Twisted memories
Stewing in spiteful juices
Rotting in my guts

Skin and bone, bricks, fists.
Ignorance begets violence.
Afternoon beatings.

With a mouth full of bile,
I kiss your rotting lips.
I spew my rancid seed
on your blackened eyes
and know they will soon
be crusted shut, tainted
by my sickly venom.

I am poison.

I seep into
your wet parts and
consume all that is good and pure,
leaving nothing but **** in
your bloodstream, ***** in your lungs.

I am malignant by nature,
malevolent by choice.

And I have chosen you as next.

Aching skin,
Boiling blood,
My lust consumes.

Hands long for your throat,
crave to be wrapped in your hair,
pulling you closer. Close enough
to feel your heat, to smell you.

My lips, Ah my lips.
My lips and tongue implore
for the wet heat of your folds.
I must taste your flesh
before I wither from attrition.

Union.
The singularity of ingression,
transcendent of all earthly attachments.
Sublime.

Release. An unfettering of all thought,
leaving only feeling.
A divine conjunction.

And after, the only sounds our breathing.
Still as one, unencumbered by thought.

We rest peacefully in our oasis, sated.

****** rings, tattoos
Open leg crab harnesses
Shove it in my face

Drugs and diseases.
Flesh and bones.
Whiskeys and waters.

Hi she said with such a cute ******* smile.

Hey I said. What's going on?
she gave me the up and down look
and I knew right away
she wanted me to **** her.

You workin' tonight?

Yeah, I'm workin tonight

Such a cute smile
and an *** that I
could bounce a quarter off

Ah **** man. I took a long drag off my smoke
and turned to walk away

But only because I'm trying to get to Kansas City for...

I didn't really
give a **** what the
rest of the story was.


yeah yeah


Such a cute little thing.

I walked back into the bar
and took my place
among the dead.

I realized the other night,

as I stood
screaming
at my son,

that I was breaking
our hearts.

I walked away
as soon as  I saw
the line
in the distance.

The line that
I will never cross.

I walked away
and felt my fathers fist
across my face.

I spared my
precious boy
the terror of
being beaten
by the man
he wants to grow
up and be just like.

I walked away
when I saw
the tears well up
in his innocent eyes
and the confusion
contorting his face,
when I heard some
frustrated father
misdirecting his own
anger and confusion
towards an undeserving
child and realized the
******* father was me.

I heard my father screaming at his woman about having a kid who would do "whatever the **** I tell him to if you hit him hard enough" and realizing that kid was me. I remember a part of me withered when I heard this.

He was right.
My father conditioned me
to take a beating.
He taught me how to
shut the **** up
and do what the **** I am told.
He taught me not to question his orders,
even when I knew they were wrong.
He taught me obedience
by beating me.
He taught me submission
by leaving me no other choice.

He taught me how to be broken.

I learned my lessons well.
I let people push me around because that was my place.
I let people get over on me because I didn't want to confront them.
I lost my girls to other guys because I was weak and scared.
I got passed up for promotions because I was hesitant and indecisive.

How do you forgive someone for conditioning you to be a failure?

How do I reconcile loving my father for the frail human that he is and hating him for the vile and abusive monster that he was?

When I saw the look on my sons face I wondered briefly if that was how I used to look when my father was berating me.

Right before fist hit face.

How the **** could he hit me with that look of fear and confusion and conflicting feelings on my face that must have registered somewhere in his drunken mind.

I can't help but think
it must have been devastating
for him,
somehow, someway.

He stopped apologizing for the beatings and
I stopped thinking
I didn't deserve them.

All of these thoughts and feelings passed
through my brain in a split second
and I turned away from my son.

My precious son.

My reason for existing.

My everything.

I turned away from his tear
stained face and sat down to cry
for a while myself.

I knew that I had caused some damage.
I thought back to all those times I sat crying in my room as a kid and wondered what would have made me feel better at the time, besides the obvious of not just having my *** kicked by a grown man.

