Saints in the grass,
snakes in the red inked rice paper,
Paydirt to just dirt,
stealing the first buds on your neighbor's rose bush
because you've earned them.
Worth is a burned bridge
glimpsed over a shoulder,
burgeoning burned already
lest we embed flesh in cold earth because to smoulder is a fate worse than rehearsing a death wish
in the cracked mirror of modernity.
These days the
development of a style
is like trying to translate
the leaves blowing across
concrete into Naruda
at his most heartbroken.
You either try or lie about what
is dying in the background
of every family photograph
yet to be taken.
Being well received is a gold star
sticker by your name written in
I don't want you to like me.
Wilmot in the park,
the dregs hurled at the world,
teeth stained red or falling out.
I don't want you to like me.
I want you to feel something.
The more the reader
is left to ask what happened
the more the mask slips
and the trajectory of this elliptical orbit I'm absorbed in can be
learned and mapped out.
Black clouds holding hands
with the laughing child in my chest.
Where's the threads,
the vein that runs through it,
the ******* point to it all?
You can't daisy chain clouds
with "I love you" whispered
in abandoned houses
and expect it to rip out hearts.
Patterns, patterns, patterns end.
Nothing matters anyway.
This lassitude is a path
I intend to stray from,
go laughing like a madman
off into the wild wild faceless
fade-away until I wake up
in another's afternoon.
Square one is etched in my light-body.
Masks, masks, and masks.
Sad poems stacked somewhere
between out past and the shattered
glass still scattering Saturday sunshine;
I think I've loved life enough, thanks.
Through the narrow window
in my cell I see the
sunset shading everything,
from sky to soil,
the color of watered down
merlot soaking into fresh white linen
and I wonder how much
you've been laughing lately.
You touched rolling clouds
without ever knowing there would
be no touching down
and that “good enough for jazz” ****
is ******* trash.
The sound of me taking
drags off a cigarette
as all these mean dark clouds
roll roaring out all of your heads
is an award worthy soundtrack
all by itself.
and yes, I totally get why the skies look this way.
I just needed something to write about
and the climate seemed to have the
perfect amount of "meta" in it to...
All of these people gnashing teeth
over 2 months of an isolation
drenched in comfort takes my
mind to Thoreau at his cabin,
tending to his beans
and befriending bees
while the orchestra of the
afternoon breeze plays
the branches like cellos and violas
to that brilliant gilded lonely he danced
with like a lover in a living room
or a child standing on his shoes at a wedding.
See, I've been eviscerating self
for the viewing pleasure of shadows
for 13 years,
in dark corners all alone
save for those souls holding black holes torn in reality who occasionally
came around to share drugs or a beer with me.
What I am saying is this isolation driving
you all to drink or sink teeth into anything
is my default setting.
I've been laughing like a lunatic watching a
mushroom cloud way bigger than my thumb at arms length rise in the distance for so long that it's become a feather-top
with more pillows than every bed
in every sorority house combined.
You ******* are less than amateur.
I'm the unsung tyrant king of this cancer-verse.
There was never any answers to any questions
or any standards for anything anywhere ever
and there never will be
skipping rocks across still ponds,
the gods are comedians.
my coffee is still hot.
middle fingers to a walk of shame.
you all get lost like bats in a thick fog.
so let me scratch my scrimshaw
in peace, please.
i write for the ghosts of my past lives.
that's why i leave ink anywhere but on the page.
we all want to see the dead body.
you might be thinking Im full of ****,
but look at how we pour over
one another's work;
so close we should taste blood in our mouths.
we need to stare into the bluish grey face
of something so we dont putrefy in our
bathroom mirrors every morning.
we need desperation,
we need pain,
we need a tinge of the fight's futility
most important of all,
we need to leave it where we found it
and never speak of it again.
we ALL want to see the dead body.
Cherish that being scared of the future feeling.
