Baby, hit that space bar
one more time and give me
something deep to embark.
You're not the only one trying
to find some peace of mind
locked away behind these
falling lines.

Pretty little words filled
with all sorts of quirky verbs.
They're like Lego's resting on
your chest - building blocks
of distress you could never resist.

Take my hand and fly away
let the keys open your heart
and expose it to the world within.

My life's an anagram scrambled on the daily by the toddler tendencies of a **** drunk humanity

Single handedly scribbling lines into the sands of my sanity

like a sapling wrathfully thumbing it's hancock through the dew drops atop my glass canopy

Let us dethrone this ***** little clone,
put him back in the barn where he belongs;
next to the other dozen standalone stepping
stones collectively gathering dust to the dome.

A collection of crazies chasing overblown
daisies in a field of belated phrases. Like,
"Three lines should get you going, Homie!"
(I love you)
how about
(NO! *******)

Where's your patience? Did you check the back pages?
What's a death race without 1st place?
It's death before dishonor or have you already forgotten?
All we ever wanted was to flagpole our importance.


Crusading sapiens stay pounding their chest
while these invading aliens blend in with the rest
and I'm two pills past drunk waiting for the pending
blimp on your radar to changeling into a Death Star.

Saved by the bell; he's just another dead ringer trying to belay the legions of his hell

When my battery dies
And you can't recall my voice
Just know I could've charged it
But it was you I thought of first

She's had it with the dramatics
Maybe I should take a page
from the Cro-magnons
and pick these knuckles
up from the pavement
Demeanor dragging 'cross
the grass like an alligator belly
I'm slow - 1st place is just a myth to me
Sloth life, you can find me in the treelines
reaching for the stars when the night comes

I'm just a kid trying to have fun
who happens to have a jungle gym
for a tongue.

Anymore he's ****-poor,
an off-mood in it's final form.
A Monday morning set on rerun.
Somebody fetch the kid a coffin,
his serotonin is stretched thin.
Put his thinker on the block
and cure him with a swift chop.
He won't need it where he's going.
The cubicle smaller than a molecule,
and the fine print's never optional.

I'm better bitter.
Cross my heart. Watch me die.
I fortified the sky
with my ever so clever mind,
then colonized the divides
that hid like lice on shifting tides.

I am the truth.
The one, The only
Soul Possessor of Proof.
I chase the **** like raids of troops
raining down hell on breathless boots.
Hoops and hoops, it's all I do.
Who knew the stew taste so good?

Grade A Plutonium patience
ingrained into his creation;
I'm in this game for the glitches.
Bet these mitts wont miss it.
Be ready for when **** get's real.

Hold the hard R, pass the small L,
rewind time then expel.
Crown the king. Sound the bells.
It's been found - my rabbit hole to hell.
Home bound on a lickety-split spell.

Personnel parallel to the view box,
unload your wisdom unto us wee rocks.
Chisel past our flaws to our resolve
and free us from that which scars.
Hearts on hearts should be enough.

How shallow do you have to be
before I can walk on water
There's dew on the grass
am I getting warmer
Look at me like I don't exist
Look at me with pure disgust
Adjust the pressure and let it rust
Throw away the keys it could be fun

The subtle wind
behind morning fog
A dewdrop grin
grows upon the young
It's cultivated hate
which lays wait
beyond the sun
The way they flock
is all but gone
In time of need
they will come
One by one
it won't be long

**** sleeping.
It's 4 am and the windows sit tilted.
Feels like winter but it's the bone that splinters.
No snow outside just the woe of billions,
though still cold enough to uphold some liquor.
Orwell's vision - a fresh print - first edition.
I'm here to worship the hissing behind the television.
To slip in between the cracks of black and white
til I'm peddling end times like I want it done right.
Spare me a match and I'll bring the 'mite,
we can start where the litter lies.

I don't feel like a writer
I feel like a wave grazer
In search of the perfect
surf under a lantern moon

One page, Two page, Three page.....
****! They're all blank. Now what, *****?

