Alone the black sheep caries his thorns,
Through thick thickets thin skin is torn,
The hooded king garbed in golden rings,
Wears his hood to hide his horns,
The quick snip of sharpened scissors,
No more sheep are to be born,
One quick flick of the match,
Candle burning furiously,
One cloud of smoke vapor swirling in the air turbulent,
One moment and misty spark fades into empty space,
Wind blows through new time is here you are quickly replaced,
Left now but empty sketches on an ancient pad,
You are too quickly erased

Ornaments of olive eyes
Wading sleepy through starry skies
A silver window of heavens light
Sing me to sleep this winter night
Azalea, lay your flowers in the snow
As I lay, the wind shivers aching bones
Waiting calm for lower tides
I etched a poem in the stone
Rusty sheets, broken boards
Broken folds we call our homes
Azalea, the prettiest face
As I wait, for the dead to come back home

**** all of you
With a ladle or a spoon
Die! All of you
You **** filled ugly *****!
Wretched stomas leak their filth
Spilled upon the page
Plastic clichéd phrases
Recited spins me in a rage!
Just shut the **** up all of you
Drown or go to hell
Just shut the **** up all of you
Please, drown or go to hell

The last doll on the wall timorous
The last sound in the hall rings separate
The first twinkling in the night glamorous
The first tiptoes through to death arrives
While wading easefully through sleepy skies
Forceful apprehensions are pushing
The detridus rubble mocking all soft cushions
A damaging entanglement of precious threads
Finding yourself where the sidewalk ends
The purifying fog replaced by gloomy smoke
Inhaled once then died the starved dog.

Golden trees light up the day
A winding path leading the way
Glorious hues of porcelain and blue
The peaceful presence of you so new
Wind bells chyme and I love their sound
Being laid sweetly upon crumpled ground

There are never any suicides in the quarter among people one knows
No successful suicides.
A Chinese boy kills himself and is dead.
(they continue to place his mail in the letter rack at the Dome)
A Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead.
(no one knows where the other Norwegian boy has gone)
They find a model dead
alone in bed and very dead.
(it made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge)
Sweet oil, the white of eggs, mustard and water, soap suds
and stomach pumps rescue the people one knows.
Every afternoon the people one knows can be found at the café.

Walk away slowly
      Please don't run
Remember
    I'm still holding the gun
It's cocked
        And loaded....
Aimed at my temple
     Why didn't you listen?
The rules....
    WERE SIMPLE!!!
I handed you my heart
    Expecting you not to
        Break It!
You should've known it...
   I'm a ******* poet!
I can turn anything you say
     Into a **** ****** scene
Make you wish
      It was ALL A DREAM
But it's not
       And you're gone
I'm holding the trigger
          Thank God
I decided to use ink
      Instead of bullets...

On the surface I am happy.
Its quite the masquerade
I'm the jolly friend, always smiling
To find a way
To veil my true feelings in a shroud of dismay
Because the surface is crumbling
Under the roars of self-hate

Let me tell you again about the dream I have where I wake up in a bed across the Atlantic.

The dream where you are settled on my skin, still asleep.

You are all lips and freckles.

In this dream you speak before you wake and you tell me, “hold my hand, hold my hand,” and your voice to me is like god ****** gospel.

When they open, your eyes are not your eyes—they are more like the only navigable sea I’ve ever known, and you’re looking not at me, but past me.

The dream where the air around us thickens and I reach out a fingertip, but when I touch you I go right through you.

Our skins ripple and move in waves as we fade into shades of cerulean that soak into the sheets, disappearing like bathwater.