There isn't a pain,
Which is greater than my own,
When I'm ******* bored.

Scarlet flames rain from a broken sky,
On vile murderers, rapists, and pickpockets.
They fall onto stacks of steel, scraping the skies.
Death descends on the hateful, on the lovers,
On the great, the rich, the holy.
The End slices away the poor, the innocent and the good.
Godly fury, Devil's wrath, Fiery heaven and frozen hell.
Call it what you like,
We brought it on ourselves.

The Ocean swallows everything,
eventually.
Gentle waves crash with the force of cars colliding,
and thirstily drink away the cliffs.
Beach houses, monuments to the capitalist aspirations of an illusory world, tumble into the surf.
Then, suddenly, the waves stop:
and the ocean swallows itself whole.

I love you.
Three words never caused so much pain.
Or joy. Yes, there was joy in them once,
But the two young, stupid people who said them are gone.
They are torn apart,
Stripped of their clothes,
And thrown in a cell with bars made of air,
The air in their lungs when they said those words,
I love you.
They would revel in each other,
Hold each other close.
Each was addicted to the soul of the other,
Without a thought to the withdrawal,
And that's where the headaches start.
I love you.
And this isn't a poem, it's a letter for you,
I pushed you away to push me into hell,
because that's what I was used to.
I'd adapted to fire, demons and sin,
and you are an angel.
I was afraid of your light, and of your grace,
because you are the reason I look on my face,
In mirror's and can't bring myself to say:
I love you.
I remember. I remember the curses and cookie dough,
I remember the blanket we dyed red with our blood,
I remember a beauty, a beast, and a princess bride,
I remember these things despite myself because,
I love you.
And so, if you read this, and I hope that you do,
Just know deep inside I am waiting for you,
Behind the stairs, or the old construction yard.
Oh Sophie, oh Sophie,
I love you.

"I hate American late stage capitalism," my Spanish roommate says.
But what can I say to that.
He's right; every second spent here is paid for in gold
or in crimson blood.
Reality pulses with stimulation,
but still,
the clock's hand lazily wanders, lethargic, about its face.
This pathetic, white-haired professor,
lectures on coding in the front of the room.
"American's only know how to tell the time by looking at their phones," my roommate says.
But I think to myself, now, computers are the only way we bother telling time anymore. Time has become precise,
But it used to be clumsy, more art than discrete mathematics.
The professor informs the class that we have to pay for the textbook,
and again for the software that will grade our code,
and the class doesn't even blink.
"Class dismissed," says the clock. Ironic, I know.
The blue light of our phones,
the kind that keeps us awake at night,
is turned on as we step outside.
"It's noon," I say, and I hear the echoes of gunshots in schools just like this one,
Where someone got tired of paying in cash.

One, one, one,
Time to have some fun.
Two, two, two,
No need to subdue.
Three, three, three,
Now you'll never be free.
Four, four, four,
Your pain I'll ignore.
Five, five, five,
STOP BEING ALIVE

Trapped inside a prison,
Of lack of things to do.
I’d rather shoot myself than live,
In walls of painted blue.
A dartboard on the wall,
A bookshelf and a bed.
Yet I’ve done it all before,
I just wish my walls were red.
If I were somewhere else,
With the wind in my hair,
Would this boredom go away?
Or would I stick to my chair?
I blame the dullness on life,
But it doesn’t come from trees.
I scream at walls  to entertain,
While I watch my laughter freeze.

The whiskey bottle is empty,
But I find the cap on the floor,
and give it away.
Somewhere, my closest family
sleeps, and I live
for the first time all week.
Ask whoever you want,
they'll tell you the truth;
the hymns of ancient people's
resonate in your ears,
and dead ancestors will look on
horrified.
Still, I am the medicine man in these parts.
But that was another life,
one of silent contemplation of the infinite.

When I awoke in bed today,
I saw the world in a new way.
I saw before me, all my life.
I saw success and I saw strife.
There was order, a comfy house.
And a brightly smiling child and spouse.
There was chaos, an exotic wind,
Stoking the flames of freedom within.
There was greatness, pleasure and gold.
Yet there was weakness, pain and mold.
There were angels and there were demons,
From above and from below.
There was rage and there was peace,
There was rain and hail and snow.
I saw every choice I’d ever make,
My adventure and my heartbreak.
I saw the good, the ugly, the bad,
I saw the happy and saw the sad.
I saw what my day would be like today,
And I wouldn’t have it another way.

And just like that,
I'm burning.

Silence gets dreary, some days.
The light tickles the eye in just the same way,
yet the voice of hope inhabits the quiet;
it becomes silence itself.
Then, reality gets a little more jarring.
Still, unquiet moments below the moon
will surprise me, and remind me that
the man I was is dead. He whispers,
"Revel in rebirth, and someday this will all
appear an unpleasant dream."

In the perpetual pursuit
of planetary pleasures,
a purported supporter of such
paranormal potions must
ponder: is pleasure, in principle,
the peak,
or perhaps is it a journey,
from point O to point P
purposely pouncing to provide
pyromaniacs with plentiful
planks for the pyre.