Sat face to face with the faceless
It feels like a walk through the Ages
A long forgotten Gazer's contest
with an army of the rottenly oppressed
where you try 'n' find the slightest slight of progress
It's super duper glue for the clinically obtuse
shooters churning in their itty bitty booths
You learn the dance
Get to experience true trance
'til it becomes such a ***** ******* nuisance
that your left clawing at your two front
just for the chance to taste the illusion of choosing
Attack of the modern-day zombie
Hello, my name is IRobot

Each day I walk a line within my mind,
trudging along my own Event Horizon.
The bitter beat beneath my feet
haunts me like a fallen friend.
With no way to purge this curse,
It follows me to my impending end.

As I reach the place where stars are
swallowed and giants lie in wait,
I pause for a spell and glare back to
ponder; eyes slowly growing hollow.
When did self hatred mutilate my wild blue yonder?
Who deluded the water which blissfully sprang me to life?
Was it I who knotted the laces of my feet with constrictor like grip
to trip myself into a conviction of a crime I did not commit?
Why would I do this to myself?
I once loved the person I was.

Aimless were the arrows which my thoughts shot through the dark.
A fools errand to greedily gain knowledge before the last embark.
More hope could be found in the heart of a man who sat behind his desk, plotting with calamity on how he'd go berserk and lay waste to the rest.

With acceptance rivaling that of the Easter Islanders once they heard word of their fate, I hung my legs over the horizon's edge, swallowed my pride, agony, & faith.
I let my mind, body, & soul plummet into this pitiless place.

A mushroom cloud apocalypse
minus blistered skin competence
Who knew a disaster could be had
while fickle branches brave the blast

My skin keeps falling off
an apple leaves the tree 'n' heads south
I heard their seeds set you free
somewhere in between the seams
Near the river where the sky melts
I found you playing by yourself

Late night therapy well past twelve
Remote control my feelings for a spell
mute my mouth and all it's pretty sounds
Who have I become when no ones around
A robot dancing alone never excelled
remove my bones show me how it's done


My life's a carousel
of white noise that I found
The static keeps me happy
The static keeps me happy
The static keeps me happy
My skin keeps falling off

I keep the 59fifty with me,
crown fit with the flipped brim.
Grin situated like a grizzly's.
I'll put a ***** down quickly.
Clip him in the kidney like a fifth
then watch his miss switch teams.
Appease her til her knees hurt.
Sign a jersey, ergo the curb.
My door reads do not disturb.
Delete me if you feel the urge.
Make no mistake, I will not search.
This is scorched-earth antics at its worst,
no stone will be left unturned.
Smarter than your average oaf,
my art works like an Ork on coke.
Just because you lack a clue doesn't
mean the world must follow suit.
There's a thumb in your mouth, and you
wonder why the words won't come out.

I pride myself on being
the laziest "artist" there is;
I won't lift a finger in
the name of what I do.
No. I drag my fingers across
the barren mountain range,
claiming the rubble left
by the distancing wake.

I see you wear a choke collar contrived from the lies they forced you to swallow.

How appropriate your words must taste when the time comes to make your case and the syllables stumble from your drunken tongue, fumbling any sense of pace.

And the bracelet strangling your wrist, proclaiming peace for all the world to see, screams I'm corporate faith contagious.

Hear my pleas or bleed my blood, I am the werewolf under the drooling moon howling for mother monsoon.

The shell on my back's weathered and cracked, harpoon riddled from when Ahab attacked.

Patchwork thoughts crumple out the spout
Apparently the kid's turned mushmouth into sport
Somewhere a hatter laughs or perhaps it was a scoff
I don't know, I'm too far gone to recount the sounds
Service the forks like tomahawks so we can properly
feast on the retorts that taste like a thousand holocausts
Get full, pass out, wake up on a floor more warm
than a mother's embrace, or a thunderstorm's handshake
He's picking scabs to escape the bad
this kid's turning glands into something glad