You've been offline for 16 minutes
I could have said it, but I didn't
I had it written, but I didn't send it
I'm kind of a coward, I'll admit it.

I couldn't fit it in a space that I thought you would read
I had a tendency to ramble when you listened
or pretended, and in the poems that you've never seen
it's just as bad,
I go careening through a bending path of bramble
tryna scramble to the point
but I lost you
neck deep in the prose that arose
around a metaphor packed to the brim
with condescending tid bits
where I use your words against you
but a heavy weight that sits
over it all, when I lost the only friend I can talk to

so let me spend the next half hour
showering over you
another lesson in epistemology
honestly I don't know how you could be
so dim to miss what I've put in to this

Do you not see how wrong you are

Does it bother you
To have every miss step
pounced on and deconstructed
I was talking down
just to knock it through your thick head
but I guess I ****** it
I'll just have to say it angrier now

Let me spend the next two months convincing you
whatever you had seen in me was through a lens
I didn't deserve to be seen through
All it took was losing you to see
I'm exactly where I should have ended up

I know that no apology
will unwind the web I spun. the web I sit on now
to watch what I've undone with my own hands.
Hands that even now subside in fear
of what I'd hear then in your voice
when you reply
to let it die

So I'll let it die
I'm sorry

So many words.
Which to choose.
Amplify.
Execute.

Which to use.

Validate.

Embolize.

Constitute.

Simple smooth ambivalence

Relative.

Dissonant.

Hellenistic rhetoric.

Romulas.

Immanence.

Barrels of oil painted smooth in acryllic
fill up the cracks with a feeling
spit out the money to feed the machine

Fair if it's toiling kids
draped along spoiled villians
immersed to serve the version of a billionaire's dream

eat the rich

Try me after I've been taught
I could've bought my chain

I would've lost my name

I should've dropped my shame facade
to play the game

We grew the youthful breath of heaven from the clay beneath our bones
imbued and innervated

aided you and drew the oath to play within the zone

circle reverie treasury burdens
bury the feathery,
herding squarely to fame - put on a show

eat the rich
dare me

you and yours invaded
bated breath had sung belated effort, whistle "death has reared it's head
at our expense so grab a sword.
We can war this **** straight out of this ole ditch
and fix whatever ***** gone wrong with it
with grit and sense

and build a fence"

Forget the soil your roots are grown in,
if you want to.

bask in shadow
of the weight of trust and decency
impeding our advances to your winner's table
fabled robin hoods with internets

guess who's deft enough let you know through every filter
left for us we may upset your dinner guests

let em know what's on the menu

eat the rich

let em know

The irony in learning
how to burn the fuel that kills you
after all the warning signs were there
sound familiar? it's a slog

burnin up, they'll crawl around
and find a meal on common ground
try the light show one more time
maybe that'll work

"The serfs are like a herd you see
they can't be riled along without a sermon
Burden them with silks and styles
worry them toward money piles"

Remind them of the fire they've been turning

Analogies aside I must abide by me and mine
but I've still got my eye on anything
...concerning

eat the rich
with discretion I guess.

Searching for a monument to build,
to my stranger nature.
A display of living purpose,
but it's paper,
A failure to surface,
when the current spills
my hopes out to the maker.

I'm breathing toxic calamity like a vapor.
I'm receding, firing soliloquies over faders,
and waiting for it to taper.
The baser instinct to sink into
to a shape conforming destiny's favor, amazing
but it's death in a manger.
A gift of unrequested breath
to levy questions of our nature
impartial but starting to loose
the fruit for us to play with

Don't play with your food
the canopy vines can't seem to stay in the mood
when amity cries
just as we bite another layer
and hope our spirit affords an existential favor.

The corporeal farce of the mortal coil
Where I'm going, what I've done,
who I am, who I have to become

Who am I to give a ****
about what has to be done
will I be actualized
if I inhabit the gun
will I be dazzled to find
that I should never have won
that all my fevers of prayer
were only threads to be spun

I am the definition of survivor's bias
clamoring for comprehension to a writer's silence
buying into lines reverberating in my mind
and all the while I soak
in revelation of the killing kindness

an absence of a unique purpose
a lavish elusiveness revealing
time as worthless, when I dig for deeper meaning
but seemingly informed by enduring
anguish in a world to test which
axiom I'll push the furthest
my reluctance to lift the curtain
My redundancy in spilling refusal
sooner empty than truly certain
My abundance of energy
filling the room
I bask in knowledge
Honoring the right to never learn it

And so I paint
I drape the walls and fall into
the sordid echoes,
calling through the mist.
Simple soothing bruising lips
They whistle darkness
move your hips
I'll leave a mark

I'm through with this.

