a new euphemism for being American.
Who poured Alkalizer on a dead moose and kicked it while feasting on the divine question, “why does Rice play Texas?”
14.
who got bored with conventional relationships and bought the Origin of the World on street corners from vixens nicknamed “Jezebel” and climaxed atop of them screaming  “I’m in Babylon, the great Mother of ******!”
Who attempted suicides upon suicides upon suicides, in Oakland, until they were shipped away to private catholic universities in Rhode Island, where the history of Colossus was being taught.
15.
who serenaded love interests with four letter curse words at open bars where Kubla Khan was read and Tartars kings were licked all over like holy communion *****.
Who drove home with the spirits of wine and crashed on telephone poles where their obituaries were written in their prime, leaving their mothers weeping and calling congress to reconsider Prohibition.
16.
Who mixed Redbull with Propofol and drank the juxtaposition galore only to be woken up the next morning dead in their sleep.
Who tattooed rat poison packages with goodwill messages such as “****** divided by Water =6th day of creation” or “Seroquel + Brett Favre = St. Patrick”,
who went speedballing with Basquiat during autoscopy and woke up wondering the cost of Nautilus in Albuquerque.
17.
who took 33 hallelujah 1800 tequila jello shots and daydreamed about laying on Mithras’ grave, yelling, beetlejuice, beetlejuice…beetlejuice.
who found the truths of the Bible invalid by the miscalculation of Pi in 1 Kings 7, verse 3, and mailed death on anthrax letters to Reagan in protest.
18.
who sat empty bellied at breakfast tables wondering the temperature of satellites at Lagrangian points,  only to soon catch fire in their tongues and speak Labyrinth soliloquies that ended in
19.
Zion,
Where Google knows every answer.
In Zion
Where the youth, tomorrow’s future, quote a ***** named Hova better than they can quote Jehovah.
In Zion
Where *******’s art was used as weapon during the Cold war.
20.
In Zion
Where sartorial geniuses where no pants,
In Zion
Where David Kato Kisule is the secret hero of these words, for he was taken at a time
In Zion
Where we were supposed to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

21.
In Zion,
Where the youth bear the scarlet letter X for they are a problem to tradition and hold no definition for the future, for they have discovered
In Zion
That the origin of this world is in their living eyes, and not in the dictionary of their ancestors who lived
In Zion
when the epitome of the literature of life ended in Revelation of Amen and Shantih shantih shantih;
this is a record of the greatest minds and geniuses there ever was, written
in Zion
where the meaninglessness and nothingness of Dada reigns, and the trinity of life now lives in the Subject, subjective and subjectivity.

We look for Satan with the same intensity
that my mom and dad looked for God.

In retrospect
my parents were always pushing me to expand my consciousness
by huffing glue or gasoline
or chewing peyote buttons.
Simply because they'd done their time,
wasted their teen years
lolling in the muddy fields of Vermont
and the salt flats of Nevada,
naked except for rainbow face paints
and a thick coating of sweaty filth,
their heads festooned
with fifty pounds of fetid dreadlocks,
teeming with crab lice
and pretending to find enlightenment...
That does NOT mean I have to make the same mistake.

Sorry, Satan,
once again I've said the G-word.

Without breaking stride,
Leonard nods and points
to indicate the former deities of now-defunct cultures,
now warehoused in the underworld.
Among them: Benoth,
a god of the Babylonians;
Dagon,
an idol of the Philistines;
Astarte,
goddess of the Sidonians;
Tartak,
the god of the Hevites.

My suspicion
is that my parents treasure their sordid recollection
of episodes at Woodstock and Burning Man
not because those pastimes led to wisdom,
but because such folly
was inseparable from a period of their lives
when they were young
and unburdened by obligation;
they had free time, muscle tone,
and their futures still looked like a great, grand adventure.
Furthermore,
both my mother and father had been free of social status
and therefore had nothing to lose by cavorting ****,
their swollen genitals smeared with muck.

