Stumbling down the street
whilst scratching your middle name
onto a shabbat candle is me
doing my best Phillipe Petit.

I'll try to remember to read by the light.

tell us all about it.

this hell was found
to be a stroll
through a park
on a rainy day
by some that may
have been insane.

so who's to say?

the mood is
The Great Wave Off Kanagawa
or Black on Maroon.

the moon is sugar cube
in Earl Grey.
the world waits
for us to fall asleep.

all alone in a cheap hotel room
writing "gang gang" on the beige wall
next to the bed,
I've never felt so alive.

your ghost keeps whispering "oh well, dude"
every time I think things would be better
if I didn't say what I did;
I treasure any hell I won't abide in.

no telling when this feeling will fade away,
I'm bleeding out in every street everywhere.

the early hour silence
reminds me of shadow puppets
I could never guess.

oh well.

the apple's loved with the oranges.
the swarm is sick.

oh well.

We cogs will spin until,
one by one,
our teeth break
and are reattached.

Then they'll rip us out,
melt us down,
and forge a new "us"
when there is enough
of us piled up
to bother with.

Rinse.
Repeat.

sidewalks;
the blood stretching from
my open chest to
Port-au-Prince
and back again.

I fractal out under the
afternoon moon.

in love's first winter
I lost my ******* mind twice;
ground is still bleeding.

thinking over years,
I slowly fall forever.
we were happy there.

we were never that.
leverage fact somewhere else.
we were never that.

probably so.

disrobing disbelief
as if it were a lover
just as drunk as I am
got me nothing
but more disbelief.

so now I sleep alone,
clothed,
with fantasy.

"tell me a story,
any story,
about anything",
I whisper
to tobacco stained wallpaper
my vulnerability
breeds like
rats behind.

pines hold rain longer than
other trees,
maybe;
I build pyramids alone in my dreams.

when you cut my heart out
you better hold it high
enough to block out the ******* sun.

my blood pools at the foot
of God himself;
the best "no" I can think of.

High life bottles broken in knife fights;
the novel is hopeless but at least
that "dying light" **** is happily
it's own niche now.

Dreams have been louder
than usual lately.
Lonely linked linguistics with
a home-free ***** fit,
I'm a rose through the
drywall if you pay me.

They don't.

Wigs split themselves
and Incels run up gripping
Lysol cans and white bics
claiming they can make
halos with them.

They can't.

on top of a broken throne,
a hopeless ghost that eloped with control
and then leapt off a cliff when
he was supposed to invoke
all those happy memories,
sits uncomfortably.

half of his entropy flows from disasters detached from his history
and the rest is the wind through the trees grown from bitter seeds
thrown into the dirt of what was meant to be forever.

crowns melt with enough heat.
clouds swell above the heads of those condoning his death,
a true crown for the ugly...

off with his head!
off with his head!
off with his head!

he sees them seething and he forgives himself for being a fool
as their screams retreat from the growing light of oblivion.

besieged by the sky,
my lungs have already burst.
never found the words.


i still drift nowhere,
first to find out I'm alone;
I would hate to hide.


the smell of honey
and lavender paints the walls
of mornings lost to...

junk stock depleted,
the sky is now dirt and bones.
i wait in the void.


gravestones bathed in grey.
flowers dance in full spectrum.
i am lost between.


towers built to fall
are beautiful as rubble.
rising dust, their souls.


cracked mirror, bent sight.
everything was always like that,
explosions reversed.


nevermind that one.
cinematics are sickly,
if i let them dream.

flies swirling,
eyes are pearls
reflecting empty sky.

fragmented.
light imbibed elsewhere.
suspended end-of-all-things.

it all makes sense when it didn't;
didn't do the math right.

rite.
write.
left.
right.
we all march towards death
like it's our mother;
God waits anxiously by the
proverbial ****-soaked bedside.

"that he should see all the world bloodshot,
the most unhappy man on earth."