42 years
of  gnawing pain
and frustration
and fear
and silence
and tears
and rage
and crushing loneliness
and shame

and fear and fear and fear

walked up the steps to
where a ******* 12 year old boy
sat alone.

42 years
of  breaking
the cycles of abuse and addiction
walked up the stairs and
spent the next hour
healing what I had damaged
in two minutes.


Later that night,
as I lay in bed questioning
every ******* decision I have ever made,
again,
I heard some sort of noise that startled me.

I leaped out of bed and took a quick route through the place to see what the noise was.
I never did find out what caused it but I called up to the boy quietly and asked if he heard it.
It appears he had been awake as well and had been rattling around in his own thoughts.

My boy had been thinking about death.

He was realizing the eventual imminence
of our own mortality and the weight of that thought was
crushing.
I was there for him, though.
I was able to put his mind at ease.
We talked of death, and life, and God, and philosophy
and we had a wonderful conversation
together sitting in his darkened room.

His small hand in mine, we healed each other.

I had to do it again.

I had to willingly
walk into the face of danger
and get rid of another stray
you let in.

My hand still hurts.

You are the most beautiful person I have ever known.

I have seen you beaten
and bruised by men
you have loved.
I have watched you struggle
for years with your own demons
of addiction, depression, poor choices
and lost loves.
I have seen your face
cry
far too many times.

Through the years
we have waxed and waned,
driven each other mad
with rage
and consoled each other
on our darkest days.
We have laughed,
cried,
screamed,
loved
and hated ourselves,
together and separate.  
I have left your side,
sometimes with thoughts of never returning,
of leaving behind all the pain
of our lives together and seeking my own pain,
only to return to you always.

We  got high together,
got clean together,
and have been everywhere in between.  
There were times
when you have been

so spun out

that you were unrecognizable
as a human
except
for your shape.
Other times you have been
the sole beacon of lucidity
in the dark chasm
of my
great
nothing.

Throughout all the beatings
we have suffered at the hands of others,
all the times some stray you let in robbed us,
all the dope deals gone bad,
the missed holidays,
the broken promises,
lies,
the good intentions gone bad,
through all of that your unshakable faith in
God
has always been a source of your inspiration to go on,
to move forward,
to keep smiling and more importantly,
to keep loving others.
Your willingness to help those
who are in need,
those
that have have hurt you,
and even
those
that you know are going to
hurt you,
has been both a source of
consternation and frustration
along with teaching me
how to love others,
how to have compassion.

You are the most beautiful person I have ever known.
I love you, Mother.

Look at where we are now.
We have **** stores on every corner.
Our fifteen year old pipe dreamers
just collectively **** themselves.

We have dubstep finally.

Who the **** needs
an instrument
or training
or talent
when
I can steal fruity loops
and make my own ****?
I make dope beats at the same place
I
"write"
"poetry".

A cold fog is seeping into the park
across the street and I like to say "****" a lot.

Google makes me feel like a ******* king,
ordering my minions
to go and fetch me
the whys and wherefores of
how butterflies communicate.

Why?

Because *******, that's why.

We have countries revolting
against *******
who have been in power
for decades
but now we have
Facebook,
*******!
Take that!
You can't get away with ****.
Ask Osama.
How long will it take before peace sets in?
Will it take as long for the machines to take over?
Both outcomes seem inevitable.

We have as much ***
as we can download
and pretty soon

our reality will be completely virtual.
If you got the money, honey.

I see our white bloated
underbelly
sagging and scraping
****
against ***** beer stained floors,
a crimson trail,
bodies in the swath
of decadence
and a most
revolting pursuit of debauchery,
Thank God!

It's fun to go off the grid sometimes,
like when cable
and the interwebs
become that luxury
that you can't justify,
you know, reality.
Ha! What a joke.

It wont be long until some clown
figures out time travel
and we all burn up in
the resulting feedback loop.
That's what the big bang was.
Some other clown,
some other place,
figured **** out.