Thus,
because they had ingested drugs and flirted with brain damage,
they insisted I should do likewise.
I was forever opening my boxed lunch at school
to discover a cheese sandwich,
a carton of apple juice,
carrot sticks,
and a five-hundred-milligram Percocet.
Tucked within my Christmas stocking
--not that we celebrated Christmas--
would be three oranges,
a sugar mouse, a harmonica,
and quaaludes.
In my Easter basket
--not that we called the event Easter--
instead of jelly beans,
I'd find lumps of hashish.
Would that I could forget the scene at my twelfth birthday party
where I flailed at a piñata,
wielding a broomstick in front of my peers
and their respective
former-hippie, former-rasta,
former-anarchist throwback parents.
The moment the colorful papier-mâché burst,
instead of Tootsie Rolls or Hershey's Kisses,
everyone present
was showered with Vicodins,
Darvons, Percodans,
amyl nitrate ampoules,
LSD stamps,
and assorted barbiturates.
The now wealthy,
now-middle-aged parents
were ecstatic,
while my little friends and I couldn't help
but feel a tad bit cheated.

That,
and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to understand
that very few twelve-year-olds
would actually enjoy attending
a clothing-optional birthday party.

Some of the most gruesome images in Hell
seem downright laughable
when compared to seeing an entire generation of adults
stripped **** and wrestling on the floor,
grasping and panting in frantic competition
for a scattered handful of codeine capsules.

In haste,
I took the first woman like a whiskey shot--
every ounce of her scarred my throat
kept me silent, kept me staggering under the weight.
When the bottom shelf love went beyond full bloom,
I vomited her up, leaving me with a headache.

In good conscious,
I took the second woman like an aspirin pill--
every milligram of her alleviated the pain
kept me similar to content, kept me tame.
When the effects wore off and I pined for another drink,
I put her in the cabinet, leaving me rambling nomadic.

In guilt,
I turned myself into the third woman like a penitent criminal--
every liter of her blood solidified
kept me wrapped behind her bars, kept me seeking her good graces.
When the prison sentence drew to a close,
I left her behind, walking with an unwashable history.

The fourth found me frightening,
the fifth just ignored,
the sixth designated me the "other man",
and the elusive seventh only said, "You could do better."

In my mind,
the pills, prisons, and liquor melded --
the days cut short,
the nights grew long,
but I could do better
I could do better
I could do better.

I sold the pills, I poured the whiskey down the sink,
I left prison to the prisoners,
and in the mirror I became a religious practitioner.

To the Church of Better I subscribed.
Sober, lone, and free my cry.
To the darkness I whispered:
I am the resurrection,
I cannot be killed,
I am the resurrection,
the Buddha,
the Jesus,
the Krishna,
the Allah.
I am the resurrection,
born again and again and again.

2-[[4-[(7-Chloro-4-quinolyl)amino]pentyl]ethylamino] ethanol sulfate

Sulfate- dry collision with salty white plaster, plaster walls, my plaster teeth in the palm of my plaster hand, the same palm you touched nervously with your fingertips, when your translucent skin showed we have the same blue veins, you with no love line. I’ve ran into walls, trees, dead ends, bursts of hail, but worst of all– you

Ethanol- black liquid gas,a nozzle in my car engine, fracked through my exhaust(ion) burn my esophagus like sweet ginger ale gin, double chin. I’m drunk, so I’m seeing double. Re/frac/tion.

Ethylamino- alcohol: a drizzle in a rainstorm, i can’t contain myself, exploding inside a glass bottle. a defective windshield wiper, reprocessing my words: “ethyl and coke tastes like cough syrup”, I say. either or, neither will help me.   ethyl as fuel is not safe to drink
ethyl as alcohol is not safe either. swirled away in a plastic whirl.

Pentyl- discovered in a collision of ultra violet light with argon, noble gas. overdose symptoms include convulsions (check), drowsiness (check), headache (check), difficulty breathing (check), vision problems, (check). But not for the reasons, or for the causes, I’ve listed.

Amino- building blocks to a withered corn husk of my body. 9 essential amino acids. Find them in your grocery store: egg whites, lysine in sunfish, cod, dolphinfish but please, no mercury. Maybe I have 1 left, maybe 2, after each labored breath entrapped by porcelain walls, cool on my forehead, warm on my hands, dampened dew on fingertips with pressure on my skin, sewer raindrops on my nose, now i’m so good (to you) I can upheave my 7 other amino acids on demand. No more dew on this fluorescent skin, I've always been too artificial to be compared to nature

Quinolyl- you are created by the removal of one hydrogen atom. I am created by the induction of two. This is how we are similar: exposed to light, we change. Your ancestry proceeds you, impurity in a chemical science, derivative of quinoline, which is a derivative of coal tar. you are an dye, a resin, parasites feed on your smell. I lust on your parts, **** out your solubility, desecrate your elements. I own you, don’t think you own me.

