love in the pockets
of my blue jeans
cherries white and ripe
the fabulous patchwork
of sunlight through leaves,
all ivory and ink, the sky
with its summer-sad blues.

The wicked, the naked, the holy abstract dying...
sinister whispers from their papery lips rasp,
painting lies on the forehead of Deity himself.
Black ribbons bleed, are used to tie the earth
onto its galactic post.
Sins, crimes, acts of inhuman terrorism
against children.
Each winking star the soul of a baby
best not brought here into this pestilence of spirit;
this disease of immorality.
Murderous hands cover eyes so evil they
cannot be looked upon;  the living become the dead.

Rather than the clean, quick nuclear fire,
we will dribble and ooze our noxious cruelty,
our diseased DNA and the pus of our vacant minds
until we make of earth, an abattoir.

i said i like broken houses
                      and what is a broken house
                      have i felt that cold in me
                      in bones and skin and nails
                      that scratch into a wall which
                      won't be even marked by daylight
                      and maybe it wasn't as broken
                      and that's why i relish in the
                      falling apart that sordid emptiness
                      the freefalling, such helpless moment
                      because daylight never made it better
                      nor worse because my eyes are blind
                      to color and sound and touch
                      and there's nothing that can change
                      how i perceive my surroundings
                      so don't give me lillies, look at my
                      walls and you will see the ones i had
                      already withered away in time in death
                      and having flowers depresses me like
                      it's some sick way of seeing death
                      and you killed for giving me something nice
                      so that i can think about you by night
                      but all i get to think about is
                      how that flower could've gotten to grow
                      and be even prettier
                      and how everything that's beautiful
                      one day loses all its petals
                      and we throw it away
                      so i fear that when i'm no longer what you want
                      what you pictured in your silly mind
                      then you'll throw me away like i'd do
                      with a decaying flower.