And it's rivers, rivers flowing through
the veins of the earth.

Clean the filth, dear rivers,
drink the filth greedily with your mouths
and store it in your banks, lovely rivers,
store it in your banks.

Oh rivers, rivers carry us all
into your beds,
into your heads,
lay us down to rest.

But rivers, rivers never slow
that rushing white noise,
the white noise like snow
carrying a forgotten voice.

Deafening rivers, rivers, forever.

She doesn't love me
when she tells me goodnight,
and I wouldn't have it
any other way.

Horse girls.

I think that horse girls
secretly play with,
and caress,
their stallions' *****.

They need that steed seed,
if you catch my drift.

Furthermore I believe
that their shameful fetishization
is intentionally kept hidden behind
a facade of general love and care for animals.

Especially when they say things like
"I care about animals more than people."

Like, *****
no you don't.
You just get wet thinking about big animal ****.
Which is completely fine, just be honest about it.
And, uhh...
Can I watch?

Two thousand four hundred and fifty five days
spent floating the vacuum of space.

My lungs ache with misplaced distaste
for the beautiful sights surrounding me.

I used to add them all up in romantic displays
but my math of late just ain't what it used to be.

Obtuse angles of obtrusive angels portray
ninety degrees of too little, too late.

Soon the memories you're making now
will be the ones you long to remember.

nevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryn­evertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryne­vertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynev­ertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryneve­rtrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynever­trynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevert­rynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertr­ynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertry­nevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryn­evertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryne­vertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynev­ertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertryneve­rtrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynever­trynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevert­rynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertrynevertry

Doesn't take a cashier
To make some change
And there'll always be time
And it'll feel familiar
And it will frighten you
I think that's what defines
The proposition of change
Better now than later
Hair will grow back
These things will be different
But always somewhat the same

There's nothing quite like
a fresh pair of work boots,
stiff and clean.

There's nothing better for
stepping right into a pile
of wet, hot dog feces.

Because what good would
work boots be without
some **** underneath?

An arctic smile,
pockets full of tissues,
floral aromas mingled
with talc and perfume.

The waiting.

A line forming,
A line dwindling,
bottoms finding chairs,
and you're dead.

The reading.

Crying, sniffling,
snot flying,
you can taste it
in the air.

The prayers.

It feels like
the hospitals
all over again,
but for the last time.

Turning the page
has never been
as rewarding as
it is with her.

Finally I've
started a
new chapter
that's actually
worth reading.

The kind of book
that has me eager
to learn what
happens next.

I've calluses from working,
but writing always leaves me
with a couple fresh blisters.

A new house
In a new state,
She wants people
To come and stay.

It's tough
To justify a visit
When you moved
Four hours away.

I wanted to see
How it would be,
But maybe not during
A pandemic holiday.

Dreams still come true,
A place down by the beach
Is still a place down by the beach,
And I look forward to it every day.

A quite quiet little tapping.
A tapping on the window.
Glass shivering and shaking.
Brittle bones are breaking.
Wishful whispers in the dusk.
Distant voices muffled and hushed.
Tapping, time is ticking away.
Tangled tongues clicking in pain.
Furled fingers forced inside.
Shattered shards all pushed aside.
Hangers strewn across the room.
A shadow, a hymn hummed true.

Tapping. Tapping. Tapping. Fright.
Unknown noises in the night.

Stood up again by sleep.
A sickly fickle friend, indeed.
Should the dawn ever come,
then let it ******* come
like a blessed loaded gun.

There's a faint
Scent
Of candle smoke,
Welcoming
My nose.

The afterglow image of
open flames
Is burned into my retinas.

I can hear the song
Echoing,
Throughout the twenty nine
Years.

I can taste light
Whipped cream,
And a hint of vanilla
Mixed with coffee.

I can feel love
Permeate
Through the aether,
And meet my gaze
As I look
Upon the stars.

hhahhahahahahah
hahahahah
hahahahahaah
haha

Whenever it rains
I see her lying before me,
vulnerable atop a picnic table.

Love isn't always a titanic,
more often then not it's subtle
like hundreds of little life boats
bringing us all to safety.

I find those subtle hints
of her honest love
floating towards me
whenever I start to sink.

I wear that shirt she got me,
I come home to a made bed
and folded laundry,
I see her letters and notes
on my mirror,
her face pops up on my phone
and when I answer all I can say is
"I love you too."

A man walks into a bar,
he's an alcoholic and
it's destroying his life.

Knock-knock.
Who's there?

An abandoned child
on your doorstep.

Blue twirls and twine,
exhaled temporary halos
give us sanctity
in the din and the dark
of this ***** night.

They're still highways
That take you here,
But they seem less so.

Somewhat more like trails,
A hardpan of sorts,
Beaten through the hills.

They're still streetlights
That bring you to a stop,
Painting the wet streets in red.

Somewhat more like a twin dusk that
Demands hesitation, and patience,
To wait for the green dawn.

I imagine that at some point before I **** myself, that I'll have the indignation to jot down a somewhat substantial list of all my usernames and passwords.
I find it romantic to picture people performing digital
archaeology on my life, logging in to my various websites
after I'm dead,
and trying to decipher when and why it all went wrong.
Trying to figure out what led me to making the decision
of suicide, what drove me to some kind of psychological
breaking point.

That indignation,
to think that I'd be worthy of such a
romantic notion,
is rather sickening to the me that sits here
still alive.
To the me
clacking away at some gaudy mechanical keyboard.