It’s just one snare hit on the drum track of some wack ****
you slapped together in mom’s basement on a 8 track sold at her estate sale
and bought by a soundcloud rapper who will just delete the ****
to make one of his lame *** songs.
Youth burns like the oil in old lamps.
Only ever slow clap when it’s the most out of place.
Fold up maps and toss them out rental car windows.
Laugh like a savage drinking blood of his cold axe blade.
It will be ok.
This isn't as much of a battlefield as you're painting it out to be.
Although the carrion still circle overhead though so...
This is all the narrative
of some disillusioned author
who conceptualized it long before
he started missing his deadlines
and drinking at breakfast.
All of it.
Every morning I try to coax
the End Times out of a single second.
So far I've only managed to slip
between minutes lost to watching
the coffee *** fill to it's brim.
Fiddles played while any and all mystery
falls on bent swords,
you can hear the sadness in the notes
as they float between the oxygen molecules.
Solitude is an honest friend most days
while others it is another bent blade
awaiting my laziness.
I sleep standing up or running in place
so jokes on it.
Abraxas in the bathroom mirror,
I am not here perpetually.
Krakens in the coffee creamer,
"here" is a relative term.
Massive is the pile of things
I'll never get around to touching,
my relative's calls are all forwarded
Worry is a meal all it's own.
Prost to the dreamers too awake
for their own good.
I see you.
These doors don't open so easily
so I drink when even the tiniest
of shafts of light are beaming through.
Nothing makes sense,
everywhere is a dark room.
I see you until my "one-too-many"
weighs heavy on my eyelids
and my glass dances across the floor.
I need to get out of here.
Give me the cup
and I'll fill it,
with a future named in honor
of a nightmare that couldn't rouse
my tired bones.
I have found where all roads end
and laughed at the sky like a madman,
drinking the rain that fell into my open
Give me the athame and I'll sharpen
it on my chipped teeth before
I plunge it into trembling earth
that smells of my mother's perfume.
I have knelt here before
but only now do I feel the bruises.
Only now do I love them.
Every other moment,
beneath my feet,
I feel the ground's metamorphosis
into open air.
Truth is a tightening noose.
Trying to syphon anything but lies
as white as the proof is deniable
Spoonful after spooonful flying
into a smiling mouth;
no airplane sounds.
Missing the tentacles writhing beneath
the detritus on the Earth's surface
is as close we orphans can get to
being detrimental to a cause.
Claws marks on the inside of coffin lids
scrawl their own metaphor for the squall
that drifts slow and minimal
but ends at The All coming to a
screeching halt in the middle
of the walkways connecting
the land of the living with
the dreams of palms outstretched
for what we will never learn.
The days are becoming too many bricks
through one window
or too much hornet soju before hitting
the next noodle spot.
Old news like the petrichor.
The walls are screaming "pick up the pen"
like it's so simple to not sip the sickness
out of this distance and call it a friend.
sell it quick,
sell it quick.
The market's on nose-dive.
Stuck and helpless but on a slow climb
to mindful of what self-as-center gets.
I guess this isnt idleness...
this morning you came to me
in a dream,
with your hair dripping wet
and wrapped in a cream
colored bath towel,
looking like the ******* image
of the cosmos collapsing.
right as i felt like God himself
i started crying like a child
alone and lost in some monstrous night.
i never knew i missed you this much.
If I'm not holding your hand
then you refuse to walk with me.
I wish that character flaw of yours
would find a porch to die beneath.
I wouldn't mind smelling the rot
for weeks before finding it.
you can hear them scream
"peep the soul glowing"
from the cheap seats
we need to keep the bones
just to throw 'em into stockpots
believe what you want
we wont notice
it's deep sleep or hopscotch over
whole oceans turned to vapor
the pay-dirt is favored over
that traitorous flavor you slang
at the end of your week
who transcended the breeze
without leaving a dream-scape
say it loud
say it loud
my nose bleeds gold
no need to peep the soul
the glow and the punctuation are implied by the flow
plus the gumption fades quick
ive tried writing the folds out of the plot
it not ******* possible
say it loud
say it now
say it proudly
Just a sip from the abyss
and then it's bed time for all of us.