It's not gonna be me, Jack.

I'm on the cusp.
Not really, I am a full on scorpio,
*******.

But

I was lucky enough
to remember
rotary phones
and lite brites
and playing ******* outside.
Sounds nostalgic and sweet, right?
**** that,
those hours I spent
burning some heavy metal logo
into that stump outside mom's house?
With a ******* magnifying glass
*** we didn't know what cable tv or mp3's were?
I was dreaming
about **** shops
and making weird ****** up
noises that sound alarmingly
similar to fuckstep.
**** YES!
I was bored as ****
and couldn't wait for a day
when I could plug in a new
******* universe,
my universe,
my way,
I create the characters and the storyline.
My internal apps do the rendering.
Get it?
I was thinking of that ****
way back when,
so it makes sense that
someone
a little more ambitious
and well funded
was making that stuff,
even back then.
The farmers don't let the sheep know much, do they?

That's all well and good mate,
but how happy are you gonna be
when you lose all your **** because
some 22 year old knows more about
binary than you do?
How ******* awesome is your pabst
collection and your dad's old 45's gonna
be when you are *** out because you
thought you could become an internet
billionaire and your sister just got tired
of carrying your ***?
This world is ******
and we are growing out of our pants too fast.
Even the smart ones aren't gonna be able to keep up.
Have fun mother *******.
Do it now,
NOW!
Get laid as much as you can
with as many as you can,
but love them all,
and mean it,
you *******,
this **** isn't gonna happen again.
We are on the cusp of the singularity
and it's gonna be one hell of a ride.

I was going to write a poem

about the distance
I walk
girls to their cars.
You know, to the door?
down the stairs to the front porch?
out to the first step for that last, awkward hug?
do I really like them?
Am I concerned for their safety
or is this just
the obligatory,
socially and culturally
acceptable
distance for me to walk with this particular individual?

Did I even get out of bed?
Is the distance I walk directly proportional to the amount of feelings I have for that person at that time?
Or does time of day or night play into it?

Do I actually walk them
all the way
down the hill
to where they are allowed to park,
if they are a one nighter but it is 3 a.m.?

Or perhaps to the end of my lawn,
at the opening of my small,
rickety,
barely noticed
fence,
which keeps nothing in or out,
to hold them so tight that they know,
they just know

with every molecule in their essence

that I am theirs,

all of me,

and that I do not want them
to leave
but if they must,
I shall be waiting

eagerly

with every molecule of my essence

to breathe them in again,
to feel them near me again,
to smell their sweat again?  

I was going to write about that.
But then I thought,
why not write about your plants?

I realized the other day,
while watering my various plants,
six in total,
that all of them had been given to me.

They were all gifts.

By women.

My dear mother,
both of my  beautiful sisters,
two  rotten ex-girlfriends of mine,
and a kickass lesbian friend
I met through somebody
that got walked to the front porch.

Surely
there must be a poem
in there somewhere, I thought.
With all the females
and the ***
and the plants
and soil
and life

and all that other *******,

surely
I must be able
to conjure up

something beautiful,
something wonderful
and profound
and bewildering
and inspiring

and all that other *******,

but sadly for you
dear reader,
all I could come up with

was this *******
you just read.

The good thing is,
I didn't write this for you.
I wrote this for me.
I have to.

I am trying to remember your tattoos
and I cannot.
You had a goddess on your calf,
but which one?
There are the vines that started on your ankles,
I think,
and wound up your strong legs,
traveled the curve of your hip,
to where?
Or did they begin on your arms?

****, I should know this.

I remember the heart on your ***,
the mermaid on your chest,
the rocket ship, somewhere.

I spent so many hours looking at these tattoos
I should know them as well as my own body.

I don't though.

The edges blur away
into skin
and elbows
and smells
and sounds
and feelings.

When I try to think of your body
I feel my hand tracing the curve of your back.

I smell amber and wine.

A fertility goddess on the shoulder,
laughing and tumbling
out of bed together in a
breathless heap.