4- one milligram less than what disintegrates on the tongue's bitter perception, each night

Chloro- back stroke, breast stroke, my favorite is dead man’s float. inflamed skin, cracked elbows, an allergy

7- years since you’ve been with me, although I own you, you do not own me.

4- exponent of the previous, the total sum of pop art pills by night’s end. sometimes I forget.

2**- the number of techno-colored candies in the morning

A body is made up of chemicals

Cottonball girls with Q-tip legs dance gently
On Epsom salt beaches
As waves of rubbing alcohol lick their feet.
Father, let us run among them.
Let us clean and clear our faces in their festival of mirrors.

We shall rebury the awful jewels I found
With the failed veiled assassin's prescribed directions.
Rx marks the spot.

You may keep the map, for it keeps you in knowledge.
I do not wish that curse upon my conscience.
You may keep the knowledge, for it keeps you in power.
I do not wish the crown in that course.

Molten

Molten


Forty milligram
Molten
Sterilehappy

7:06
bringing a new weight to the words "high and dry,"
she crushes ten 0.5 milligram pills of xanax with the **** end of a spoon,
puts half of it up her nose, mixes the rest into a bottle of water along with a koolaid packet.

8:47
bringing a new weight to the words "high and dry,"
she pulls three more pills from an empty lipstick tube in her bag,
chases them with her koolaid xanax cocktail and checks her email:
for every day that she doesn't change her underwear, she makes twenty dollars,
mrsympatico@gmail.com tells her.

9:32
bringing a new weight to the words "high and dry,"
she snorts three more fat discolored lines in a public bathroom with her best friend.
her friend crushed the pills with a pen that clicked every time she pressed down;
breathe in fast and hold your ******* breath.

10:15
bringing a new weight to the words "high and dry,"
she takes her last pill of the day.
today has cost her at least thirty dollars
as she makes a career out of killing herself.

i trust no more,
my body is torn,
and my heart on the floor.

betrayal has a bitter taste,
my time was a waste,
and you left without a trace.

fool i am,
my love was not worth a ****,
and your care was not even a milligram.

I sit down in tweak town
To jot down a new noun,
A nice verb, a poetic sound,
But all that comes out
Is blah blahs, and doubt.
There’s not enough coffee,
To help satisfy me,
As long as I compare myself,
To everybody else.

So here in caffeine city,
The poetry is witty.
Every verse excites me.
Every line invites me,
To be better.
Speed is my muse,
As long as I let her.

A nicotine lozenge,
Four milligram a piece,
Helps me stay awake,
Until, I am allowed to sleep;
Helps me to stay alert,
Helps me write this verse,
But in the end
The zzzz will hit me worse.
I guess, I should have just gone to bed
Instead.

I’ve always been afraid
From the moment
They cut me out of
My poor mother’s stomach
Fear has gripped me
With sharp talons
I came into this world crying
And those tears
Have followed me through life

I have panic disorder
Or at least that’s what the internet says
I fear the day I will be forced
To write poetry
On the back of
Prescriptions
The day I start popping pills
Like candy
Just relieve the stress

I don’t want to smile
With a capsule
Between my teeth
Or let my bloodstream run toxic
But at the same time
I don’t want
My heart to drum
Like my nerves are going to war
And I don’t want to leave the house
Crying

I can practically feel the pill
At the back of my throat
I can feel myself choking
The bitterness turning sweet
As the bile
Rushes to meet my taste buds

Sometimes it feels like
I’m training for battle
Like I’m preparing myself
For bullets of Xanax
And Prozac
I don’t even know what a milligram is

I hear it can result
In memory loss
And bleeding gums
And whether or not these are
Urban legends
I don’t know

I’ve watched
Both my brother and sister
Ingest medication
To chase away the depression
I’ve watched my friends
Swallow sleeping pills
To quiet their thoughts

I wonder how can they do it?
How can they just
Open themselves up to sedation?
Allow themselves to
Let go of the familiar
Sadness and fear

Maybe it’s not that
I’m afraid of the pill
But that I’m more afraid
Of the absence of fear
The dark abyss of numbness
I’ve seen medication
Ruin lives

I don’t want to be another statistic
Another number on paper
I don’t want doctors
Going in and out of my head
As if they were old friends

I just want this
To stop

Weighing the strength of my hand down to a milligram.
Treat beef like green eggs and ham.
Million dollar man with a back up plan.
Standing ground, wherever I land.
Lady luck, playing my hand.
Over look, what they can't understand.
Too busy being a *****; I'm busy being the man.