Twisting words around sunshine
is a gun to the head of God
if God wasn't busy with the mystery
hidden in the entropy spilling
out of my pen.
Just a sip, kids.
This is just some **** for you to skip rocks to.
Every calm that has ever birthed
an epiphany for you was really
sheer ******* chaos you were
too blind to notice.
believing it was something
like a nice early 20th century
restaurant is convenient
now that i’m trying to write
about where “I” was before
the doctors forced me back
into my body the other day
at the hospital.
the clink of silver on porcelain
becoming the relentless beeping
of an ECG is imagery that does
all the heavy lifting.
of course, dissociation does come
easy to my generation.
we all do not wear watches either.
only more problems, right?
roll your eyes at the end.
In the past I would pride myself
on resiling as stylishly as possible.
That Most-High hope climb
choked and died and now I'm here.
No idea why though.
Fossils pulled from the cold cold earth,
are locked in filing cabinets
some place way too eager to become the past.
Of course I know now though.
I don't write poetry.
I spill Paul Masson and Pepsi
out of styrofoam cups
on the floors of every theater
within walking distance.
Later, I call it heresy
and start the walk all over again.
But I really don't write poetry.
I fall deeper as I
watch her yawn in the sun.
There better be a fountain
made in her likeness
at the center of all this.
Whose voice echoes down these halls?
Who asks that question more than one
could otherwise stand?
Immune to voids and letting go,
paralysis precedes the fall from grace.
One could walk while they chase
if they absolutely had to.
I can turn a bright morning
into a nightmare as good as any.
it doesnt mean i want to.
so every moment not alone
is "too many cooks" to me.
it doesnt mean i want that either.
these words of mine
are a labyrinth
I've been floating
down rivers of questions
my whole life.
Picture ancient microbial life
resurrected from a glacier
quickly melting somewhere.
Floating on the thread between.
in lieu of a gilded rose
in front of a glimmering window
we have this moment
in which we disclose to ourselves
bones pulled from a frozen lake.
call it stolen.
call it entropy.
don't ever call it again.
no matter the path
you to choose to crack microscopically
Saturn will still scream on a wavelength
that took 4.5 billion to even be noticed.
blindly casting unfathomabilty at the void
all around itself:
king, queen, and the thief purloining
the centerpiece from the former's feast table.
so please explain to me why,
a billion miles away,
suicide is something that exists.
especially since every truth is a myth
that, in the end,
was ripped from the mist of **** memories.
so, is it stolen?
is this entropy?
are you married with kids?
whatever it's become for you,
as well as however it is you fit into it.
this wasnt done and now it is.
incrementum per mortem, everybody
wine or blood?
either way, a window opens
and all I see is how the sheep
and the wolf share a common
blood it is then.
Hands for anathema
and whatever else happens to fall
from the sky in your mouths.
Mountains, valleys, fountains,
stanzas slung in alleyways
outside the houses of our youth.
As loud as the views.
As bright as an empty noose.
We were here before, remember?
now the hue of dead futures,
still reeks of the need
to be photographed.
All of you want to
watch me rip my heart
from my chest while rhyming "our trauma"
with "the wide wide world" and never
letting my widest smile break.
On top of that you expect it free of charge.
I mean, I'll do it but I need you all
to at least recognize my skin stretched
tight over soon-to-be cracked ribs
among other things.
They are as follows:
Algorithms are taking what glimmers
in secret and burying it deeper beneath hashtags
and posting schedules.
The sky isnt as big as it once was.
This planet is past the point of
sustainable support for your
progeny and will
be an inconceivable hellscape for theirs.
Your compassion is as plastic
as your currency and just as stable.