You better practice.
The alacrity with which we crawl is grievous

We aren't laughing.
We're the ******* and you can not deceive us

We remember

We envelope the view of stolen streets
and only speak
to show the fury stoked beneath the yoke
and only speak until we don't

We know that it's enough.
We know that's all it takes.
To only speak.

For us to say that you are weak
and you rely on our feet
for what's involved in your deceit

That's all it takes for you to falter.
We chew the noose and loosen halter

But once the halter loosens your abuses,
still within the 'blood and soil',
boil over our brims and filter fire out
from within.

We're coming.
Contain us or try.
It won't matter.
We know the saints and the lies,
and you'll get fatter.
And you'll be food for the flies
and we won't choose to abide;
to let the bruises subside.
We're unhinged in every way we know can chew you inside.
It won't be talking.

We know that it's enough to scare you
But your fear won't be enough to spare you.

Is it... Irony?
My life is language
and I have no words for you.

Erasing each little quip
before it reaches my lip
only echoes

A thousand lines for you.

The precedent muse,
and you won't see them
even if written
you won't see them
deleted.

I feel defeated

By myself and my hands
by my words
with which the short line spans

I feel deleted

Concieted

As if it's my defeat to posess.
As if the story is in reference to me.

But it was ours
and now it's not.

You won't see it.
The words won't rhyme,
because it's not our song anymore.

It's a memory
Fading into the background
Frequencies slowly dying out
against the scenery
as our ears get too old to hear them.

We'll remember differently every time
we think of it again.
Until it's different again.
Over and over,
until the echoes are a whole new chorus.

A different memory.
And the spark will be dead again.
In another new way.

I'll always be sorry.
Then I'll remember it
and type it, and delete it.

And we'll forget it, but we won't.
We'll hear the echoes
and won't have the words.

Deleted.

I feel the friction raising blisters to fingers.
I feel the whispers of the smoke when it lingers,
a siren rifling delirium
and biting to the throat of a genius
who questions how bad miasma hurts the singer.
It's the quintessential fever dream between us

Oh, he's so smart, look at his three page diatribe
describing his rage, he's a machinist
yeah
Go join the dire parades of craven weakness.
Admire reagents calculated to the T,
brewed and created for playfully degrading,
and raising heart rate, lying to you,
and prying from your fingers.
When they ask you why you're dying be facetious.
Just sew the mask on to your face and make it seamless.

Breath it in.

Smell the plastic and bone.
Relax enraptured in what half of us know.
We drink the rumors from a chalice,
sink in fallacies of balance,
humor actuates the patterns,
and its harder to battle the tumor after it's grown.
Then we're just grass on the road,
and we can laugh as we go,
and we can act as if inaction
ain't the crack in the stone.
And we'll be baffled alone.
We'll be the practical applicants
of a graph of a lung,
hung in a school.
Drooling hospital drones.

Stool in a bag on his side.
Try to hide the agony in seeing lagging behind
tank of life on a chain.
Banking his breath on a check,
and when it bounces he dies.

It ends faster than you think it might.

Don't even start.

I’m strung up
Pulled to full tension
Resisting the wind to
Stay steady at an altitude,
inducing vertigo
just tryna go from A to B
but can’t see the ground
like a mile high high wire.

I’m burning through paper
just praying for sustainable fuel
consuming quicker than I grow
and don’t know if I can pile high enough
before the flames die
and slough ashes around on the ground like a bonfire

I’m grinding to stone
emitting sounds to report
the dire situation. support
received from the inflation
adjacent to me inspires work
to make it off to the next stop
and walk/roll on like a flat tire

Rolling and blowing in the breeze
Dead leaves

Stowing the energy I have
Like winter trees

Rolling tumultuous waves of rage like the seas
Free flowing and open

A Spoken softly from the heart apology
for the history kissed with a propensity
for leaving words of sympathy
listlessly floating guarding an image eroding
with each sentence spent hardening
instead of saying what it meant to me clearly

The shells density spells
“to hell with it”
and kills the will to sell its self
with "superficial *******"
And continue to prepare it’s esoteric flare
And bury meaning where only he can see, for respite.

Each is given their canvas
Open air along the brief respective flashes of time
We whittle gasping attempts at a connection

With only any placeable frames that we’ve collected
Hammer dissonance to Xanadu

Feather in the contrast as a method of description

or discretion.
____

Building a context

heft upon a quickly fading gust
Just a divvied introduction of trust as a reflection.