Crime scenes, willow leaves on your neck.
Drawings by Luke, a rocket, a cat, and was there a heart in there?

I should know this.

I tried to memorize them on so many nights.

I should ******* know this.

The lilies on your arm, I can taste your stomach.
I tried to look back at the captured moments.
Never once did I think,
take pictures of all her tattoos,
one day you wont be able to remember them.

One day you will not be welcome to look or touch.

I can remember every curve of your body.
I remember every fold,
every scar.
I can feel your soft feet and your stubble covered legs
I would not want any other way.

But...I can't see you baby,
I can't see you.

How many times
did my hands roam your canvas?
How many times did I long to be the ink
in your skin?
I wanted you to
take my pain and make it yours,
carry me around with you,
as you.
I wanted you to blend our pain
and make it something beautiful.

I can hear your voice,
the one I thought you
used
just for me.

The stain of you covers me and I just want this taste out of my mouth.

Black ink on pale skin
Moonlight, my green scottish eyes
Tides sway in rhythm.

Here and now,
deep in nights cool arms,
I close my eyes
and see you.
I see a grey day blooming languid,
the only sound, your steady, sleeping breath.
This space between us, nothing.
This bond of ours, timeless.
My lips burn through the dying night, seeking the pale dawn of your neck.

Breathe deep and feel me now.

Black leaves, silver clouds
This night, this now, drapes heavy
Alone with the dark

Deep night, vast shadow
Swallowing eternity
Tasting the nothing

Teasing the
hard night
with my
soft skin,
I come
alive under
the dead
moon.

I'm growing weary
of finding ways
to make myself
come.

I smell *** everywhere I go.
In the air,
On cafe counters,
At bus stops and on sidewalks.

I taste it in your coy smiles
and backward glances
while he wasn't looking.
Sand and salty skin,
lips with no teeth behind them.
Blood rushes and swollen parts.

I know I will ruin you
from the inside out.
This is how cancer feels.
Love isn't always soft as sighs,
slow and careful cobweb touches.
Sometimes it's mindfucks,
riding crops and hematoma.
Ask napolean about the pyramids
and you will hear the
words of a true ******.

These words, just cockroach
legs swarming around the rotting
chicken bones underneath
your stained mattress,
ancient and ugly,
feeding,
defiling,
consuming.

This now we are sharing,
my now of writing,
your now of reading,
are they the same?



Another day alone
as I decay into
a great big
pile
of nothing
and
somewhere
out there
is a ****
that will
finally
make me
happy.

The black tide of Nothing swells
deep and cold, inside.

Us

This tenuous filament we grasp and flail for,
this meager connection,
it is a smokey spiderweb,
an eyelash falling.

Gone

I am not the same person I was
when I began this sentence;
you have never existed
anywhere but in my blood.

Mine

The nothing of us,
this chasm, abysmal
and familiar.

My dearest, my darkest.

*My only

A breath,
in deep,
Eyes black,
and I smell your amber skin.

Another breath,
I feel your hips
cradle my hands.

Centuries between us,
yet a breath away.

I write these words
but can't feel.
My words ring cold as ******,
no echoes there.
No warmth or weight,
ashes.
A grey frost on ancient soil
as midnight blooms cold.

A breath,
in deep,
Eyes black,
and I smell your powdered skin.

Another breath,
I feel your hips
cradle my hands.

Nothing between us.
A breath away.

Sycamore floaters fill the park
and shadows grow long on the hill
as the sun sets on my peaceful oasis.
Dogs are being walked and chickens
are being watered.
The tweekers are on their
rigged up, gas powered bicycles, zipping through
the streets like squirrels in the ancient oak
tree guarding my corner of the block.
Everywhere I look I see fifteen million
emerald leaves shining back the truth to me.

It's these small hours; these slow and tired ones,
thick,
heavy with memories,
that can weigh a man down.

I miss you

Time creeps by.