it's not so much that i'm falling
but rather
i am being pulled
milligram by
milligram

by some outward guidance
other than god,
gravity, or
fate.

i feel fingers
pierce
my body
and move downward,
thumbs getting
caught
in my collarbones
but eventually finding
their way
home.

they grab ahold of all my
organs
and keep them
tight,
as a cloud of
warmth
envelopes me and
holds
me

just as i always
wanted
to
be
held.

all my limbs
weigh 2000 pounds
each-
almost exactly
how it feels
when you take
one
too many
pain pills.

i try to remedy
this by lying
on my stomach but
my hip
bones
bruise my
skin from the
inside
out-

i am
purple
all the way through.

(but only
if you're looking close
enough)

because at first
glance
i am worlds away from
human.

i am something
else
entirely.

Hypothetically, what if I was drunk
or high or ****** beyond repair?

What if I crushed four 2 milligram Xanax
and snorted them up my nose, hypothetically?

What if I packed my hand-blown, inside-out
glass pipe with good green, sticky bud?

And, hypothetically, what if I cut up some fresh powder
and went on a skiing trip that lasted through an eight-ball?

Or what if I dropped LSD in my left eye just to see the lines
combine and streak by?

But what if I was sober and what if I still felt
the same then as I felt was hypothetically *******?

What If I loved you?

What if you were all that mattered and

what if you diminished all the other ****?

My trip is my way into your life and the road that leads me there is filled with many things, but the psychotropic **** and barbiturates and benztropines and burning hash, I will leave at home because you are the only thing I need to get high.

I sit down in tweak town
To jot down a new noun,
A nice verb, a poetic sound,
But all that comes out
Is blah blahs, and doubt.
There’s not enough coffee,
To help satisfy me,
As long as I compare myself,
To everybody else.

So here in caffeine city,
The poetry is witty.
Every verse excites me.
Ever line invites me,
To be better.
Speed is my muse,
As long as I let her.

A nicotine lozenge,
Four milligram a piece,
Helps me stay awake,
Until, I am allowed to sleep;
Helps me to stay alert,
Helps me write this verse,
But in the end
The zzzz will hit me worse.
I guess, I should have just gone to bed
Instead.

Bloodline Meds are
The pills you need to take everyday
Like clock work
To continue to feel like yourself.

Sometimes you forget
but
somehow, you feel completely unchanged
you feel normal
your think you’ve finally beat it,

no longer a prisoner
no longer held captive by a specific milligram of
assorted medication

It’ll start slowly,
then it will hit you
like a ton of bricks.

cold sweats, aches, chills, nausea
feeling on the brink of death.

When you take bloodline meds
you have to decide
stay captive or go through withdrawal

Either option
you still lose a piece of
Yourself

Don't let me be
acquaintance ancestry.
Celestial bodies deny me peace,
hidden behind moonlight white sheets and
skyscraper evidence markers.
But I, advice malnourished, recede
among the intangible tangents
of lesser-used thoughts.
I let the shadows take me because
maybe they should have a long time ago
and I was too scared to let them out of my veins,
let the crack from my neck
leak the demons and my trust.
Don't let me be
predisposed possibility,
never so whole as seraphs and satanists,
guided by singularity.
My lives were revolutions,
made up of weaker constitutions
encapsulated, a prescription purpose
that guides me past milligram monument men
braver than I was, but already marble ghosts.
Let me be the helpful dream,
the stitcher of seams;
it seems the tie is torn too much,
the threads thrown astray like things lost in space,
too tangled to discern the strongest way to
reinforce the conclusion of my weakness.
Let me be the used-to-be,
the once-was boy who could never see.
Blindness is a condition I accept willingly,
and deafness with it, and warmth's retreat.
Let me be cold, forgotten gold
buried beneath a tombstone treasure map.
Let me go.

I wondered a lie, it is my head.

The culture within me seeks solace in
substance, and I wonder
why my mental health won't stay wholesome.

It is hard to hear that genuine, innocent voice
anymore, to hear it put words to my mouth.
My head pounds with nervous aftershock.

I was quite manic today. It is clear to me
I was not in control of myself

and would do well to seek help, or administer something
that'd reconcile with myself with
these sways.

Hatred. My heart burns with it.
How can I forgive myself?
Part of me
wants to watch it burn.
Is it okay to write that?
To admit to living
in a world of one's own

sins and torment;
A survival technique:
To look toward a dark future
spent living in the past.