I underlined that randomly in some book
I stole from some thrift shop.

im melting.
each breathe is a flame kissing the wax of my edges,
flesh to air, air to flesh again.
straying from the path is just another
precipice,
a precedent set against fair shares of neglected death.

i was promised a sleep so peaceful
even non-existence would be jealous,
but im still wide awake paying homage to every detail through a fogged lens...

its not as tragic as I would like to paint it.
more a backflip over a slight frustration.

you're dancing under the light
of my unraveling;
i crawl out of my own mouth forever.

say what you will,
but smile at me as I catch each and every syllable
like fireflies in a jar.
smile at me as I show you them,
smiling like a child.

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

need to break patterns,
dust,
fall through nebulas of flesh
and thought often enough
to touch the past with the future
like it matters or mattered
.
crash, burn, etc.
scatter in the wind.
imminent is the division
drifting in those same nebulas.

someone, anyone, paint them.
cage the visage to canvas or brick.

please.

what i need is to stop the dialogue
between myself and i.

need to break patterns.
need to sleep.

oracular inversion...
she is alone in her head
my lonely eats the same bread

***** on the carpet

pigment clashes with pigment
and I, the lazy tyrant, try to pull
a crown from their oblivion.

you asked.

doomsday in a two piece suit
asks, "what the **** is a bleeding edge?"

i apologize for my photons going pinball
as long as they probably will.

Saints in the grass,
snakes in the red inked rice paper,
no stakes.

Paydirt to just dirt,
inertia,
stealing the first buds on your neighbor's rose bush
because you've earned them.

Worth is a burned bridge
glimpsed over a shoulder,
burgeoning burned already
lest we embed flesh in cold earth because to smoulder is a fate worse than rehearsing a death wish
in the cracked mirror of modernity.

Learned behavior.

Visions,
smoke rings and grocery lists,
ovaries to kicks;
prisons of genetic streaming.

Kings dream of thieves
and thieves dream of
learning shinier schemes.

Laugh when the moon
sings eternally.

Laugh when spoonfuls of sense
are lifted by my shaking hand.

Laugh when anyone spits into
the abyss forever at their feet.

Laugh when the prismatic facsimiles
of mastery are scattering in the winds of change.

Laugh like it's the last cadaver stacked.

No scavengers.

No glass to crack.

No Saturn's curse.

None of that.

So laugh.
Laugh like the mad *******
you act like only exist
in past saturdays spent
in the bastion that was your grandmother's backyard.


Laugh.
Please, for ****'s sake, laugh.

all of these atoms,
in spite of will.
the paralysis,
a false inability to
alter the world's drift.

it makes me think of
dumbstruck faces pressed
against glass watching
the mechanical function
of collective helplessness.

all of these atoms though.

somewhere I read
that my fingerprints
we're set in stone
(flesh)
long before I ever
came to hate myself.

before my first breathe.

yea?

I never saw you dance
and in thinking of that
I realize that I never
actually met you.

I would love to meet you.
that has been a constant.

like breathing.
since I met you.

you know that feeling
you get when you know
you have the wrong house?

like that one drink that makes
your body say "we are done".

digging for empathy.

She has me spun around;
nothing but this comes to
the page.

I'm ok with it though.

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.

Finding myself in paper warped
by the ink from a stolen pen.

I lose it again in the lonely
void of smoke filled rooms.

Our need for a better vernacular
is a cup of tea sipped by our ghosts,
somewhere.

skydiving still,
put a comma where
you want.

I'm lauded,
better ask about me.
this is that "ah nah" ****.

ad nauseam.
bats in the belfry.

"the plum my mother picked was worm ridden"
I think of that ****
everytime i think of you.

think of the breeze,
think of the leaves,
ive been dead and dreaming of God knows.

same potholes in the same streets.

meaning is still whatever
I called it the last time we spoke.

we know the world from
what we see on the back
of a tarnished silver spoon.

you could make an art out
of the polish, seeking the perfect
patina, judging the skill
of others; that grotesque collective gaucherie.

I say drop it in the dirt
and walk off into that
whirlwind of unsullied
strangeness swirling
behind the perspectives
we value so much.

do what you want.
it is in your hands.
literally.

what is that strange other end
of somehow?

