Where your eyes view comfort, my eyes shy away in fear. Those fingertips you wish to lace with yours, as you lay dreaming on your aged duvet, are the embodiment of an age-old prison. Those fingers lacing mine like thick nylon rope laced through fingertips and wrists. Soft voice infused with poison constricting my body with the force of two angered hangs closing around my neck. Harsh lips like fists against malleable skin, leaving dirty stains and marks of possession on a once-white canvas that has marred itself beyond recognition. Insincere words spilling from vacant hearts, swearing of a beauty neither can see, yet you consume the words like a holy salvation. What little comfort lies in a body created for the very intention of torture.

Come with me and seek comfort and love from the fabric from which we were created. The comfort of a universe that lies on your very fingertips. The particles in the center of my right thumb created in a deceased star whose light is just now visible to my eager eye, the atoms vibrating on my stark white scalp arriving on my body after travelling farther in the universe than any human eye has witnessed, the pounding molecules rushing through every inch of my body as a thick red liquid originating in the center of the universe (an unimaginably breath-taking home). These particles have touched surfaces the human mind has yet to dream of touching, yet they have chosen this surface- your body- to faithfully support before resuming their flurry of activity. A deeper love than that that can be provided by an insufficient human body.

Salvation,
Would be a scream
the age
Is broken grace
chaos reaping
as we dream
souls of fire
saving face
See the charm
and misery
In a world
flat out debased
war bathing
In genoside
as creed
Is laid to waste
listen , and cry
For the children
Less than nothing
Since death's been  in grace
Dance with your lies
speak not of my sin
In gods name
Get me out of this place.            Hy

you want everything to look like the setting sun,
or a marble bull,
charging at your viscera.

what draws you to these lines?

nothing. i drift heavy,
only toes touch land, wood, and sea.
lustful, i was, so bound to myself i lie
in some endless death march,
bayonet, tracing silhouettes into my backside.
girls from home, mostly.
a mother,
friend,

what salvation are you seeking?

not salvation, only time.
seconds, to turn into minutes,
to somehow, without blinking
bind themselves into one life.

i’ll see what i can do.

I can taste it on your lips,
I can see it in your eyes.
With every hit you take,
is another lie.
Even though I have all the time for you love,
I can't just stand in the middle
and watch you crumble.
Your voice has turned into a hissing mumble.
You are no longer strong, you are weak and brittle.
You are tumbling, tumbling down a hill.
Little by little, will tell of your defeat.
Your every relapse,
gives a stake to my heart,
Your every disappearance,
rips me apart, and leaves me wondering if you are alive.
When did this start? How did this start? And, will this end?
I begin to answer those questions, but the last, for I do not know.
But I will be there,
By your side.
Do not worry my dear,
for I am here, to guide you in recovery,
to be your catalyst in your salvation.
Temptations, Temptations.
The lust and desire for more..
I am wishing I would have found you before
you found this synthetic galore.
This synthetic galore,
that rips and gnaws at your core.
You swore to me,
you promised.
Please this time,
just be honest.

I am a bundle of scars
Ambidextrous
There are too many holes
In my arms
The veins are hiding
Warm fingers coax them
Come back to me
The dog returning to its vomit
Hands well calloused
Smelling of diesel and grease
All fun no business
Makes me suicidal
I swore I would never become my father
But the universe finds that funny

If you would come to me
Tell me its alright
I would pass through
The blood-brain barrier
And warm your skin like sunrise
I am a son among the damned
My body feels brittle and ancient
My bones like old stone ruins
Covered in thick green moss
I prize your lies
Kept sealed in jars
Their dim glowing
Keeps me awake

Show me your claws
Show me your fangs
Scrape them on my skull
Play a song on my brain
Impulse control
Dissolved on a spoon
Momentary salvation
And eternal doom

Pincoushin
Nobody else can hurt me
Quite like myself
I've built a tolerance
To everything but you
They'll find my corpse
Tangled in the reeds
Fish eating pieces of me
And taking some home to the family

I am glorified fertilizer
A stacked up dung hill
I think I am something
In my monkey suit and tie
I cannot wait to die
And be at your side

can the cacophony of       roaring waves
        and the familiar sting     of      salty wind
restore
my     tired-of-fighting    soul?

and can the    soft   light of sunrise (when no one suspects
    me to take time to let          envelop me) and the
out-of-the-ordinary
                            snatch from my hand
these regrets I'm
maintaining?

I searched for these words up in the attic
with narrow ribbons of enlightenment streaming
through all-too-small windows
igniting the drifting dust specks on fire,
and on the streets in the gutters
that were gloom-spattered with murky water lunging
towards the grated storm guards
as if they were salvation.
I scrounged through soaked and disintegrating cardboard boxes
bearing the letters L O S T A R T S
and old, musty and molded trunks
that had broken locks and missing keys.
I dug them out of  soft-cloth linens, carefully selected them
from heaping mounds of scrap
-like sifting through a junk yard-
to find those precious bits of silver,
sweet iridescent bubbles
encasing so delicately words like
"language" and "cellar."
I gathered these knic-knacks and baubles
and I alighted them with utmost care
through winding black back streets in my little burlap bag
to my borrowed safe-haven room. And without
turning on the lights,
the door was shut and stopped and I was perched
with great secrecy,
cross-legged upon my bird's nest of a bed,
daintily extracting each little orb
and examining them and all their wonder.
Tri-dimensional little things, that, no matter how you turned them,
seemed always to be a bi-dimensional halo of pale, golden light.
They shone, each minute embryo, like an old-time city lamp,
before such evil things as electricity came
and robbed them of a candle's beauty.
And its core, as is true with humans, is its most glorious aspect.
There is a transparent ocean in there,
with roiling waves that spin the currents
and coax every particle to circulate.
And caught in the eye of that undersea tornado are flecks of glitter,
so tiny that you would not be aware of them at all
were it not for the magnificent glimmer that they sparked,
magnifying and throwing back the fainter glow
of that ethereal encircling band.
Pixies that danced at the autumn festival.