I'll not shy away from
reasoned discourse, nor
should I go willingly into my pain
thinking it'll save me.

The next day I took a single milligram
of 4-chlorodiazepam.

A light at the end of the tunnel,
bursting out from the dark,
into four days of
midnight playgrounds
rainbow bracelets
highway lanes and passenger seat,
full of music at four A.M.

A little bit of hurt,
never a milligram of harm,
brings this closer
than standing in front of your desk,
idly moving words between us,
ever could have.

Don't let me be
acquaintance ancestry.
Celestial bodies deny me peace,
your sensitivities shielded by a moonlight sheet,
picketed by skyscraper evidence markers.
They died from lust for light, broken trust and fright.
I'm looking for the inevitable morgue.
I, malnourished of day,
recede among the intangible tangents
of lesser-used thoughts.
I let the shadows take me because...
they should have a long time ago
and I was too scared to let them out of my veins,
let the abstract crack on my neck
leak demons and my trust.
Don't let me be
predetermined possibility,
never so whole as seraphs and satanists,
guided by singularity.
My lives were revolutions,
guided by weaker constitutions
encapsulating a prescription purpose
that tours me past milligram monument men,
marble ghosts braver than I am.
Let me be the helpful dream,
the stitcher of seams;
it seems the tie is torn too much,
the threads too thrown astray,
too tangled to discern the strongest chain,
the strongest way to reinforce
the conclusion of my weakness.
Let me be the used-to-be,
the once-was boy who could never see.
Blindness is a condition I accept willingly,
and deafness with it, and old warmth's retreat.
Let me be cold, forgotten gold,
less a frozen dawn than a synapse half-way gone
buried down beneath a tombstone treasure map
with an epitaph two decades long and footnote dates.
I never liked dates, smoke breaks, moments that
persist longer than they should,
like I have.

kissing pinot grigio
holding glass to cheek
refilling bottle, drop by drop
each milligram worth its weight in salt water

whatever omniscient is awake and
watching me join the 2am club
for a fifth night in a row
i hope you know i would love to watch you too

we learn such lessons from the loneliness
and remember nothing in the morning

this pillow talk is lost in translation from night to day

Frickidy Froik faking myself for acceptance again, trying to be something I am not; am I insane because I feel there is something wrong with my brain. I feel like being myself steers people away from me, so I put on a mask to be a thing that strays away from being the real me. Out cast, just one awkward person, semi-Christian kid that listened to pastors sermons. I was souled out, but when it came to defending God, like peter I was a sell out. Hanged out with the druggies and the geeks because everyone else wanted nothing do with me, they just looked at me like I was a freak. Rough times, but it is what it is as they say, I don't care; I'm different now, walking down a path not looking back at my past ways. I just had a messed up mind, ignoring all the signs of opportunity, yeah I guess you could say I was driving life blind. Was out of it, thought I'd never get out of it, I was just so bent on the thinking that I just couldn't handle it. Lost my handle when I got caught up in the scandal of life, always wondering if I would last the night, wanted so badly to just end my life with a knife. Getting into grade 10 dressed up as the invisible man, no one noticed me; it was if I was as tiny as a milligram. I stayed away from functions, stood brewing in my own demented self-destruction. Sore and broken, shouldn't have done what I did, but how can you help out a struggling kid. Empowered individuals to change themselves, but I couldn't seem to be able to cure myself. I pretended like I was enjoying all these immoral pleasures, I lost sight of myself, its like *** has become worthless damaged treasure. Time to take off the mask, time to stay on my task, time to get out of that full body cask. I am done being mummified, done being dead on the out and the inside, time to be independent time to no longer hide who I am on the inside. Know what to do but don't know how to do it, been through a lot of ****, and there are still times where I say you know **** all this ****. I hang onto the future where I change people, so we can get out of being the in the age of being mid evil. There is still hope for us *******; there is still time to rearrange the masses. Its time to take off our masks and be who we truly are, you just have to believe in yourself because if you do you'll make it far. I only speak from experience, you don't have to take it from me, and some times you have to get burned to truly see. Never shy away from going to someone who could help you and not judge you, find someone who will take the time to listen to your point of view. It may hurt to say what you’re going through at the moment, but if you don't it will eat away at you until it’s too late for atonement. Take off that mask, forget about what may transpire afterwards because of the decisions you made, you are broken off of it, now you can relax in the shade.