This moment,
this Now,
I can taste your smells.
Rose oil,
amber,
coffee and fresh sheets.

Skin

It's these small hours,
these quiet hours.

The smells of our ***
linger behind my dead eyes
as your milky skin
curdles under my
poisonous breath.

*This is my love

Chakras and serpents
Surrendering to Goddess
This love, eternal

Thick and cold, sharp night;
Milky skin drips under a sky that turns
from ebony to scarlet as the bugs find their way into our blood.

Take me into your heart like a dagger; what I want to do is live in your pain until all I know
is what makes you cry into your pillows.

Bury me in your long and heavy shadows
until the pressure of your fear consumes me like I was never anything more than fluids for you.

I'll take these chains off and
break my bones to give you something to mix your paints with. Just whisper in my ears so I can finally sleep.

*Whisper me to sleep in this cold night,
wrap me in your heat.

These people
They do not even see me.
they are blind to me
I am not invisible
I walk by them
I see them
they don't see me
they look away
look at the floor
they look around
they look anywhere
but my eyes

which is fine
for if they did
they would see
the eyes of a madman
a lover
a father and a brother
a ***** hobo
a ragged lonely nomad
a slave
a tree climber
a ruiner
a fighter
a healer
a *****

They would see centuries upon centuries of amber and curry and garlic and sand and bones

If they dared
to step a little closer
they would smell the *** and soil of a thousand worlds
the blood
the ****
the tears
of a million little girls and boys left in my wake
lilies and lilacs and roses and daffodils would mix with
mangoes and dragons blood
and sweaty lust.

I am Love and I walk among you.

These people
They do not even see me.
they are blind to me
I am not invisible
I walk by them
I see them
they don't see me
they look away
look at the floor
they look around
they look anywhere
but my eyes

which is fine
for if they did
they would see
the eyes of a madman
a lover
a father and a brother
a ***** hobo
a ragged lonely nomad
a slave
a tree climber
a ruiner
a fighter
a healer
a *****

They would see centuries upon centuries of amber and curry and garlic and sand and bones

If they dared
to step a little closer
they would smell the *** and soil of a thousand worlds
the blood
the ****
the tears
of a million little girls and boys left in my wake
lilies and lilacs and roses and daffodils would mix with
mangoes and dragons blood
and sweaty lust.

I am Love and I walk among you.

Taking his time,
bathing in the blue smoke,
memories whirling and
eddying in the grey wrinkles,
his brow furrows.

All being one, he searches deep

She rushes from
one errand to another,
living to serve,
dying to love.

Sighing, often

Her calculations
demand symmetry;
feelings
just don't add up
and lonely men
wait in grey shadows
on the fringe.

Random elements

It's a twisted pile of flesh
for some  
while others
only get to **** the
swollen ****
or get stuck
being the fifth wheel
on a broken cart.

It's what they want

He remembers the smell
of Texas flowers
shining through his
deep Nothing
and knows he is
too far from home.

Sugar...

Tasting the pale one,
with her bugs and
her dead things
living under her
milky skin
and pretty dresses,
is still his
favorite sin
because she is
the only one
that can keep
him warm in her
sweaty folds
and wet sheets.

Bury me in your sweet blood

At the train station,
he sees her in
a sundress while
the sun and moon
both die
according to prophecy.

See you there, darling

You can make it seem
just like home
if you listen to
the night because
all we need
is waiting for us,
somewhere.

*Somewhere

It's a rough deal man,
this life.

I didn't ask for this ****.

It's not an easy gig,
being me.
I am what I am
and lots of the time,
that's ******* awesome,
but being surrounded by
simple mother *******
who are hell bent on
bringing me down
is tiring.

I bend but never break

They grind away with
their spiteful machinations
and greedy hidden agendas,
bereft of any compassion,
lacking any real substance.
They are shells packed with
hate, stuffed with ****,
and I can barely breathe
in the presence of such
fuckery.

I do it all for the boy;
I tolerate the average,
put up with the mediocre
and the mundane.