Left as signal threading the reverence into message

Let me bury symbols in code and seed a weapon.
____
_____

Let me choose a frame and build a picture growing out to the edges
Filling seconds with deference
Knowing breath is the setting, for where the grey areas are

Levy loosening gaze, and form a tinctured impression of the glimpse I’ve incepted, though the lesson I’m guessing won’t fare to carry the cadences very far.

Tarry not for fear of ones inept reflection, bury not thy fierce direction.

Into the void.
Into the depths.
To build the frame.
To will the question.

"Forgive us," We chant.  

they're only words that we've inherited
an outline we've decided
history's absurd parameters
the language we've provided
as if trust in our alignment
to a violent set of precepts can be merited.

     Civil Culture?

It's a culture of the owner
simple values we've inducted
printing match sticks out of loners
when the world is deconstructed
do you measure up or fold it
you reduce the world to numbers
blew the lid off feuds abundance
knew the billionaires would fund it

     What's it mean?

Doesn't matter.
it's a remnant
not a battle.
don't dissect it
never tattle
golden goose
baby rattle

stolen goods
failing castle
swollen foot
gravy saddle
smoke and soot
pale and fragile
cut the fruit
use a scalpel.    

     This is...

     Strange fruit.

If it's a distance empty from the A to B we can't decipher.
lined along with bricks and mortar, stick and stone left how we like em.
How do efforts scurry through assuming light could bless the shadow
nose to sky with hopeful glances honing in on roads of gravel.

Growing disillusion suits a lofty breadth of chest to beat on
knowing in the end a setting sun eclipses better eons.
Apropos of nothing and devoid of any hopeful signal
known to try imposing gold on weathered stone, and broken spindles

Drew the yoke upon a sect who we prescribed a disposition
drawing red each sordid line, insuring they'll be sent to prison.
Never free. The harvester assumes the fruit have grown impatient
failing here to see them printing license plates on new plantations.

Maybe in the future we'll refuse the craven role, observer,
graduate to breaking through, return the lives we stole with fervor.
Maybe while elites are keen to trim the fat and clip the losses,
we'll discover links they hadn't seen, between our little boxes.

I'm somewhere in the middle.
Forget-me-nots in a pistol
tripping on thought tangents
playing a fist full.

Feeling my teeth caught,
biting deep in the gristle.

Seething a heat,
not green
not at bay to the whistle

my impatience is simple
I'm awaiting the gavel
And I'm somewhere in the middle
I fear the venom and rattle
and play the innocent *******.

beginning to wait
to watch the ending begin

approaching the line

I'm Here.

Watching the moment again
feeling cold on the fringe
seeing it blow in the wind

watching it pass
stopping to gasp
at how fast it was stolen again

seeing the difference,
between a fold and a bend

Peeling the image apart
and rolling bones for the gold
on the spin

Hoping next time
I'm not a line up of bowling pins

sitting in wait
asking the past
for a day to do over again

I'm somewhere in the middle.

I prefer to rhyme.

It's a canvas my hands are forced to paint in.

It's a limit I'm given, to try for more creative.

It's a gimmick that stands, supporting what the aim is

To have purpose when pressing record,

before I say this.

Formed in a field of fire, I cry,

serving thorns of beleaguered triumph, I crawl

to a shorn little wreath of wiring, I stall

to enthrall all the force behind me, I crawl.

Crawl with a ghost's sobriety, in a  thought
I have wrought
what a world denied me, in a joke,
but its not,
it's assuming a piety
in deliverance from fouler hits
isn't a blinder for your civil bliss.

Wake the **** up.

Watch the flare, trace the wick.

Dodge the rain drops, cop's air and spit.

Hopped a train of thought for a ditch

Found a chain of White grapes and whips.

You intervene with glitter glue at the seams,
assume to placate flames below the root of your jeans,
assemble suitable frames amid a brutal disease,
accrue the nourishing famine, staying true to your leaves,
and seeing nothing.

_

capitulate to the critical conditioners , an oppressor
hypernormal in biblical proportions for your pleasure
find the border for brick mortar
pull lever, level threat, fine order,
don't. cross. this. line.
ever.
Never stop to observe the servile nature of your stature
levy thoughtless concern to herd the ******* in your factor
paper shredder for flame fodder, **** your water
crawling out with a name, and an aim to discolor your collar

I have no eyes to see son or daughter,
grass in the field, lacks appeal,
devoured countless when I was smaller

Eyes on the whole deal, now
coal fields, cold meals, thick prose, sick cows,
this thirst, it grows, it thrives, right now
it knows, it chose,
these throes are how these days will close when you aren't loud.

