it is my birthday.
but the world has long disowned me.
honestly--I ask--why do I bother?
as there must be something there for me--out in the viscera.
for I, am still here.

it is my birthday.
but the public has long shunned me.
faces thick as bedrock and eyes as dull as mint wrappers.
and they use sound to blind them.

it is my birthday.
and no one seems to help.
for it is not always happy to know,
you're one day closer into the arms of the cease-r.

it is my birthday.
and words rule no meaning.
for no one listens to me.
and no one hears what I'm hearing.

it is my birthday.
and my marrow weakens as I breath.
but bones sleep with welded lips 'neath the coat of earth.
and--with shame--I shall, too, be nothing but empty research.

it is my birthday.
and I force myself to nature.
O sand, is it true they pick you up and throw you in the wind?
O sea, is it true you get stuck in the mouths and stomachs of the young?
O hair, is it true you scream when the air beats you?
but I don't hear--and I know many.

it is my birthday.
and I breath false air.
is it true the ones that speak ill are on their death bed?
is it wrong I wish for them to speed up time?
is it wrong I point the reaper in their direction?
so I needn't worry of their illness spreading to mine.

it is my birthday.
and we are all gathered for tea.
the masochists sit by the sadists; that's the rule,
so the sadist may draw that ball-point pen deep along their slate skin--and whisper the names of forgotten authors,
so they may both moan with delicious harmony together--for two presents in one.

it is my birthday.
and the masochists ask me to join.
they write each other's eulogies
and revise--revise--'til there are none.

it is my birthday.
for now you know not,
of what I wish, but what I need,
a master.

for I am not one.

it is my birthday.
and not all wishes deem true,
for it seems no one cares of my words--my work--my blood--my tears--
a hymn to whomever it may concern--have you no mercy?

it is my birthday.
and I have not found them.
I have not found the right.
for only airless voices with no mouths, eyes that wish for many more, and souls that have lost time have found me.

and I am one of them.

and 'neath my heart,

I always will be.

for it is my birthday,

and wishes don't come true.

i thought you were a painting at first,
with the way those dyed eyes matched mine,
with lips as full as a novel and as red as lower worlds,
made me think you were a painting--of something most divine.

i thought you were a painting at first,
with the way those small hands rose as mine did,
with the way those lips tasted of cookie dough and warm sugar,
with the way those eyes never seemed to leave me for naught,
and abandon me in lakes.

i thought you were a painting at first,
when i approached and eels ignited my mind--
with the thought--the picture-- the painting of you, O dear,
and set my mind within seas--clouds--of gladiolus's.

i thought you were a painting at first,
with that ever-always smile,
for do you not bleed at the mouth,
with that kryptonic sunshine?

i thought you were a painting at first, my love,
when my hand touched your sadistic smirk,
knowing i couldn't truly reach you,
and the heathers over-lapse me.

i thought you were a painting at first,
when my cheek touched your cool one,
and stained it with cherry pop blush,
for i know it's your favorite,
as you wear it to bed, all-while.

i thought you were a painting at first,
when i froze and my mind sung eulogies,
at my death at your satin feet,
for your beauty reaches past heaven.

i thought you were a painting at first,
when my smile synced with yours,
when they poked our eyes,
when they wrinkled our noses,
and when the sun shone still--even though ours were enough.

i thought you were painting at first,
until our lips met 'neath blue light,
and the shivers i bled,
fueled our world a-night.

for, dear, i thought you were a painting at first,
when i could see my heart beat--pace as yours,
and the moon and sun morphed--into entity,
and made us water lilies birthed with ravens.

i thought you were a painting at first,
when God told me,
'for you are the most beautiful person i have birthed from my lungs,
and spoke my heart to,
for you--and your painting here--are the only things that dance to my world.'

i thought you were a painting at first, my love,
when i bleed into pots and saw you doing the same,
now i know when my time is scuffed 'neath the barren sand,
your blood--our resin--stains lots.

lots.

lots.

for i know you're a stunning painting, O love,
for you lock many hearts.
i'd hope to own thrice of many,
so you could master theft over, and over, and over again.

i know you're a wondrous painting, O dear,
when people beg you to pose,
so they could see that beauty too, O love,
and kiss it a wish.

i know you're a masterpiece, love--
sweeter than melted butter,
and the finest of berries,
for you're worth--worshiped--much more than,
such mundane things.

i know you're a vintage classic, O wonder,
when my eyes turn blinding stars,
and fill up night skies.

for i knew you were a--

masterpiece...

master... piece...

master...   piece...

master.

for i knew you were a human, O master,
when my eyes gloss over in drunken clarity,
and my lips spill cider;
my hand becomes water at your touch,
for the pool knows no words,

to bask in my beauty.

'mongst teddy bear shaped clouds,
and with friend whose eyes are as amber as honey sickles,
the sky melts sugar milk,
and whispers bubbles of candy cotton!
for the twilight knew much of the Wonderer.

with hopping rabbit bunnies,
and boxes with a fellow named jack inside,
the puppy-eyed child learned of many names,
and knew of many creatures--
O! have you heard of the bunna-easant?
the child would love of you to learn lots about it!

it seemed the Lord had blessed this young,
with naive heart and brave mind,
for you'd have to drink gallons of melted butter,
to be as sweet as he.

old nightmares beg for sips of the Wonderer's dove wings,
for the child knew of no such thing.
'what are mares of the night?' those eyes glistened toward the faeries,
with 3 sharp "ha"'s, they lean in and whisper,
'stay in your cradle, my young,' they'd wave their lolly finger,
'for there're no such things as those.'

for the white candy cotton was a favorite of the child,
same hue as the glowing deity he worshiped,
and brought the bouncing child through the embers of the day,
to hush the child to midnight play.

for time was awfully kind to this young,
as it pushes the child's golden swing,
following the young's silver eyes,
as they twitch with hunger,
at the appearance of the new critters it drew.

as cherry mermaids flicked the child through hearts of jelly,
and the fish from Stockholm 'plashed through chocolate lanes,
the Wonderer's taffy hair grew lengths,
and body took its outfit and changed!

the child basked--astonished!--and jumped from the tails,
leaving the mermaids and fish staring at one another,
with questionable marks and exclamatory minds,
'did we just lose our Wonderer?'

in shock, the deity's hair ruled short,
and no longer kissed the face of the 'Wonderer',
and bags filled blue light 'neath its eyes,
and rust reigned miles over the kingdom of orbs.

and the canvas had a streak of black,
'long its body,
and dried it lay,
unfinished of what was started.

for when the 'Wonderer' did decide to crawl 'neath silken shield,
and the deity's hair grew,
toss and turn, and turn and toss, the child did,
and the hair frizzled at tinted noon.

for in the Wonderer's brain,
an old horse awaits him,
with mane as black as goo,
and eyes as fierce as sandstorm,
the old horse awaits him,
and takes gallons from his wings.

and the teddy bear clouds turned to cotton,
and the fish melted by the amber,
and mermaids collapsed to bone,
and the golden gate said 'keep out, don't enter.'

for the bunna-easants had long since migrated,
and the sky turned a scared octopus,
for the candy bubbles had quieted,
and the child hung its youth.

but the Wonderer had long forgotten of his favorite candy,
and knew wonders of the mares of the night,
at cubic, he sits as blue light spills from bronzed eyes,
with the caffeine shots he jolts...


and the mares kiss him good-night.

many we bleed from our mouths,
waterfalls of cherry vitality coating writing canvas,
sinking--melting--within twisted tongues,
and they're sure to ban us.

with graphite--with ink!--juicy wrists beg no mercy,
'gainst the natives with stash minds,
for our pain melts like water over leather,
yet sinks branding upon skeletons.

for we are blessed by God to bestow eulogies for one another,
as one tips from silver seat,
another awakens his place,
with picky gums and robins for teeth.

and how the ache and thirst must be great!
for the explorers must find all 10 fingers 'tween pages,
clad with strawberries and gauze,
and lips chewed off by ages.

and hollow words are gurgled by luscious syrup,
and packages droop 'neath vocabulary scholars,
O back, O bottom, O mind aches thee!
for only thousands to endure the shock collars.

for little Alice would fear to sit with our odor,
as gears and cogs steam--overheat--with vehemention,
and nights--pray tell--pray tell,
are long and arduous drinking lobes with the devil.

for four frays fancy flights!
'til grandfather croaks your retire,
and we blood-let and let leeches sink 'neath tender armor,
and shadows usurp darker.

as we are vampires--but crave the stone light,
and pour magma into our young's bellies,
so they may inherit our plight,
and ring off their tellies.

which noose may I bind?
which hand may I lock?
which tendon should twine?
which ink should I rock?

as we let, t'is nothing but medical,
as our teeth melt from mouths,
and our eyes dismiss with ridicule,
as our wrists are slaughtered,
and minds fluster through obstacles.

our hearts are obvious time bombs,
that rush to supply our cherry,
but when will the stunning twinkle cease to live on?
and be nothing but lemon balm?

O the sea we cross is made of iron--rust--and steel,
and lusts for its named called out,
for if we delve within this eel.
it'll surely be leaving no room for elders to rout.

the drive for honeyed poison excites me,
and the ache of the chew grows more,
at the thought others will see,
spin innards at the drop of the lore.

for we are the ones that wished for nothing more,
but to be charmed by crimson, and keys, and herrings,
and we pray for the pricking ore,

so the world may finally wear the pain as our custom earrings.

whilst they chase us,
and murmur hymns 'neath swollen wings,
they guide us,
with beckon words.

for the birds of baby eyes,
and elderly minds,
they wish for and dream just as much as we,
and ask many questions 'neath--therein--night.

who are you?
who are we?
who are they?
who is may?

simplicity within sliver tongues,
and nocturne in starry eyes,
we learn,
and grow,
listening to the native tongues from the birds of age.

for they speak in rhyme,
and rhythm--you see,
and bless us with the ability.

highlighter eyes blind we,
our neon stoplights, we see,
our teacher--our father--our mentor,
that wishes we move as he does.

for he feeds us rats!
and breaks his very neck for our arrival,
'my child--my pupil--my daughter--my son--welcome'
ever he always,
'mind you--mind you--your eyes beg wonder--sleep waits not for the lazy!'
and with a hardy laugh he bellows, the wind whips its hair as pompously, and only then his feet grabs for our shirts as we soar.

with darkly snoozes,
and sickly snores,
our teacher--our father--our mentor,
cares for us dozens!

for our wings dance lots--dance lots!--midst the rocky blue sun,
and our hearts shriek with candy teeth,
at the earth swimming below our dusty feet,
and clouds preach hello in wonder.

for the twilight knows of many bodies,
of many hands,
of many feet,
of many faces,
for they look up and see moving paintbrushes 'ganist canvas!
and wish for many easels.

and the earth knows of many tired bodies,
that the night has sickened,
with drooping eyes,
and legs a-limpin',
for they become the elder too,
as they play it and earned it well.

and the night sky argues and blinks many,
and births a new globe all and of its own!
as the olden wings guide us,
and our beings ache the part,
with sliver tongues,
and nocturnal starry eyes,
whom sweeps us into Forevermore.

one--two--covered streams,
staining palms of the undiscovered,
they have holes in ears--for you--their mouths are wide--wide--open--!
yet they hide 'neath tender shield.

peekaboo, I don't see you.
for the flowers cry not for the see-ers,
but for the cut and tears.

bite into your wrist,
and watch the ache and finished work flow,
into ******* and tired vocab,
as it is merely zilch you're destined to grow.

wide--wide open,
yet you bawl not,
how will you get your food now, O dear?
simply let the ocean run hot.

they will not bother with whiners,
whose lips that starve,
the words now old timers,
and the blood that was carved.

dig deep--dig deep, my love,
and find nothing but ash.
die penniless--die penniless, O dove,
and thrive on the sunken ****.

they drink eulogies,
from soft gray tongues,
and murmur carelessly,
for the young-uns.

the world won't wait--
forever moves it--
**** the weak--the hard workers,
and take up the one shot-ers.

simply how the horse drinks it's water,
and how the earth soaks in rain.
nothing--nothing--nothin' but minor,
and disappointing.

simplicity rings the loudest bell,
and thought sings drooping tunes.
for the world hides not and tells.

and blossoms melt in places anew,
merely brainless--brainless--!
and the shield slips from blue.

for now the world is clear,
and doesn't care for the sanguine ruin in those eyes,
let your work fade--let your work fade, my babe,

play peekaboo a little longer, and drag the sword between the lies.

For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for sweet peas.
And whose skin could be misplaced for dogwood.
Tongue as innocent as the boy that cried wolf,
And eyes as golden as yore.

You knew of that girl, count every school day,
Where she walked through the door, head bowed and heart prayed.
'neath those bangs, whose color is as dark as our breaths, and as shiny as false tree,
Whose eyes--exotic--bluer--bluer than a thumbtack and bluebells set out by sea.

Whose eyes are mismatched by plentiful lips--small as the silver spec on my shoe,
And shimmered 'neath sterile light, as if she kissed the face of Mt. Rushmore, too.
With those high lips and V-line chin, which connected with her pencil neck to her petite body,
No ******* or bottom, with legs as thin as stilts and as blinding as our phones,
She holds the body of a cradle, and sings like a tongue-less canary.

Always kempt and proper--her hair tied back with a lovely noose.
And shoes worry not of dirt--for she never played outside.
Resting 'neath maple-wood trees like a bunny--face and knees tucked by arms, and that's where they reside.
Many boys had asked for her hand in play, but that bunny went deeper--deeper into the flesh hole she burrowed.
"Painfully shy, she was." They said.
And that pain was her devil.

For you knew not the cause of those florid, pink, cheeks.
Whose purpose means nothing but dead machines.
Whose eyes rung bright--struck the world alight,
Yet, they themselves could not see.

For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for vintage bust,
And whose skin could be misplaced for bile.
Whose eyes mistaken for lust,
And face mistaken for tile.

For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for heat,
And whose skin could be misplaced for bleach.
For again and again and again, the belt beats.
And hello to endless ******.

For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Blue waters and purple veins clash--wash again and again 'gainst land--and befit the word: queer.
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Innocence knows no bounds and eyes no longer see flavor,
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Exotic eyes bled--rained--pink--and pink--and pink with grand fervor...!
For sometimes it may frighten you to know,
Not all persons are truly healthy,
even those who you hold truly dear.

hark near!
speak knives upon ears...
make them plea,
and beg upon swollen knees.

for we are truly so,
the ones in which we sow
coagulated clots into a beaded necklace,
blood berries--blood berries
of an aching vocabulary's.

waiting.
begging.
pleading for one swipe.
aching for someone to hurt,
and hope they fully bleed at night.

we merely want to help,
aide the eulogies and add a scissor kiss,
to the concoction of labor,
and amalgamation of agony,
in order to spice,
and to cease.

nothing but a sweet disease
for the white blood cells,
and wish you deep luck,
on a tall grass journey.

we simply wish for ****
after ****,
and smile when you still go up running,
blood stained grin after blood stained grin,
and spitting saucers of cut lips upon your hurt cheeks.

spit teacups
and an half full glass
have nothing to do with a child
or years of class.

you may think we're nothing but a nuance,
and don't mean anything but to watch you cook your own brain,
but we are simply here,
to help you on the chair,
and tighten your own noose.

save the ache of being petty,
and moans of disgrace,
we're here to swallow your pity,
and make you drink your own ****.

simply--surely--simply and surely so,
but we don't mean anything but to guide you to the ditch,
with slices of paper from rusted scissors,
and help you die with your pitch.

you're one of those, are you not? a ******* and nothing more?
you'd best be reminded,
that what is a song,
without its poem?

you have nothing to fear but your own tongue,
and your own blood,
and your own tears,
and make you think you're nothing but clod.

but you'd best be sweating salver if you really are what you say you are.

a place with no shelter?

no story to show?

no roof and no halter?

no place to know?

for the earth mirrors the heavens
and you place what lays between.

you are truly pathetic--but you scribble that.
you are truly meaningless--but you bleed that.
you are truly wordless--but you speak them.

and no one--not even us--can tell you what you really are.

and if you really are what you say you are--then show us.

but don't prove it.

remember, you have a noose that is tight.

all you need is a chair to kick over...

and paper--and pencil--and keyboard--and mind.

now, go ahead and tell me what you are...

the naive scholar for all mankind.

but fools only relish!
the psyche in which we perish!
hatred buried so!
and burned within merry lore!

for are they not,
the sane within the in?
and the in amongst the sane?
and the in of the sane--
which in here will truly reign!

like this, there, and, that?
and which, where, and what?
and spit, spat, and sput,
through here, hear, and hat?