His life will not be as hard

I promise.

Blue shadows, full moon.
Thick with need, the night consumes.
Nocturnal bloodlust

Here and now,
basking in the echoes
of your voice,
I feel your hands on me.

Hands I've never seen.

I run my fingers through
your ironed hair
and softly kiss your cheek
as the stains of memory
fade.

Toad legs and tattoos
intertwine; skin to skin,
we become one.

Within you, I shed
my shadows.
Surrounding me,
your fears fall away.

This is my here and now
as the night blooms
and sleep gathers dust.

Take it
all of it.
Take as much as you can
before its

Another midnight
Bach's cello soothes the cold air.
Scorpion eclipse.

"Write what you know."

I want to write about
beautiful things,
but I only know
ugly.
Ugly hearts and stone blood.

Fetid loyalty.

I want to write about a love as pure as honey,
but all I know are the poison-tipped thorns of betrayal.

If I could put the right words
in the right order
at the right time
and explain what it means to lose you,
nobody would care.

I'd like to write about
my happy family,
laugh filled birthdays
and joyous gatherings,
but I only know
fractious,
secretive,
*******.

I want to touch another soul
make a connection with my words
share a part of my self
and help someone in the process,
but all I have been taught is
taking
keeping
lying
hiding
running
ruining.

I would love to write
like Pablo,
of wheat
and bread
and fields that don't weep,

but all I know are
desperate fumblings
in ******,
beer soaked bathrooms,
back alley
drunken
*******
by black
barely passable trannys,
diseases and
barely consensual bloodstains.

I cannot speak of such things.
It's bad enough I think about them,
even worse I write about them.

I write what I know.

I can't listen to the ******* cure
ever again with out feeling empty.
Way to go robert smith,
you big ******* depressing
*******.

Ever since you told me
lovesong was yours and fuckfaces
song I can't listen to some of my
favorite cure songs without thinking of....them.
Them being you and him, not us.
Us being you and me.

I can't listen to cat stevens
because harold and maude
was our movie. Ours!
Now, the last love song makes me cry like a *****.

I can't listen to ******* inxs anymore.
Never tear us apart drops me to my knees.
I can't listen to the kinks
or edith piaf
or talking heads
or leonard ******* cohen
or great lake swimmers
or fever ray
or peter sarstedt
or portishead
or killswitch engage
or paul mccartney singing maybe I'm amazed
or pearl jam
or ween,
especially ween, one of my favorites, *****.

Gotye is a prophet.

If I even think of antony and the johnsons,
my chest seems to cave in on itself
and I am filled with such a deep despair,
a longing for something,
anything
to take away
the pain of knowing
I lost you.

I can't listen to so much good music out there because that was our thing.
So many times we would lie in bed after loving each other
and listen to mixes we had made for one another.
Those were my favorite times.
Sipping whiskey with lime juice,
Reveling in your smells,
your juices covering me.
Your dog farting so bad
all we could do was laugh
or we would puke.

The first few notes of alexi murdochs
love you more, bring forth tears like niagra.
I cannot listen to that song without crying immediately.

I don't understand how feelings like that go away so suddenly.

It's *******.

This isn't a poem.

Poems are supposed to be beautiful
and about love
or beautiful and about loss of love
or just plain ******* beautiful
about something like a ******* tree
or a nice view
or flowers.

I have to write about how I hate the empty ******* space in my chest whenever I think of your name.
I have to write about the thousandth time I cried over you,
like now.
I have to write about how
the bright blue
of our love was replaced by
the ***** brown of
our lies and deceit.

Nobody gives a **** about that stuff.
I can't write a ******* poem to save my life.
I want to put down on paper
the weariness and exhaustion.
I want to express how I feel
so that maybe I can save
someone else
the pain of suffering alone.
I want to write you the most beautiful poem on the earth,
the one that makes you
understand just how much I care
for you
and how much and I love you
and I want you to read it
and forget about your fears
and past hurts
and realize I am the only man for you
and nobody else will ever come between us ever again.