Eat the rich
Eat the poor
Eat the earth
Nevermore.
Wake the **** up.

Each word doesn't have to perfectly rhyme.
We herd dozens at a time,
to service the climb,
to serve as a guide.
The burdens we find are the worms
to the birds in our lines,

further
winding along, to a life of a search
is to thrive; an adventure to mine;
to sense in the back of our minds
that a fifth of our life, will be spent
getting sights realigned.

Pining for growth,
styling the spine in our notes.
Fly if we do.
Die if we don't.
Die to the wild.
Die to the child that shoots that
fire from our throats

"Why didn't I..," You'll say,
on a day you remember, the tune
of a song that you wrote, then BOOM!

Thoughts cascade.
Brought that pain to your heart
like you fought with a ghost.

Don't get lost,

but if you do,

take notes.

If you're gonna be lonely,
maybe learn how to cook.

Parade the smoke to the rafters
after doubting the book.

Alert the parents in vowing the earnest
salt in the brook.

A fervent effort relays to bacon kisses you took.

Brine is cheap,
and on days like this
find a Mrs. or friend,
apply the bread crumb crisp.

Buy the egg to allure.
confide that "this might miss."
If not to them to yourself.
Try the odd light whip.

Find a guide or a dozen.
Fire doesn't necessarily deny the pleasant after math.
Passable dishes levy comfort on cold nights,
dying for treasure dancing in the lights,
and forming function digging diamond from plastic wrap.

"I could serve a candied berry
pair it fairly cold below a lighter cream."
See the finer things elaborate below the theme.
Mise en place allowing,
yolk to heat,
folk wreaths are crowning.

Found a leek to brown,
found out what friends to feed can mean

Be the barer
taste your food
silk confections
social fruit
Buck the system
Find connection
tuck the mood in
ginger root

get your list out
pay it forward
take the order
grab a whisk
make an impact
Pleat the border
break the silence
wrap a gift

Look at us deciphering from scattered bits of simple cadence

Gluing framing gaining prudent palette learning newer flavors

Loosening the meaning proving brighter than you once expected

Catapulting action leaving no depiction undisected.

Incomplete induction building context of compressed impressions

Sifting pieces understanding wanderlust in simple lessons

Pouring into view the words
Assuming form in function destined

Coloring a loose interpretation
Fusing loving heaven.

Seldom do the patrons of this theater construct it perfect

None the less the picture seeds a lust and makes the effort worth it

If I were on it, I'd align and live
a day worth the dent,

But if it's obvious or not I sense
created consent.

I try to fabricate a way in which
to break from the grip,

But it's appalling how inactive wings
will stay in the crib.

I see a season peeking in and out of clouds,
twiddle thumbs at my reflection
waiting numb at the direction of the wind

Brittle lungs hope to wrestle the distention
My complexion shows the symptoms
My assumptions were it's manifesting sin

It's the stagnant pool of water
It's a faltering foundation
guiding hands to feed the slaughter
Drawing lines to frame them in.

I make my mirror into butcher,
draw conclusions from the surface,
tunnel deep into the portrait,
judge the avatar as worthless.

We're just lonely little boxes,
on the surface,
if we only see the surface,
but the ocean drowns the treasure
for the divers to uncover

Will the tyrant butcher keep us boxed in cages
dancing superficial cadence
here to languish
never speaking to each other

Or can we assume the seasons feed the roots,
beneath the surface,
seed resurgence of connection,
see a new escape begin.

Color me refuse
Mud in the underbelly
The loose form of a man shoveling **** with a plan to tunnel out and hand the sentence to my master
Lose the chain around my neck and find a plot of land to dance tomorrow

It’s so far away though

Will I tread the sea of bodies strung along the ground
between the sphinxes gate to claim the crown, that even now glimmers past the smog that attempts to fog my vision my decision to walk on tested with every sound.

Bury my pride and carry the burden in stride refuse to tarry or cower or decide to turn around
Push the pen to the page with bleeding fingers
Paint with all the colors of masterpiece until I force something out

Will I?

Or will the tar on my lungs erase me
Will I be wrung like a towel thrown in
Drunk on futility
Chasing with impotent rage
Caged in a circus of ****** on a stage cuz I can’t raise a kid on minimum wage

Furious clouds are born storming throughout luxurious tapestries torn by ******* apathy ask me if My potential still holds sway when my energy has me using my hands to stop the rain.
Torrents pour in to clear my storage of scraps and sheer force of denial implores the whip on my back to pretend it’s on my side while it slips in a crack and adores the dough made from my heart attack

Bedazzled prizes consume the whipping allies beside me
inventing new ways to cope with bottom feeding society
assuming truth’ll be derived if so behooved are the masters and their plastic constituents which I guess makes sense, but
poor judgement lends my flesh up to communion if I dare to walk in and say union.