Long ago,
A pair of cosmic hands clapped
and the lights flickered on. All across the sky,
ever so slowly. But the sky too,
was born, and all the world with it,
for what could be before the light;
it was shone upon the untouched emptiness,
and existence was made absolute.
Still, I think,
it was there before, as a tree
in a deep forest
as it heaves its last
and the hush of its breath is broken
by the tearing of roots.

For a brother, and dad,
for the truest of friends.
Pure of spirit, purely glad,
Journeyman into the bends.
The sun rises in his mind,
As it sets into his heart.
And when the moon rises in TJ,
Civility will fall apart.

One, two,
Run you through.
Three, four,
Even score.

Just for a night,
An unruly night, truly one for the books,
I remembered.
The cliffs smelled of salt,
and there was a crazy person
parked between two spots.
My lighter clicked,
and for a moment my face
was alive
before darkness enveloped it again.
Still, I remembered thinking,
"This is all I am."
and smiling.
I walked home,
stooped over, in something
holy.  All before,
the sun had a moment to rise.

Forged in suffering,
and quenched by discipline,
we become strong.
A wall of swords is built
at the limits of our minds;
sometimes, we ***** ourselves,
and tumble headfirst into the
desolation of sleep.
It is no matter.
Venus will disarm Mars,
the blades will turn to roses,
a crown of blooming thorns;
entrancingly beautiful,
and twice as deadly.

Life is a pile of steaming, smelly *******.
Why can't I live my own life?
Why can't I make my own mistakes?
It's because I am nothing.
I am the shadow in the back of the classroom,
Who disappears when you turn your head.
I am a shifting wind,
Your drug dealer.
Your best friend.
Your enemy.
I am no-one at all, and you know not my name.
Not because you don't care.
Because I don't have one.

When I remember the day we met,
I grin. For what could be more valuable
than the man you meet,
and immediately,
flee the occasion for a companionable walk.
The sun shone, and you told me,
"I think all life is beautiful,"
and the remarkable wisdom you breathe
shook the world and sky.
My eyes open, and you are gone,
but I climb out of bed quickly,
inspired by the fire
behind your eyes.

I am so much more,
So much better, and yet, worse,
Than the things I've done.

One, two,
*******

Often I marvel,
At the incredible span
of a single hour.

At the crossroads of euphoria, faith, and insanity,
one can learn a great number of things.
But if I have learned anything, it is the malleability of a constructed reality.
Anything is possible, and so everything is permitted.
The excesses of a younger self, somewhere behind me on an illusory timeline, have enslaved me to my self. This too is an illusion, but this knowledge does not serve me; even the most powerful truths can be largely irrelevant.
I walk down all paths at once, no longer bound by habits I pretend are beyond my control, and laugh, never again a slave to anyone or anything.

When I was young,
I had a dog who followed me everywhere.
We often walked along the sand,
and the waves would drown out the outside world.
Sometimes, I would find a crab,
and toss it to the dog.
Canines crushed its carapace;
an afternoon snack.
Once, though, I caught a big one.
I pulled it from its den,
and held it by its claws above the maw of death.
But I stopped;
and, slowly, I ripped off one claw.
There was no-one around.
I could smell the salt in the air,
and felt the drip of dog saliva.
I pulled off the other claw,
and held this helpless thing in my hand.
The dog whined.
My fingers closed around it;
a child's hand shattered the shell,
and crushed the goop within.

Darling, we're doomed
to a life of
extraordinary regularity.
Still, smile,
for the world's birthday is today,
and it will die as the moon rises.
The Force bends, lifts us up
from the tedium of madness
into an order of monks
who let their mole hairs grow long,
in order to purify the soul.
I breathe, slowly.
The world hums beneath me,
around me,
and within me,
and I look to you. You tell me,
"Hold me closer,"
and I listen, afraid of what you might do.
Still, I think to myself,
"This is nice," as you agree.
The angels fall over themselves with laughter,
raucous, cruel.

Spinning around and around and around,
No love to be seen, no peace to be found.
Watch the shed, the shed, the shed,
Smash into cars and create more dead.
Falling down and down and down,
Into the water, starting to drown.
Fly away and away and away,
But the things you've seen, forever will weigh.

The world is shattered.
I can hardly see the truth.
But is it enough?

As artificial light reveals my name,
and sunlight falls asleep across the sky,
I whisper to the mirror without shame,
And into the reflection I will die.
The Other Side is quite alike to ours,
but details shift and warp beneath the light.
Look outside now, and where there should be stars,
The spirits crawl within the glossy night.
But still the blind will stumble in the blue,
Oblivious, the truth lies underneath.
But slowly now the dead will slither through,
and holes they leave inside of you sprout teeth.
So now the flames within will always burn,
Reflection holds you, never to return.

No names are eternal,
for their users are infinite.
And all things will become the next things,
and the cycle of changes will never end.
What you must accept,
in the intrinsic pursuit of happiness,
is that change is not the exception.
It is the only constant
in a world that does not care what you cling to.
It will take away what was never yours to have;
your illusory part in all things, in all times, in all places.

Smile for your time in the dungeon,
for the recompense you pay
is a learning experience.