A truly selfless act is blowing
your brains out at the government buildings
of your respective countries
or at least refusing to bring children
into this yawning grave of a world.
You don't want to hear that but ****
what you do or dont want.
Go ahead, throw your rotten
I'm ******* starving...
My head cracks open
and spills onto tables at least
three times a week,
so please stop being nervous.
Cut to compatibility unencumbered
by the noose of proxy acceptance.
That is an example of my yolk
sizzling so, again, chill out.
Oh, what megaliths we can dismantle
now that all our walls are dust.
Lift a cup for the frustration
that comes from missing the kairos.
What is stasis when the cusp
Of stuck can become the love of the lust for greatness?
I wont draw a line in any sand if you pay me.
Maybe it’s a “wouldn’t”.
Paintings on the wall.
in the words of Ceschi Ramos,
"art is dog **** on a wall,
art is magnifying vices.".
subjectivity is the life-blood
of that abominable thing
crawling through the proverbial
landfill that is our collective
we dip every angel feather
in the ******* and drool pooling
at our feet because we can't seem to see
the defining line between
shutting the **** up
and screaming "what does it mean?!"
at the top of our lungs.
something like that.
the only acceptable political idealogies
are an open mind, a heart as blind as it is boundless,
or a molotov cocktail waiting to shatter
against anything built in opposition of
the first two.
I was dragged out of the void,
shackled to these atoms,
and told to swim across oceans
of pain and in doing so
I fell in love with words
Ill be ****** if anyone
steals the only bit of win
I deserve by trying to make
me think in terms of profit margins
instead of drawing spirals and stick figures.
this darkness, again, is forgettable
and in some way needs to remain
besieged by the sky,
my lungs have already burst.
never found the words.
i still drift nowhere,
first to find out I'm alone;
I would hate to hide.
the smell of honey
and lavender paints the walls
of mornings lost to...
junk stock depleted,
the sky is now dirt and bones.
i wait in the void.
gravestones bathed in grey.
flowers dance in full spectrum.
i am lost between.
towers built to fall
are beautiful as rubble.
rising dust, their souls.
cracked mirror, bent sight.
everything was always like that,
nevermind that one.
cinematics are sickly,
if i let them dream.
on top of a broken throne,
a hopeless ghost that eloped with control
and then leapt off a cliff when
he was supposed to invoke
all those happy memories,
half of his entropy flows from disasters detached from his history
and the rest is the wind through the trees grown from bitter seeds
thrown into the dirt of what was meant to be forever.
crowns melt with enough heat.
clouds swell above the heads of those condoning his death,
a true crown for the ugly...
off with his head!
off with his head!
off with his head!
he sees them seething and he forgives himself for being a fool
as their screams retreat from the growing light of oblivion.
#spoondeep #alldumb #love #breakup #woke #death #rapcareer #wedding #kingshit
#otherperson #shutup #already #starvingartist #duh
the flame of the candle
dances with the shadows
on the wall.
life and death are no different.
one where I am still watching my feet...
#gnosis #meditation #ritual #love #sappy #darkarts #meaningoflife #pretentious
each breathe is a flame kissing the wax of my edges,
flesh to air, air to flesh again.
straying from the path is just another
a precedent set against fair shares of neglected death.
i was promised a sleep so peaceful
even non-existence would be jealous,
but im still wide awake paying homage to every detail through a fogged lens...
its not as tragic as I would like to paint it.
more a backflip over a slight frustration.
i always said there was
nobody after you.
i don't think i wanted to
but my beliefs have never
been able to cast light on
any horrifying nightmare
lurking in the shadows.
so, sounding poetic aside,
there is and never will be
anyone after you.
this is roses thrown into those shadows
this is written for someone.
inside joke type of thing.
Stumbling down the street
whilst scratching your middle name
onto a shabbat candle is me
doing my best Phillipe Petit.
I'll try to remember to read by the light.