The reagents and *** kissers call into question mindsets infected by a weakness of character
I shed my pride and inquire with an open hand the law layers of the land to relinquish a sparing of its crumbs
Spun from a singular purpose of a daughters meal the judges glaring does little to impair my will to take the help I can
and spare the child the repercussions of her fathers failure and prepare a better plan

Further choral echoing discord turns it ugly head upon the scraps in my hand and posits that if they were taken it would make me work a lot harder instead of coasting on crumbs

So when the coal baron collects his second billionth he will surely cease pursuing correct?
Not do his best to dissect
Every millisecond of labor dug from workers he’s abusing to wring another penny out.
in fact
I think I see your point
Poised to join and help detract
Back peddle over to
Destroying. Prove lying
On your belly is the easy way out. To say
Today’s coin was well deserved. And serve stout drinks to the kings sleep on a rock and talk **** to the guy sleeping in a box because I’ve been taught to think I deserve where I am regardless of my environment but c'mon man ****

Let’s play a game of monopoly
I’ll start with 80% of the bank and y’all can be my ******* when I pay to write the rules and spank you up and down the board while barely touching the capital I have stored.

I’m getting pretty ****** tired of the stale story hard wired in our heads where the moral is free market prevailing for the pauper til he’s dead and social safety nets provided to the prince instead

it’s lead us to question
Methods of distribution sympathetic to tribulations
Endured.
Solutions ignored
For the poor because a single mother with a phone
Doesn’t deserve to be thrown a ******* bone
Apparently

All hail the welfare queen
Who hasn’t seen a day without the banks banner bearers walking tall
All over legislated brick walls enveloping more then all of her vision of a road to prosperity

Make it clear to me how she’s quote "taking advantage" of the land of the free while I see that you fail to ask us
How behind a mask of nobility a trillion dollar company still doesn’t pay its ******* taxes.

Let's play infinity.

Let's say this isn't enough,

this lesson in rough you've given me.

Let's say I stay for you

Rain affection and love
to be left in the dust, and withering.

Trust that the lust for eternity,
burdening you,
doesn't weigh this impatient delivery

Trust in the pain
as a product of growth.

Know that if I say "No"
that makes me an enemy.

But I know what I know.

Birds won't fly, where the seed won't grow.

Hurt this time, I return, to receive
a return to reprise, and a look in your eye.
You know.

We burned out slow.

We'll turn out fine
at the end of the show.

I'll just go
I'll hope you write every line
in the life that I want you to know,

and I'll write my little litany.
No love lost into infinity.

I'll just go.

I'll just go.

Art is working within a frame. Knowing and exploring that frame, using contrast, drawing attention across the field.

It’s an extension of language. Which is metaphor. The default art of language is the frame we operate from within. The words we collect along the way, to place along the veritable canvas of open air.

You need the frame to create context, but it’s also limiting. And it’s only when we understand where our context collides with other broader or more pervasive contexts that we can reconstruct our frame. Transcend it, and paint a newer, more comprehensive picture within a newer, more robust, frame.

So how big should your canvas be. Smaller frames require concision. Bigger frames allow more expansive exploration.

One would think, by those descriptions alone that a larger canvas is better, but it also requires more discipline. We can easily lose ourselves in the expanse and be left with nothing but irreducible chaos. Jungle. Space. Ocean. Not because these expanses are truly irreducible, but because we haven’t developed enough to place any kind of conceptual frame around them. We can’t place them into a useful metaphorical context, besides pointing into the void and reveling in its mystery.  Dreaming up monsters or messiahs that only reflect our fears and ignorance.

But this isn’t a canvas it’s a concept  and it’s hopefully a clear description of why overconfidence in our understanding can lead us to creating a frame larger than we can effectively navigate. Painting ourselves into the void, swallowed by reflections of our own shortcomings.

It’s not pessimism.

Each person is a natural artist gifted with the capacity for communication and supreme adaptation. Very fortuitous developments compared to say; ******* ants out of a tunnel with an incredibly well adapted snout, or establishing mate worthy dominance by bludgeoning a competing male with large outcroppings of bone. Music, written word, spoken language these are the result of our creativity. Our propensity to shift the scope of our picture. Capture understanding from depth by reducing it.

Language only has the frames we construct within it. We must place the borders around our picture somewhere, and playing within each arbitrary space is what creativity is. The self limited but transcendental use of ones space or time.