brothers and sisters of spitting scholars!
we sing in two, to, and too!
with be, bee, and bat!
to this, there, and that!

easy to know--surely so, surely so!
the sane within the in--in the inn iconoclast's igloo!
"for what if the in shared the inn amongst the sane?"
"and the sane melted and blurred tongues within the in?"

what troubles your mind? what minds your troubles?
did you not know we live in the inn within this, there, and that?
and the which, where, and what all share one lobe!
for this is for the truly sane within the in,
and in inn of sane!

it shakes us!
like nails bitten in two, to, and too!
and mends us!
like dresses, treading thru, threw, and through!

might, in greatness, we rest, in base
eating bass--knocking bass!
for it is one-- nice and tight!
as the sane dances with--within the in!
in the inn of linen and tin,
for there is nothing greater, than the knowing labor!

and the world spins,
in and of the inn,
of the sane within the my,
and the in of the sane,
in which noose you and I tie,
and lie,
and die,
to again yearn for the sane within the I.

hitherto and heed.
this man with no greed.
face as mere as ants,
but heart as written so.

forthwith and in the now,
with a chest in the wrong place,
our brains midst logic and reason,
and mouths spurting mace.

for this man has trees that grow from his apple,
and lyrics that tie themselves to the oak,
simply tugging at his own branches,
and gaining strength as it broke.

for the world he laid himself atop,
does aches and curves his back,
for those hands move with grace against blank skin with ink,
and his lyrics sink and crack.

for the expensive sap,
from the alabaster jar,
glimmers quietly 'neath gasps,

and the noose and the
sentences
spill wars.

for his eyes are crusted,
miles yonder,
and his lips are chapped,
for-ever,
but his arms--and heart--and mind remain a never.

eager and spotless,
fearless and willing,
through trials and hot rocks,
the earth he's tilling.

trails of sound and light leading out to the world,
hold silent despite his might.
and urge and creeping yearn,
for his empty fright.

for the grass shivers at the fall of his pen,
and world cries out at the whisper,
but the man is nothing but mumble and slack,
and has everything held as a lisper.

for a man is nothing without his eyes,
and nothing without his lips,
a mere inconvenience,
to the insipid mind.

for an utterance may increase the waters it treads,
but it certainly wont sow.
and reap what it does,
without years to know.



                                           and grows...
                                      and grows
                               and grows
                         and grows
for the green tree grows
                                                                ­    merely to sink into silence, you say...

the man wags a finger,
and chapped lips ache a smirk.

quill to mouth--connected by heart to mind--line by line
against skin,
is an endearment,
and engraving of passion...


as speech may serve nothing to mind...                                                          ­   if it goes through one ear...

  and spills out the next...


it's the words concocted and stirred up by man--singing by lyre...


                              




and the purple eyes that open
                                            new minds
                                                              to­ the mirror ether.

for we fall like moths at the strike of lighting.
and slip to earth for change.
we sit in 10 seconds of silence.
yet we never wish for years of action.

for we cry into the heavens--to God--in disarray,
false water in our glossy eyes.
for with magazines and a host,
atheists are our middle name.

knees soaked in kerosene and eyes used as ashtrays,
we are fire coated in and of itself,
for we burn midst tear-sealed lips,
and expect for the earth to revolve.

for we lay unclad together in bed,
whispering cloy gooeyness into ear canals,
and tie each other up with thorns,
for kink--we say--then you're brain has no mouth.

for we are sadomasochists,
emanating soulful breaths with heads tilted back,
at the thought of a bullet in our marrow,
and chuckle off--chuckle off lots,
at the red we draw from that hidden blade we borrowed.

they know not of what we think,
for we are madman in a cradle,
with large starry eyes, we look for inspiration--intention,
and--when asked for and found--the parents don't see those stars anymore.

for we are heartache,
and bodies with stones in our hand,
for they don't understand,
the power in corpses we seek.

for we are the heretics,
the verses in the Bible no one reads,
for when sought out and seen,
we bathe in the honeyed milk and spoil it.

for we are selfish--even if we beg not,
we are hypocrites--even if we needn't be,
we are labyrinths--even if redirected,
for we are killers and everyone knows,

all we need to do is bury our weakness 'neath the meadows.