What makes me so royal?
Why would I be worthy of
an archaeological, metaphorical dig?
People die constantly.
I'd just be one more.
One more forgotten story,
one more unfulfilled potential.

One more
"gone too soon."

No one gives a ****,
not really.
People love me, sure.
Family, some friends.
A few ex-lovers.
Everyone has their own life to live.
I'm not as important as I think I am,
neither are you.
Or anyone, for that matter.
It's just human nature getting the best of us
that makes us think otherwise.

People have a right to go on with their lives,
I guess just as people have a right to choose death.
I'd hate to get in the way of either one.
It's a fool's errand to imagine I even could,
or would.

Maybe there will be a little list of my passwords,
reeking of self-righteousness.
maybe there will just be a pile of ashes
with a air of a final clarity,
of a 'coming to my senses.'

Maybe I'll live forever, I mean...
So far, so good.

Persistence may sometimes be sickening,
yet never quite as sickening
as suicide.

**** is running in rivulets
into this keyboard, pouring
from the ends of my fingertips,
and it paints these words brown.

Just like my eyes.

Can you smell it?

Some day maybe
you'll sing to me.
Not necessarily
to me specifically,
but I'll be
listening
and you'll be
singing.

Maybe in the shower,
maybe pulling in
the driveway
on your way home
from work.
My ear pressed to the door.

I want to see you
in the shower,
singing along.
I want to reach out
to the clear lining
and press it against
your naked, wet body.
I want to wrap you up
in that protective plastic,
and you won't miss a single note.
You'll keep singing and I'll caress
your every curve and mole.
My hands gliding up against
the smooth refined finish,
so gingerly sweeping
across all your bits.
Soapy and slippery.
So close but not.
Not quite touching.
Not quite real.
My skin isn't
something
that you'll
ever feel,
or feel
feeling
you.


Beauty encapsulated,
preserved in time and space.
The sound of falling water.
The blurry look on your face


is telling me to
Stop.


Your voice in my ears,
my make-believe dream.
You'll sing that you love me
and I'll wake with a scream.

Guess what?
People ******* change.

I don't know what to say,
or what you want me to say.
I don't want to just say
what you want me to say.
I just want to float.

Salty ripples
lapping at my sides,
squinting at
the summer sunshine.

When I close my eyes,
I'm
there.

Stop peeling up my lids,
don't make me look
at this... this,
this bottomless pit
sunken into my skin.

I don't know what to say,
I just don't want to,
okay?

Ah, but it seems my preferential tendencies
are rendered sundered and inadequate
by your overwhelmingly imposing emotions, and it's like they never ******* mattered
one ******* bit to begin with,
did they?

I'll keep that in mind
for next time.
I'll know just
what
to say.

Men that won't eat *****
are just ******* in disguise.

well this keyboard is intimidating
but jeez i can't keep
using a pen forever
so what if it's more
comfortable?

This poem looked better
When it was
Written down.

The wind blows
Carrying a cloud of sand
Like a thousand little razors

It feels
It feels like pins and needles
It feels like waking up
     To something that's been here
          All along.

Three shots and I'm free.
Five cigarettes filled with regret.
Two miles home.
Three more hours of being awake,
then comes time for dreams.

what's it really matter though?

everything
everything is a bruise
painted and dyed
black and blue

and I'm tired of
I'm so tired of the light
please feed me darkness
I've got blackened blues

with purple and yellow
and green sometimes too
broken blood vessels
just make me miss you

Lies and deceit are a heavy spritzing of perfume,
truth and honesty are a rotting carcass in the ditch.


Both are bitter and sickly-sweet to my nose,
and if my eyes are going to water either way
then what does it even ******* matter.

I think she forgot to look both ways
before crossing my mind one day,
for now she is but a bloodstain
upon my memory.

I feel she was beaten to death,
one brutal pulse at a time,
by the last heart attack
that I suffered.

But sometimes the daydreams take
me away from this atmosphere,
and the shadows from Saturn's rings
form her name in space.

As I spill my coffee,
alone.

I just can't stop
replaying it in my head
over and over
again and again.

Soaked sneakers and Jesus,
I felt like a god
and tasted heaven
on your lips.

The sweat sheet cleaned
our muddy feet
and then I found myself
in your hips.

I'm in a state
Of constant disbelief,
As I look at your face
Peering out from under the sheets.

I'm comfy,
Let's stay
Right here
All **** day.

Look how famous I am!
Extray! Read all about it!

When I wrung out the sweat
it went and stained the carpet,
like when I found that dead cat
and took it in as my pet.

Then I lied to the landlord
said "I don't smell it a bit"
but the bugs gave me away,
too many flys and maggots.

Walking down these dark streets
never going too far,
looking for an empty seat
at any ******* dive bar.

Slugging now, I don't sip,
I ain't got time to not drink,
when drunkenly I trip
and the bottle breaks in my lips.

So now I eat up bits of glass
and they splinter in my gums,
and my teeth start to crack
as I wait for day to come.

Years of flipping through them,
Torn pages filled with photos
And things.

Must've thrown them away
At some point,
Maybe recently.

The book was in the cupboard,
The photos were in the book,
She was in the photos in the cupboard in the book.

It was there for years,
And years and years,
Every time I looked.

Now they're gone, and I'm not sure where
They may have ended up, but...
I don't really care.

Because sometimes it takes
A little letting go
To let the past fade out,
And to focus on tomorrow.

My bird returned home,
Only not in photo form.
Those photos may be gone
But now there's time for more.