Got lost and stopped by the grotto
struck deals with villains,
and though I'm in my feelings
kneeling and *******
I payed to be ripped off
cadences dip, lost the lotto

Watery graves appealing strange
the solution is lame
the parade's an insane path to follow
Radical urchin burden
grifting the current
mechanisms infected
luring fevers to wallow in, ad absurdum
fathom futility in survival
famine imbibes a stifled echo of revival
in my head

I'm just playing dead for my recital

better informed to the abhorrence I'm entitled

feathered in form alluring sword alarm from Michael

clever to wars imparted forcible and vital, to the era

but staring in awe before the cycle

Bearing a maw beneath the throes along the final.

Bury me after my heart
and guard informal notions of the lauded
if calluses lift the filthy and applaud it

whittle the simply to the too intense or lawless
for a history glistening through a rose of sickly fondness
I won't ask if you were listening to all this
but I must admit
I don't think I can trust you

to be honest...

Kyra, Dad's got some paper and pens
and that's it
A cup of tea at 1am'll
push him just a little bit further
to finish all of his scrawl
about the things in the world you deserve
and how he'll go get it all

He'll push the pen to the page
at an age that you can't read or write
But it's more about holding himself accountable
to the crawling days

and if your smile stays
at least he'll know he did some things right

By the time you read this
you'll be learning how to doggy paddle
Through swimming pools full of stuffed animals, on tuesdays
And on days that start with "S"
You'll be air lifted in a fairy costume
to the civic center
so we can see the what's it's on Ice

And i promise I'll stop smoking

and at night you'll have a team of interpretive dancers
teaching you and your 9 ponies the classics
in a better way than I can tell em...cuz I have this whole monotone thing...that I do

But I'll be there the whole time
to try to fight back the impulse I feel
to steer for you on every step, and miss step
Because I know you won't forever need me here
You been the freest spirit, since the day we first met.

And if you're reading this and I'm bald
maybe take it easy on me....I'm pretty sensitive about it.

By the time you read this,
I'll have put the work I needed in
to pay whatever school to teach you everything you wanna know

and I promise I'll quit smoking
and I promise I'l never make you feel like less than everything to me

and though your father may have been a failure when he found you
The sparks that you emitted through his heart that night,
with fingers wrapped around his thumb,
erupted seas of roaring flame around his very soul
bolstering a furnace to replace the heart you stole
the foundry drove his will that night
and has done ever since,
even when all he does have
is paper and some pens.

Place the day
Shredded paper soil pours the rose composed for those with better things to grow into the air
Smokey silhouettes dressed in regret pressed against the echoes of its flare
Sparing the nights received stares of ambivalence
A sentence spun to run on too long
In a song with too many notes
broken in a sense few would know how to sense
or think to try
To vai through ethereal rope for ways to cope
with another day of smoke
Just wait and choke
Consider the ways it broke
Deliver another craven joke
Then slither away at once and pray the planted stems response
is the one we'd hoped it would evoke

But we haven't spoken have we
Coughed a sick joke and no ones laughing
Are you happy
Free from a tether whether we were ready or not
Lock step in a crowd head down
Feathers in a knot
Trapped me in apathy
Had to be hard
And I'm sad that I'm happy
Playing the part

Place the night
Over a lifetime of work and lurch
When the dirt under your nails edges into pale skin
Sickening little scratches tapping rickety veins placing marks to track the pain on a line this thin
An addiction.
Affliction born from your own choices
sworn to poison from the inside out beginning to end.
Send the sin from your nerves with urgency
turbulent little displacements of adjacency
And graciousness erase us
As we face and feed the fire
With emaciated traces rehearsed  when we preach to choirs.
Indecent liars
destined for and inspired by greatness swooning under the weight between each action
feeling dire chasms open
soon after the broken reflections of our spoons feel the heat from lighters

Ivy prying sickly little patterns
Over weathered marble

Drying into autumn
Soured clover spitting flower fodder

Power living deeper
Seething stranger towers clouding water

River founding cities
Plowing fitting visions vowing honor

Dying in the streets
Among the leaf appearing from a gutter

Under marching clutter singing arbor into many others

****** if a murmur isn’t echoed further outing fathers

Bound to pass a burden
Surgeon scalpel serving hallowed daughters

Hours over eons
Over galaxies or galant parents

Drowning in a sea of turning time
Below the grinding planets

Finding little moments
Here and there
To stir the brewing panic

Signing every letter
Leather binding
Solemn coward banished

Given up already
Dreading answers only getting silence

Searching furrowed forest
Lurking treasures forming learned guidance

Breathy whispers egging
Empty guesses  pouring from the pious

Crying over constellations
Craven paper tiger liars.