One, one,
I am the sun,
One, one,
And the fire from your gun.

The world held it's breath,
Summer months of broiling heat.
Then the clouds exhaled.

Chaotic gusts will send you to the void,
Where bullets stop and hope to be observed.
Rats will eat the lovers and be destroyed,
And all who hate will ever be preserved.
A thousand curses fall upon the ******,
They live among the beasts they call their friends,
They're minds are branded, bound and re-programmed,
They're told that they will never make amends.
Time matters not in lands from whence it came,
Nor space reveal a truth about the fire.
Seconds and centuries given the blame,
That belongs to those who gather God’s ire.
When good and bad are hidden from us all,
Even the Angels learn the way to fall.

The warping of the walls,
fills my troubled mind with dread,
For in the neon of the night,
is the fear of being dead.
The shaking of the floors,
burns my mind beneath the sun,
And the gunshot lodged inside me,
was the race's starting gun.
Now the air is caving in,
and reality's a lie,
So I jump off this mortal plane,
and sink deep into the sky.
Suddenly, in darkness,
I lose all sense of control
And in the place where I should be,
is a tattered rainbow hole.

I'm dying, an inch at a time.
Unfortunately for you
It's a journey of a million miles.

Each holy moment,
flows swiftly into the next
while the Gods make love.

One, two, three,
Somebody **** me

I have been dying,
Right from the very first day.
I am finished now.

A thousand times in a life,
we confess ourselves to an ear,
and in retelling all our strife,
we are redeemed of every fear.
A part of you hates listening,
within yourself you must destroy;
and now your soul is glistening,
with the sweat and blood of joy.
If happiness were easy,
we'd live inside a shadow.
I know it may sound cheesy,
but you simply must let go.

an unholy spirit, and otherwise entirely omnipotent God
revealed itself to me there, hiding behind the eyes
of the lighthouse.
The spirit, for a glimpse of eternity, plunges the mind into an ice bath of adrenaline and fire.
I am reminded now of the name of fear,
and once Her name is spoken, nothing will ever be okay again.
I speak in tongues understood only by paranoiacs and vegetables,
once more made aware of a prophecy, and what it reveals about nothing.

"I'm sorry," I remembered saying.
"I'm having a hard time with words right now."
My brother nods his head,
unsurprised and worried.
"I'm going to go get another drink," he says,
and I understand that much,
before words lose all meaning
again.

I am boiling and bursting forth
from black sands where the waves whisper.
I am born again,
with the ferocity of ten-million suns,
and all the serenity of
learned men will remain
unsatisfactory.
For it is better to be alive,
a drum which draws the tribe
to bloodlust.

A filter of eucalyptus,
enshrouds my mind and its seat,
and so I consciously let them both go.
I release them into a cultivated
abyss.
I sink into the nothing between
me, myself, and I
and there, sticky in the tree sap of eternity, is the ecstatic bliss
reserved typically for the dead,
or the insane.
At the opposite end,
of all the substances which shake me,
are these moments of sleepless repose
before I will myself to action.

When the waves dance,
and as the tumbling void laughs,
and the coming whisper of the old tree shivers,
We die.
And we awaken in a gleaming world,
and tears wept in the beauty of
the moment
are kept in jars by homunculi.
Time surrenders to the mistakes of a younger
self, ignorant of the joy in stupidity.

With the sting of thorns,
nestled in ***** feet,
There is a pull of the world toward the
abandoned.
It draws me here, to the space between
tides; to graffiti, and rats.
For there is peace in what we leave behind.

Disappointments and frustrations as old as time water the flower to blooming,
and the chemical smear of rage takes its toll on me, and the innocent.
The blossoms scream as they fall,
once more swept away into the breath's shores.

It is a special bond,
truly,
when a man tells his friend
the level of dissociation he has reached.
Better still, however,
is the friend who can smile and say,
"Oh. You mean this?" and laugh, already knowing
the secrets you've been struggling to put in words.
But you don't need to.
Because there are some people who need no words,
because they just
know.

I wish I could fix this.
I wish I could alter time and repair the beauty I've broken.
You're still everything I need, and that won't disappear. Never.
I love you. If you need to hear me say it, then you know where to find me.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I've done, and I'm sorry I didn't say so sooner.
I just couldn't bear to let you go.
I'm being ripped apart.
And I'm
Not
Getting
Better.
I miss you. I don't know what I am without you in my life, but whatever I am, I don't like it.
If we could speak, I'd make a joke about the play you were in last year.
I wish, more than anything, more than life,
To return to the festival, and leave behind the strife.

First impressions are fickle things;
but they aren't always wrong.
Because, when I met you, the red of
your dress became the tint of my lenses;
or rather, yours, when I'd wear them.
But the red of the dress doesn't
compare to that of the sweatshirt
that smelled like you; it'll never be as red
as sunsets on the roof, or a burning bowl past 4am.
And when I look back, you're behind me, and we skate away to the next adventure.

In life, it is a rarity
to meet someone
who smiles
from the bottom of their soul;
who grins, not as an expression
and certainly not for others,
but because they simply
cannot help
themselves.