Zeno's favorite number?

All of you want to
watch me rip my heart
from my chest while rhyming "our trauma"
with "the wide wide world" and never
letting my widest smile break.

On top of that you expect it free of charge.

I mean, I'll do it but I need you all
to at least recognize my skin stretched
tight over soon-to-be cracked ribs
among other things.

The other things are as follows:
Algorithms are taking what glimmers
in secret and burying it deeper beneath hashtags
and posting schedules.

The sky isnt as big as it once was.

This planet is past the point of
sustainable support for your
progeny and will
be an inconceivable hellscape for theirs.

Your compassion is as plastic
as your currency and just as stable.

A truly selfless act is blowing
your brains out at the government buildings
of your respective countries
or at least refusing to bring children
into this yawning grave of a world.

You don't want to hear that
but **** what you do or dont want.

Go ahead, throw your rotten
produce.

I'm ******* starving...

we all want to see the dead body.

you might be thinking Im full of ****,
but look at how we pour over
one another's work;
so close we should taste blood in our mouths.

we need to stare into the bluish-grey face
of death so we dont putrefy in our
bathroom mirrors every morning.

we need desperation,
we need pain,
we need a tinge of the fight's futility
being realized.

most important of all,
we need to leave it where we found it
and never speak of it again.

we ALL want to see the dead body.

Through the narrow window
in my cell I see the
sunset shading everything,
from sky to soil,
the color of watered down
merlot soaking into fresh white linen
and I wonder how much
you've been laughing lately.

knives in the dark,
an avalanche,
not being needed;
we are all boiling
in the same ***.
I have to keep
reminding myself
of that.

[laugh track here]

your face is stars dying
as soon as I wish upon them.

lucky men have nothing on me.

sun through boring blinds,
desert;
I'm blind to it.

mind if I sit and not think
of the next 50 years?
ive been trying to disappear
for years.

In the midst of all of this dismantling
itself into it's revolting component honesty, I try to remember the way
your arousal changed the hue of the space around you.

Memory or fantasy or dream
or lie or ecstatic state; bottles filled with coloured sand and then sealed up into boxes left by the street.

If only someone could sculpt the dance we do between the moments
of a waking life crystallizing into grotesque simplifications rattling chains in the labrynth we build for loneliness.

I try to chisel some aspect of it into wind and rain.

I try to pick out your breathing
among the howling infinity outside and my edges are reasserted by the glare of life's shadow.

My name is that of any pile of bones ever to have a candal held for it.

My path is undetermined, unfettered from the seething potential beneath all things.

Explode with me.

We can paint the crumbling walls of our illusory disconnection like a drunken Michaelangelo laughing at the absurdity he is a part of.

**** rules, style, message, time, space, words.

**** it all.

Just go mad.

scenes of gold falling like snow
eyes reflecting alien stars in the middle of their death throes
this is fiction of the cheapest variety

maybe ill write your naked thighs
into lazy afternoons ive yet to take for granted
and call it art

you will probably never read this
and ill take that for granted too
and nose dive into the prolix
and intone the name death knows me by
and
and
and
and slip on these ellipsis i keep leaving on the hardwood
i drip paint and candle wax on
long gone down holes blacker than the bottom of swamps
reflecting those dying stars in the croaks of its frogs
no hope of talk
no lotus blooms
just poets scrawling on cell walls about it
mouths sowed up like the industry that doesnt want me
holier than thou
hell calls often
try not to seem so astounded
these mountains i mold out of old guilt
wilt like the orange roses on my altar i pick from my nana's backyard
focus
scratch warnings in the form of black hearts on every desk
locus
elote beneath swinging street light
coyotes locating beneath cracked moon
cut to me eyes rolling out of my bleeding head
bedrock

lets get off the ******* carousel
share the wealth of being able to trace the way back
to the philosophical trap house
parallel to all apparent selves
melt
melt
melt

sell it

looking at the clouds
we see god or dragons or rabbits

looking into the open mouth of someone's heart we see the same.

chains
chains
and more chains

its passion
its ******* irrational
its something to write about at least

its something
at least
its something