"The thing about sht, is it rolls down hill"
My grandfather told me that.
He was a chemist.
"I know about some sht," he said.

"You get sht on by the people above you,
and you sht on the people below."

"Some may let sht slide,
some can't let sht go."

But you never sht on someone beside you.
That's how you make sht grow.

If you give me long enough
I could paint a vivid portrait of myself
with every blemish and pore behind a brush,
and hush the voices that would criticize
unsubscribe and dance it up over in wonderland with the sycophants

put on my bedazzled pants
let the local singles know I'm a dancer
just a beating heart away
From being another square upon a lattice
a writhing mass of hair gel
and cologne working up the ladder to fuckboi status

Imma walk the line between
a marble arch eclipsing the sun
over an angel statue kneeling in prayer

and a black leather boot clad
bad *** with bad habits
but he's so cool he doesn't care

Look at him go
all on his own
with only a thousand or so, little paintings  
that are equally as photo shopped or filtered
just floating around waiting to see the show
and letting other people know they liked it
or not

What a spectacle destined
to leave us senseless and restless
what a test of the patience to be a slave to the masses
to see my juxtaposition against the rest of the best of us
and think "I should go with clever with glasses."

What a brutal twist of civilized life
to have an AI made for driving my car
so I can shimmy down and sneak another **** pic
THROUGH SPACE, to some guy who works at taco bell's wife
Laura something or something

I'm so social
What a medium,
Exchanging ideas,
and hunting body heat from out of the ether,
to have the pleasing distortion
of the speakers
drowning out all the wearisome noise
of our contortions

"You gotta learn to love yourself"
She says, and posts another photo
buried somewhere under 60 layers
of dog noses and rainbows, and angel wings

Oh **** this isn't boyfriend material let me change some things

-
You don't ever need to change girl,
there ain't anything, in this world
That I wouldn't do, to be with you.

And the Brief exchanges we had,
didn't reveal any red flags,
that I am willing to skip on *** over.

So somewhere down the line,
when the filters start to fade,
we'll just kick that can down the road,
and neither of us will change.

And the picture's that we painted of our Love
will degrade.

How many centuries have we spent now,
bent down?
Brown mud caking these
brittle knees.
Unmade in the eyes of a perfect being,
and he won’t die,
and lie in that grave with the others.
His forgotten brothers.

A welcome emaciated mass of sun bleached death.
Tossed without ceremony left to be lost like the rest.
Frail and undone when the cleansing light sends its test.
Pale and empty of substance when exposed.
Set to rest and decompose.
And we’re unimpressed.

These hypnotized liars walk lines along cliff edges.
Lost in their mind because those before them said it.
Handed a song, ages old, told to walk in faith alone.
On the precipice dancing on the edge, but they forget it.

Stone erodes and poses pressing tones below
Stressing more and more the floor supporting guests, upon depressing roads.
Paths corrode as cracks along the edge show
growing tortured gravel patches,
bound to pour out scores,
when rainfall carries
laughing dancers to the bones.

We’re fed up, jaded, and broken,
so let us take a moment.
Leave the solemn words
we’ve spoken on the graves.
Turn the token cliche prose
we lay on corpses into social currency for future days when those who question us impose an accusation;

“Why didn’t you help”
“By myself?” replies the bystander
Surprised to find the eyes
of a man turned squarely into his,
with tears colliding with his hand,
as fingers press into his eyes again.

“You watched as masses shielded vision and passed
Not but an inch from within the wind of your breath
Without so much as a whispering bid for reason.

You laughed in the ignorant faces of men and women perceiving yourself apart, or above, and seeded in yourself a pride that grew out into treason.

Leaving your fellow man unbreathing now.
Hallow and bleeding out.
Just like the fallen deities you love to mock so ******* much.

Mock them when they pray too hard but stay just as blind as they are because not speaking is just as awful as appalling preaching and you know such”

The bystander feels
Shaking ground, though metaphoric ground this time,
below his euphoric purpose driven apathy.

“This is how it has to be”
He pleads. Recedes into himself and pleas for respite.
Left to wrestle his own fears of king or despot selling wishful vials of lies to those, without the question in their mind to test it.

“They won’t listen. Days go missing in their heads consumed with blissful ways.
They chase the wisdom
Fray the threads of truth to suit the pictures kissed with wishes for filtered existence away from criticism and pray for a view assuring their faith stays”

Before the next reply could pour out The
Depths retort a horrid sound that cuts the air
and ground, denies the sordid pair their discourse,
and sorts them with the rest of who’s around,
with waves of death abound.

The recently brittle mountain
with what decent little strength had been reserved,
turned temples into rubble descending caverns and burning up. The lessons lost and briefly learned, before the the fall,
were all but echoes in the minds of the dancers who returned,
to spurn the non believers who couldn’t use their faith and find lessons to be discerned.

“Heed not the words of heretics.
Fear not the shrinking mountain.
This lack of faith produces bile that strives to pollute our drinking fountain.
Search within yourself to find a mind that lends its self to sway.
Allow these soothing songs
of ours to heal and wash the pain away.”

And they will.

Loading up my black mirror Skinner box to feel connected

Growing in the recesses craft horrors have recollected

Knowing when the tendrils attach more ascend to deck and
Burrow with an aim to enact order and stay infected.

Preying on desire with cracked swords a solemn gesture
spills aboard aloft an impactful throne of sordid fester

None adorn a thwarting reaction as a suit of armor
Gunning for the floor the distraction of a warring vessel.

Thunder isn’t half of the problem pouring ocean water.
Nothing but an echo, the past it seems was scarcely special

Wonder if the grip will relax if I can paddle harder
Sunder every bridge in a gasp for the forgotten nestle

Covered up in plastic, ******* thinks he’s just a farmer
Wonder when the bones in my back will feed the mortar pestle.

Fumble with a weapon enraptured in the frozen water
Doesn’t change the fact that the ******* on another level

I just wanna be alone
To feel silence to my bones
To sit and soak in solitude from all of you and turn to stone
To walk home and lose all of what I’ve known

Relish the selfish urge to purge the hurt
shelve this drone of words learned to cope under burdens spoke from our hopes into existence

A frame we placed to filter days from pain we tried to hide but blissful wishes died when those viscous lips of irony kissed us.

And watched reality twist us

So I need a minute
Forgive me or don’t
I see the judges gaze flare but I won’t dwell in it
I’ll be a ghost

Wrecked in the specter
Sector
Costumes tossed to the soul inspector
Lost forever on the road to a goal we expected to erode following cold sweat dreams deemed detrimental to the airships failing fuel injector

Time to get vague I think
Fly through the page and sink,
softly off the couch into the floor
to watch the ceiling fan pour air over a man
Lying but standing alone
Prone but brandishing
Handfuls of stones to throw

Stolen WiFi can’t repair
Windows to the life I knew
When the wind blows remnants Of a drive by through
To consume my attention with mistakes I made but hesitate to mention over this tie dye brew

This mix in my cup sticks to my gut and fails to repair the limp in my strut
I’m careful with the innocent buzz built to bury regret and I’m not even drunk yet so kiss my ****.

My Monday morning walk into the door’ll
manifest a girl who has me questioning any aforementioned morals

Watch her wiggle past,
her little figure sending ripples through the store
catching eyes with simple gestures she won’t think about

Core shaken
Mind taken just before
I can collect and reset
Keep my cool and restore
The composure I project
Refuse to let the shallow
Sections of my thoughts
Invade and settle over
Work I should be doing
to ***

I know it’s ******* to portray poetic images of depth within myself
While at the same time
I pine over the darling like a Barbie on a shelf
Because I barely said a word to her

Before in my mind I undressed and ******* her

And it’s lines like that
Flaring through to self awareness
when they hit the page
Caging what I say in hallow careless little quips about how much of myself that I’m embarrassed
That leave me ill prepared to change cuz I can’t bare it
And she’s a carrot on a stick I guess
I’ll parrot my stresses to myself and bury it
Let the sensations arising
Around the new addition dull or deplete when testing
Her personality shows she likes to eat babies or listen to future or something equally detesting.

But **** new chicks got a nice ***
Which I’m sure she’s never heard and wants to hear
From me or strangers when they see her
To watch her steer is just confusing
Like... How the hell do you stand is all I’m saying
Clearly your center of gravity
Has to be six inches further back than the average mans
But I digress again
All I wanna say is I'm not an awful person
At least I don't think.
I think I need a drink.

Rap at those enraptured under fears of the bacterial,
as children try discerning ethereal from material.

Drowning in the oceans of history, since repeating
these anachronisms trumpeted a fracture fed imperial.

Curse the brittle bones encroaching faster by the minute,
while the sinners broaching laughter couch a ghost within a cynic.

Living flesh against a ghost.
Spoken word against it's host
Who's the zombie here,
between a thread of hope and varicose?

Who's to know the line approached?

Serve the rabble in our throats?

Turn the table in our notes.

Learn the fables from the jokes.