But I can't.

I am not smart enough.
I am not creative enough.
I am not...enough, for you.

I don't want to even try anymore.
I want to forget you like I said I never would.
I want to love another like I said I never would.
I want to be a liar, like I said I never would.
I want to stop loving you, like I said I never would.

I want to listen to love songs and not miss you.

I said her name,
and then she came.
The end.

She is my Goddess
I, her Divine Masculine
A sacred union

I'm not quite sure what did it...

It could have been watching
Mother being beaten
or knowing Father was the one giving the beatings.
It may have been
when it was my turn
for the beatings.

It may have been the first time
I experienced the futility
of existing
here and now,
there and then.

It could have been
the first time I felt an
irrational fear of
climbing under the porch
with all the spiders and dark places,
or the subsequent shame imposed on me
because my little sister was
the one who
saved the stuck kitten.

It might have been the time
I rammed that same sister's head
into the side of the stove
and then threatened retaliation
if she told on me.

It may have been
thinking as a child
I was destined for
mediocrity, even though
I knew I was
born
to be great...

II.
Knee deep in thick muck,
******* and fuckery,
we trudge on and on
and through it all....

III.
Everyone is dying.
Some, quicker than others.
I'm going to
ride this out
for a while...

IV.
Hi
Hey, you look cute

Fat. You look ******* fat poured into that stupid dress. You are not seventeen anymore lady, jesus!*
...

V.
I can hear you breathing while doing yoga;
a slow inhale, pause, controlled exhale.
Your body is a....

VI.
Another ten hour shift
with the crew of ******* *******.
If I wasn't the boss
I'd have cracked some
****** heads
wide open
by now.
These ******* don't
know ****...

VII.
My plants need watering, wilting next to grandmas paintings...

VIII.
So, you think you know me...

VIIII.
Spare parts.
Lots of folks out
there made from spare parts.
Pieces that almost fit.

My knees were laying
around out back somewhere;
they were beaten into place.
They got most of the dimensions
right but the joints are tight...

X.
It takes two weeks for your kisses to reach me,
and two seconds for my blood to fill the empty spaces...

XI.
Wait...just wait. Don't go.
I was only kidding. ****...

XII.
Light. Bouncing all over the place.
Light.
Reflected into you...

XIII.
These giant guardians on the boulevard,
My friends, these tremendous sycamores, have been keeping watch my entire life.
They tried warning me...

XIV.
Two years later and your taste is gone but your smells still linger in the dark folds of memory...

XV.
This is going to be offensive to most.
Inappropriate? Some might say.
I wouldn't...

XVI.
These so called poems from
these so called poets about
cutting yourself and suicide really
can wear a guy out.
My tendency towards empathy and
compassion, tested daily, wears incredibly thin.
I've been there, not my thing, this cutting.
I'd rather burn flesh.
We've all got our thing right?
Except self harm isn't my thing.
Not a thing I do,
just a thing I did.
I wonder if these tortured
souls make it through the
next hour after reading
one after another cry for help.
I wonder if some do it just
for shock value, some just to goad
their creators.
I wonder if I am reading a poem or a
suicide letter.
It's unnerving.
I'm all for suicide; I suggest everyone try it
at least once.

Just quit with the incessant
*******...

XVII.
Cut my throat and leave me to the jackals for
I would rather drown in desert sand
than submit to the will of anyone
I do not
trust...

XVIII.
****** clamps, lead weights.
Paddles, restraints...

XVIIII.
I sat alone,
from nowhere a warm, blue light surrounded me.

**.
Balancing these monkeys on my back with the demons in my mind and...

21.
I smell ******* a mile away *******,
and you stink.
I see you shuckin' and jivin',
be-boppin' around like you are some kind of
badass...

22.
And now there are no flowers on the table and no long, dark hairs on my pillow...

Dagger of the soul
Timeless disintegration
The edges crumble