Endless is the Road
I have for some time not been eating boiled cabbage and it is
of not the slightest importance unless it has been boiled with
pork shoulder ham. I just say this because we had dinner at
a restaurant  for once I was not driving since  we were taking
the motorway  a toll road where all the crazy people assemble.
Big powerful cars driven by men who have not yet mastered
the mantra my driving instructor repeated: you drive the car it
doesn’t drive you.
I dislike driving on modern roads, they go on forever and I get
the feeling of a prisoner, a man who looks out his barred cell
window and sees only the landscape’s seasons but cannot touch
It inhales the aroma. I shall never be free of a past imagined.
I demanded she stop the car, I was going to walk home, a feat
I’m not capable of, I demanded a cigarette – we don’t smoke-
she gave me 5- milligram ******, as ordered by the doctor, and after
a break, we somehow got home.

Took half a milligram of bromazolam
after a long week, thoroughly enjoyed
the anxiolysis. Fifteen hours later
I can still feel its metabolites
at work, yet that feeling
when the world became a friendlier place
is unyielding.
I wonder how long I have before the rebound hits.

Odd to crave the lightness of something so apotheogenic,
Knowing full well
it's darkness.

you breathe in tender dragon smoke–
under the sheets; I’m made of alchemy.
some summer second skin clothes.

drinking me in a 200 milligram dose,
a sweet taste in my mouth that forms a cavity
as you breathe in tender, dragon smoke.

jokingly, you laugh and it rolls into “I’m off the coke.”
it hurts, but I guess that now it’s your mortality.  
some summer. second skin clothes

that remind me I’m in bed and alone.
forget it all, radical acceptance, comfort insecurity.
you breathe. in tender dragon smoke.

you tell me that you think I’ve grown.
I smile secretly, my blood is gold. is reality –
some summer, second skin clothes?

feels closer, even though we’re on the phone.
to you I hope this is a keychain of me,
some summer second skin clothes.
you breathe in a tender dragon smoke.

I use my prescription note
as a bookmark
a milligram per page
a page for every breath

the breath of wolves
of swollen air
and dreams too real

it's not as if
I really know the difference

I think I like it like that

I found my soul, my heart, my life, I have found everything, everything I have searched for, everything I have longed for, every unfound milligram I have found,

revealing me to all of you, both of you, opened my crying heart, freeing my soul, having me walk a road I never knew, I needed this, all of it, to completely find myself, to tear open old, physically healed scars, to show people I love, who my soul dances with, to show my secret, what I have hid for so long, from myself, from everyone.

me, i have found contentment, here, tonight, with you, both of you, evermore I hope to remember this, always, remember this seemingly dark overcast night, revealed, naked, bare...

it freed.
it broke.
it cut.
dismantled.
opened.
layed completely open.
on the ground I layed this, at your feet,
then accepting me for who I am.

a drunken mess standing, now in cold, bare with me in now whats told.

I love you for freeing me, for standing by, idly waiting for your turn to comfort another lost soul as you graciously give all you have, not expecting any in return,

thank you for finding me in my drunken state, allowing me to get close, allowing me to feel your souls' embrace.

how you showed me you, made me free to show myself too...
no matter, what previously read,
no matter the hatefull things I have said.
no matter what hurt I have caused with my words.
no matter how I made you feel.

just know, to me you are real.
just as I'd always be to you.
no matter what "this" is,

it gave me you, my hearts hiding place,
the jail cell where I feel safe,

no matter what "this" is,

you have saved me...

more than you would ever know.

I am greatful.

greatful for you, for "this"

I am greatful that this life gave me you

both of you.

thank you.

Like a loaf loaded
with yet to bleeding blossom
lorazepam all fifty milligram
this what happens when you sack sam

Sick fan sycophant tell a man he can't
land a grand piano from a roof top
a belly flop on four legs makes sense
If not got a ***** top on the old mop

Intense chatter in the earlobe
oil dope in the fancy trench coat
take paper please simply note there's no hope
slick as slippery soap we got no back

This plane ten eleven years hijacked
a long way to find some actual senses
hit the train track practice bench pressing
Impact of the last note worth knowing

Easy bowling down loners alley
Instant as all striked out.

i trust no more,
my body is torn,
and my heart on the floor.

betrayal has a bitter taste,
my time was a waste,
and you left without a trace.

fool i am,
my love was worth not a ****,
and you did not care a milligram.