the sink runs mud, a clarity I won't understate.
the splatering, sputtering on the porcelain, sloshing, guttural pain.
on a canvas the paint is truth, on the wall it is deceit.
the bed is a springboard for great ideas.
the romances that die, the 8 hour shifts of bottled eternity.
I am haunted by this sentiment daily.
on the windy beach, the ears and hair, a flag flapping.
cool, dark, the moon like Juliet's eyes.
over the grand ocean of unknown language.
i reach over and grab the gun.
i will go out with a bang while Eve is away.
then sunrise sets still forever
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 3:02 AM UTC
the sleeper in the valley is haunting me,
what I should do I haven't.
I'm a junkyard full of false starts.
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the ***** streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,"
:Bought a book of Ginsberg:
:Thought it quite lonely:
:Found out socrates was a *******
I fell asleep and was dreaming the subconscious dream,
The theorem was proven and I could breathe again.
I awoke to sirens,
nymphs,
and Orpheus standing over me.
I am a small bit of nothing, a Wes Anderson caricature,
a pre-printed, pre-made, pre-packaged archetype.
I bought guitar strings from a lovely woman,
I want everyone to hear me.
Hear me play Pitseleh.
I am quiet now,
I am soft and everyone hears me.
I don't want to say anything,
I want you to look at me and know.
I want you to see my eyes and know I am infinite.
I wake up again and I am sweating,
it was the night terror, the one I have
I was surrounded by intellectuals,
the poets and artists of our generation,
all second rate ********** doing it for the applause and their mommys, same **** that was always done, since ******* Homer, since ******* Shakespeare, since ******* Ruddy Rimbaud.
I keep shaking,
Something is coming after me and I know it.
Maybe it's all the women I looked at wrongly,
one's from the ***** pictures big brother sold me,
Maybe it's all the sucrose and caffeine i've been inserting.
Maybe it's the nothings that i forgot to do, and others did instead.
I am a ******
I never ****** no one.
******* is stupid.
I am one of the ugliest men alive.
When the saint ended us I saw infinity.
Everything was you, in you, by you, for you, the ******* hours and hours of thought, the stupid lengthy and complicated memories where you were christmas and we were meeting the ocean, all pointless and lost to oblivion and I lost it right then and there in front of you, I sobbed and wanted to **** myself. Then you gave me a *******
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 1:16 AM UTC
Your passing was a gift to me,
Wrapped in colors I couldn't see.
And after every page I let fall out,
Everything looked better.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 10:01 PM UTC
The eyes see beyond beyond now,
Past the words,
Past the symbol.
Then enters the thirst,
An evening,
A cold light,
The empty everything,
And a Sterile drama,
A paradise,
Smoke n' mirrors,
Caves n' shadows,
And a new outlook.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
Maybe I wasn't born in the right era,
Maybe I wasn't born in the right world.
Maybe I'm the kind of person that shoots up schools,
Maybe I'm the kind of person that would **** a child.
Maybe I'm the type that kills themselves,
Maybe I just want attention.
But what the **** would I do once I had it?
Shout the golden rule?
Tell a nice story?
Give praise to God?
I mean, I've had a relatively nice life,
so I don't know what the hell I have
to complain about.
"Things have gotten really out of hand since the flaw,"
"in a room without a floor you will always be falling."
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
I feel dumb.
It's like there's an amusement park behind me,
but I can't turn around.
I feel ugly.
I'm afraid to look in the mirror,
because it might look back.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 12:27 AM UTC
Plunge,
Plunge deep.
Feel the layers of soapy creek-beds,
Cross sections of the torrent,
Seep,
Watch the silent film,
As the sky divides into fantasy,
Light intended for your child-like eyes.
Fall,
Into a graceful autumn,
Where the corn smells and the wind picks up,
Where day-break questions existence.
Sink,
The expanse is waiting,
She sits in a blue velvet chair holding her head,
Counting the ticks 'till midnight on her golden clock.
Trust me,
And dive.
For I am vast and empty,
And far from shallow.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
I saw you there, I kept the image in my mind, to feed my despair,
And your hair...
The freckles on your shoulders.
Your smell, your legs, like there were noplace and someplace, bulky and warm like Christmas at the bottom of life where everything was naked.
I carried my heart in yours.
You were the rainy-sun-danse, a novelty in a stormy-wood-wroten-backwoods. Indiana suburban mythology dictated of such a fair maiden, one born of wild disparity, from the family of spiritual cynics. I've come to admire you, that much I know. A mouth divided like Africa, arbitrarily and in a fit of greed, like a hispanic german jew, flouting her sensuality, folded harmony, sweet, messy, youthful, rude, a symbol.
You're my everything and I don't know why, two days gone and I was in so much pain, I figured nothing out.
If I were really inlove with you, you'd be inlove too.
And I love you,
therefore you love me too.
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
Your inconvenience, ******
Is worn like a frown on your face.
I need a stern kick in the head.
And you're destitute, Destiny,
And reek like flowers, floorboards,
And nosebleeds.
And you ain't true, Faith,
You love him, and I'm broken,
Your machine is commendable. Truly.
You feel nothing, I feel it for you.
I bear your troubles like a Christ,
And you hate life, but I love it, and I love you.
But I'm a toad, Princess,
And my love is a spell,
And it spells discomfort.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
With the few words left within me there is something I fear I must write. Beauty is everything, art is justified. It was a hard battle, but art has won. Dionysus takes the cup: Apollo, in a blaze of wonder and irony, has fallen, for this space is for dreamers, not for rationalists. Reason shall come shortly, but soon there will be no need for reason, I can assure you. First I must scorn in the face of every critic, whose airy words tried to stamp the artifice down the whimpering and broken throat of the victor, which is the artist; I must point and laugh at the woman that shrivels at the sight of moral beauty, and the man that seeks entertainment, rather than enlightenment, for you are all fools and cuckolds to your well-loved rationalism.
AND THUS WAS HIS REASONING
Beauty and truth both lay dormant in every soul that has walked the Earth. Every aesthetic piece gives breath to its own truth. Truth, because it is admired, admired, because it is truth. Expression, the holiest form of satisfaction, is then simply the application of the beautiful thing, which is art. In this realm nothing is proven, but everything is felt. This is art. This is truth. This is beauty. This is rebellion. This is nothing. This is everything. This is art.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC