Do you wanna see my heart.
Look in my *******, eyes.
Do you want to hear it ripping, back and forth,
listen to my ******* blood throat.
My teeth constantly try to knife my myocardium to exhaustion.

Most people have to hold back their tongues with their dentition,
Or cloister their words with their cheeks,
Tucked inside near their palettes.

No.Not.Me.

I’m holding back the force of death,
The force of love.
And its all i can do to not **** every ******* soul.
All the hearts of men.
Coagulate inside this pit.
Empathy, destruction, lust, fervor for wanting.

A passion so burning, the sun dries up.
The molten hydrogen exhaust itself, and kicks and screams as it tries to nail its claws away from the cement as i come to ingest it.
It tries to escape me.

Do you want to see my love.
This cage cant hold it.

...

You will see my essence even with your ******* eyes gouged out.
I spill into the multiverse.
Slipping.Like.Space.

The golem quakes from the grounds tremble.
The mountain howls with the wolf.
Everything that was supposed to hold mystique,
has been corrupted by proof.
A god that cant eat.
A people that cant lift their own arms,
in arms that hold each other.
Now the thought mistraced faith reforms,
deformity causes alarm in the masses because difference hits too hard.
Control mind, control body, control philia, measure all your calculations always magnanimous dose. Part.
Relinquish. Relinquish!!
Give all sanctity and hope to the state,
they will focus your hate,
through a photoelectric device.
Let them mold you into natures and **** sapien sentient plight.
Allow your shape to be devoid of integrity.
Be all you can be.
Join anything that ends with an A. Starts with an US.
If you ever take off your mask and see the cave for what it is,
we will **** you.
Plato is the design for our torture system.
When some one says. "be born",
concede and reply with "nevermore".
End life in the womb.
You will live the rest of the days light, in darkness.

It is times when we are ripped away by facts,
That we hate this illusory dream,
Of tangled hair with kissing fingers,
Tantruming under lovers seams.

Oh to touch such dark hair,
To line my skull with such thoughts,
And decorate a house unkempt,
Destroy the cobwebs and chaos.

I am but a single placement in the sky,
A blip of light etched to the back drop of night,
Attracting, making a binary star,
Kissing into cold airs space finding his broken piece of heart.

I wandered in on a world of dead rock. I laid with it. Smelt the essence together with carbon and metallic lifelessness.
To create a place of pretty. A sadness overcame.
I came to feeling. To knowing. Sentient.

A rootless contusion never ending.
A bottomless chasm of void.
The pit follows deeper and deeper it travels,
To the hollows of sorrow contempt I’m born.

I grow to feet from the ground where I lay,
As my body draped the floor sprawling and loose.
Upon these legs I rise, and so rise my eyes.
The hollow void I have lingers yawing in my stomach. Ulcerating my mucosal cavern.

What I see
Before me
On this road
On this desert of the necropolis:

Metropolis mass grave,
A mausoleum for civilization,
Möbius of war.
The reflective glint in my eye was of no mans eyes at all.
The death of hope.

Sea of sky scraping spires.
The dead hollow bones left after a city extinguishes.
Millions of towers with red glowing eyes, where blue life used to flourish, now twinkle in and out of this plane.
These giants graze, on the concrete and sway...with the wind.
Colossus of marble, petrified forever in granite with the internal flora that haunted their bowels.
They now have no agenda...city percolates to extinction.
They will forever amble with no purpose.

Once they housed the hearts and minds of microbes that built them.
The builders of hero worship.
They died in the 20's.
Left are the shells of a dream and a forest of buildings.
New York died circa 1900.
United States crumbles: 1776

Legs rusting in cement
re-barb poles of anchoring
but no foundation suffice
for the feelings of neglect in childhood
the bricks arise
the mortars set
but in a misshapen pattern of mangled misanthropy
and charred remains of humanity

a family is for one thing,
comfort in an odd place.
holding to conformity,
telling you who you are, when you are not.

when it all goes awry, the suns still in your eyes,
eyelashes cant curl enough to make you pretty in asides,
poems monologues that you speak don’t take time to preach,
pain and hiding that you try to flee from during human touch or human speech.

