I'm a nothing, and you're a non,
so let's get together and be someone.
Ford the rivers without a gun,
so who's ascared of a hippopotamus?
Beneath four three-toed legs, I'll swim towards some goal.
Hard-pressed against the net of chaos.

Here's a thrashing;
here's a lashing;
here's a joke to keep them all laughing.

There's a leak to keep them from speaking.
There's a lapse to keep from collapsing.
Here's a perfect ship sinking in order to crash their modes of thinking.
I swear I've dreamed of enough escapes to keep myself from clapping.

i like angry poetry
the kind that churns
in your gut,
with razors for teeth
and gums bleeding.
i like the violent sound
of verbs clashing
on a decaying page,
like the shot of a gun
on a quiet day.
i like the poetry that stays,
that lies in waiting
like a dog in a cage,
words that creep like
voided birds into the
wired tress of my brain,
that pay their rent
like drunken travelers
and trash the place.
i like angry poetry
the kind that sears it's
screams to my lips,
which spirit echoes and
moans for eager,
****** eyes.
words that hit like *****,
giving their reader
a killer hangover.
i like angry poetry,
the kind that leave you
with a smoky exit.

I've never had the most solid sense of direction.
I've this bad habit of getting lost;
first in thought and then, well,
literally.

But I've written things this whole time,
and every line is an arrow so that I can find my way back.
Back to some kind of bliss.
A state of mind that I can no longer feel,
but I know that I miss.

But isn't there a part in that story where the bread crumbs have been eaten by birds?

I can't remember.

That's where I found it, but it's not where it was,
so I'll pick it up and put it somewhere else just because.
This is what it looks like. This is how it walks:
like a quarter machine capsule on a pair of chopstick legs.
Cup it to your ear and you can hear the ocean lying.
Lie down on the sand and you can hear the mollusks dying.
A storm is just a bunch of sad clouds collectively crying.
This is the part where you float away.

The woods are wonderful dark and deep,
but really I should get some sleep.
The patterns in my head are gold and red,
but really I should go to bed.
What dreams may come aren't always kind,
but don't be afraid to close those eyes.

Life's a mess but nevermind.

"I can't say," he said.
His whole body shaking.
"I can't. I uh. Oh, ****. Ah,"
while his teeth pulled out of their sockets.
His whole frame dissolving to pieces.
Eyes popping like squeezed grapes.

"Time," said some giant with his hand full of dust,
"is just slipping away," said his echo, as he clutched at what was lost.

"I'm sick of clichés," she said, after reading what he'd written.
"'I'm sorry,' he said, said he, before curling into a ball and weeping,"
which were the last words he ever said to her,
while hers to him were:
"I'm leaving."

The sun spins out of control
and I pull her ever closer,
with one arm in the air
and the other wrapped
around her shoulders
there's no place
I'd rather be.

Maybe the skies will sigh
their ever gradient glow
in shades and shadows
of red and yellow
as the blue fades away
into sullen dark grey
and the day loses me
amongst the piers.

I've got a six pack, flexing
at the mirror with these beer muscles
and I'm in a fist fight
with my very life tonight
but reality just keeps
knocking me on my ****** ***.

I parked here first
so where'd these cars come from
surrounding my dented truck
like a ******* funeral
around a hearse.

The zipper cried
as I ripped it open
and I took deep breaths
before lighting
a cigarette,
and sigh
blue clouds into the mist.

She said something,
what was it?
I turned to hear her better.
It was something about her hair
wasn't it?
So I told her:

"I think your hair is beautiful,
I love you."
I said,
then hesitating
with a shocked look
wrapped round my head.
She smiled at me
pleased
and began to giggle.

I didn't mean to say it,
it was far too soon.
Admitting I loved her
just reinforced the fact
that we've been together forever
and there was no going back
to the lunch table at noon.