I found these words for you,
broken and perfect and shining,
and collected them on a shelf where I could view them
before I handed them over to you.
I collected them with you in mind.
Can’t you tell?
I found words like “lustrous” and “lust”
because they reminded me of you.
I arranged them sporadically,
and smiled to see “alabaster princess”
sitting unintentionally before my eyes.
And how you are my Alabaster Princess.
But oh dearest-mine, be wary of how you find these words.
Use them sparingly, and do not tarnish them.
Keep them like nuns keep themselves: virgin.
If you must write them,
then write them in pretty hand-made inks,
and decorate each letter with dips and swirls, each letter a flourish.
And if you must utter them,
say them quietly, and in simple complementary sentences.
You can be Kennedy for a day,
or speak softly and let them be their own big stick.
Keep them uncommon, like you are uncommon,
and know when the repetition of weaker words can make them herculean.
Guard these words with all your strength:
with that sword hanging deftly on your wall,
with that letter-opener on your kitchen table,
with that pocket knife in your favorite pair of jeans.
Those words will save us one day,
once the world has reverted back to an aristocracy.
With that noble face of yours and this clever brain of mine, love,
we’ll con them into making us their master,
gold and land or no.
even if the sole things we own are our names.
And we’ll teach them again how to speak,
with all the sweetheart mightiness of poetry that speech was intended to have.
And we will learn to bow with all the eloquence of B.C. bible writing.
Machiavelli never saw rulers like us.

We’ll cry like the Devil on a Sunday morning
for the alteration in our names from D’evil,
and whomever first declared “they’re there yonder to get their git!” shall know my wrath
(although that may have been me).
Parlez vous Français?
Non.
These words that I pillaged
from the mouths of great stone grave monuments,
I hope that you will remember them well.
I hope that you will pour over them
and gaze at them in all of the bedazzled stupor that I did.
And once upon a time,
when children loved to read
and sought the same type of affection that I have at last found in you,
when even the Greek gods were playing with pens and devising an alphabet,
I sat there on rocky shore, seasoning with saltwater,
drawing with my toe under the waterline,
your face.
Pretty as a picture,
and worth a thousand words.

The giant’s ruminations could once demand
Salvation, the order of the universe in hand.
Now, all his awe and glory’s come to naught
And man cries madly, distraught.
In black and white, His word and song is made,
And in this darkened night will never fade.
Who are you to say we must submit?
Who are we to give our spirit and quit?
Great Lords, and Pope, alike, have written what men think,
So who am I to tell you when to sup a drink?
Millions upon millions, the critics tell our fate through wit,
But hasn’t it all been said, hasn’t it been writ?
I tell you no certainty, give you only proof,
You must read those great volumes to which so many are aloof.
I sing praises like as David, a song that Solomon would want,
Of everlasting truth, without a philosophic taunt.
Salvation is not my message, repentance not my ploy;
I wish to give you knowledge, to teach your mind it’s not a toy!
There is no great illusion of the means of life on Earth,
There is no puzzling mystery in death and life and birth!
Whether God is at your side, or rejected wholly through,
The only one to chose your fate is overwhelmingly, singly, you!
Gloriously glorified, stained no more with sin,
To live a life of Glory, is glory given Him!
Whether purpose given, or purpose thrown aside,
Whether admit he’s risen, or deny he did abide;
Travel the less-trampled track—the path less trodden down,
For the destination matter less when that road is filled with crowns.

Let. me.
I’m going. to. do it.
I’m going to rip every painstaking petal from my eye
I wont be okay. if the idealization kills the love. I feel
Im going to smash. And. Mangle.
These rose tinted glasses
Over this, Concrete, corner.
Don’t care who’s going to look. and judge
I am the victim
No longer will I look through a pink vial of self possessed poison
No longer will I escape true unconditional love
If there was, a Satan. this would be his game
His oracle.
Of divination.
Well. I said. fuck this, I’m not going to believe in its dictation
I’m going to be. my own salvation
From its pink. Innocent. coloration
I’m going to pull, pluck, and wrench
These petals from my eye lids
It’s going to be a painfully beautiful process
Don’t be.
Deceived.
So sweet. how could it. lead you to do harm?
When. in. actuality. it will end up twisting behind my very arms!
No, I wont collaborate to torment this feeling deep inside!
Inanimate object,
Objectifying. my love.
Going to shatter this wall. that you build.
Between us.
Gonna kill this in my fury.
You separate me from my beautiful reality.
Reality, is much more beautiful. than you and I. can conceive!

Kneel before the noose
With roars in chest
Learnt the humility
Abuser wasting his zest

Cry at tomorrow returning no sound
Frightening silence becomes too much loud
Voices of future singing song of the past
The Now is broken and the hope lost it's trust

Cleching rays of light by stale hand
Rotten pride has been betrayed
Ravaged shell will be healed again
To lead you trough circles of undiscovered pain

Blinding light throws me into darkness
Prisoner of malice
Break your knees
In prayer for justice

Last breath will take away
This painful torture
That hates my days
Last breath will take me away
From this endless learning of pain

In morpheus embrace
I can dance with saints
I was granted new chance
But it can't reroute me from hell

Endless hopes of salvation
Avoiding self-meaning
Pray hollow tides for echoes of noble
Decomposed spirit

Swallow all colors
In the search of the path
Look back to the forward
Beyond the lifetime

Rejecting pure energy
Forced to escape
Innocent memory
Will be ravaged again