I cannot handle myself much less others.

I cannot speak with anyone so I have to speak with you.
Or I have to hold back a heart mired in loving glue.
horses died to allow me to roam, trees die still to make my home.
I still cant fashion pictures true of a family of five with six that are real
alive alive
I jig and strive to dance away my hate for life
it waltz's its way upon my ears and kills my familiarity fear
I want life in its sake
I want death timely
we all want things that just feel right,
feel just fair.
I want Disney land to not hurt when I get to the entrance
because it all turns out right
suburbia is not a Moasist country frilled with soulless black eyes
no sparkles.
all the glitter is very much silver and also the gold of the joys of souls

the way I feel is that if these wrought iron fencing’s could help to divide me any more
I could be one with them. Solitary atom.
They could be my home. They could coincide with differential turnings in my brain and eventually destruct me into molecules that would inherently be of their own. Be singular

but in the current state of matters.
I must depend upon all matter to be the one thing that holds me together

what life is this?

this makes me brittle
makes me short
controls me into any contortion that is to them beautiful
for now
I must be beautiful.
**** that.
To contort and retort, when we only wish to wobble and pulse with Brownian motion. My own happiness should not derive from people; I wish to not be near nor around in any small sequence,
they are merely dead to me.
Non-animate.
this is the platonic family we create.
This is life that we see from dead, dank, and sorrowful eyes.
Pity.
Forced.
Relations.
Consummate. Indelibly.
You people should be ashamed of yourselves for forcing love. By any means.

The writings on white sheets,
of paper, meander into corners of peoples troubles,
hopefully they taunt correct hemorrhages that will impulse something.

I hope that when I write some person is confused.
Or else I've created no symbolism.

Ive created nothing of worth
or
of
more than it is.

This sallow fickle body I traipse in.
It's got bones filled with osteocytic stones to shape it.
They are calcium degraded, then traded for rigid text.
This body is hard and hollow.
Like bird bones.
Like the bonds between atoms.
This sick cadaver is nothing less.
Our cells become separate selfish entities,
incapable of helping themselves.
Indigent children with no child hostels.
With no help for the homeless youth of our own corporeal phantoms.

When the Aids takes us all,
The cancer takes its toll.
When the whooping cough kills our hopes.
When we die to our dreams of home.

We die all on our own.

The skin becomes parchment.

Some day these bones can be the frame to a poem of worth.
Hung in a rich mans house.
On his wall awkward awards adorned.
Creating what I never could by a poet who was as perfect as the others.

Now the calcium lies in me,
as I lie between sheets of this meat,
of human humus before it disintegrates,
to make plants much more beautiful;
but that calcium, that carbon will make a page.
That bone will make a frame,
and my frame will stand tall like the last building left in the earth.
As there are no more humans alive to see it.

The last iris of the universe will be. A sun.

I just curl into a ball.
And freeze under the rafters.
I can't grab the words I need,
To release them between,
My teeth,
And stop sinking,
Below the frosted air on the ground.

The crown of my heads busted and broken,
Into fragments of love I'm reduced to splinters of glass.
I cut my throat with them to see if I hurt.
Idont.

I need to be bounded with leather.
Heart skin crocheted into "Another" heart.
Atrial to carotid,
Her hand to mine.
Just give me the digits of your finger,
And I'll give you the life of my voice.
In volumes of poem.

I still will be that little boy shivering, convulsing, and scared in the floor.
With block wings in the stone.
You will still be a life saver given to me as a cyanide pill
in my teeth.
Sides of the cheek.
Press.
Display death in my face.
Then be released with pain.
Needing no savior.
Only an outlet for talk.

I quit writing.
To quit writing is the concept.
The concept is happy.
Happiness is the end cause of the deceased.