bleeding from somewhere,
cheers to routines and the walls
I beat my head against though.
I only put my fists into sky now.
why drown when backstrokes
look like Pablo or Baudelaire
or gospel whispered in your ear
while all the awful flares out
like an ancient star?
ive taken hearts out off of sleeves
too many times in this life.
who is really alive anymore?
too many questions,
plenty war to be desensitized to;
my minutes die trying to bloom
infinite.
weaponsize truth.
linchpins pulled.
ascension is as cruel as children
are to other children.

it's **** and you know it
better than I do.

ive been stuck serving verses
to the undeserving and it irks me
to even think of letting it happen further.
this is nurturing a burgeoning
fervour for burning certainty
down to the ******* dirt the worms eat, sleep, and die in.
curtains swing on your "why me"
why me,
why me,
why me,
why, why, why, why?
why this?
why that?
why sink,
why swim,
wine glass,
high G.
please.
self is a hell,
it helps if you let it break,
waves;
waving on the iller side
of heaven's gate.
pilfer life out of what's left
of the seven days you've yet to waste.
thanks.
thankfully you'll think of me.
don't.
please.

curled up like a ball
the grey cat sleeps peacefully
in the dog's kennel.
30/4/2021

two nights ago I overdosed
for the fourth time in five years.

I don't even know if I'm alive
or dreaming.
right now or forever.
write it down,
cords were severed.
I'm breathing either way.
I'm breathing either way.
but dreams can fade slow but they'll fade.
so either way,
I'm breathing.
either way,
I'm breathing.

words are boring me lately.
every story I read seems to
be baiting me to jump.
the ledges I write remind me
that flying is falling.
dry ink is apalling;
chalk outlines look like milk
in the rain;
falling isnt flying at all.
I have to remind myself of that.
I'm selfish.
I'm selfish.
my shelves sit full.
it all ends.
both sides.
no flying.
no falling.
I'm falling.
I'm lying.
I wouldnt call me either.

black robed bacchanal
cracked home
back back
past the walls and black holes
I'm ashing in the bathtub
by the way
act appalled if you want
I'll be passed out in it later
vapor in the clouds
find me
please

this mixed-media paper
curls every time I impose
my watercolors upon them.

I might be using too much water.
I'm definitely using too much water.

I don't care though.

I love the way the paint blooms
from the tip of the brush when it touches the water;
blood dripping into cheap pinot grigio.

as cheap as the word "I",
or family,
or atypical,
or grief.

I wonder what it would be like to
crawl into that hole that you keep
calling the sun?
only pigment blooms around here.

that was dramatic,
I know.