Prost to the dreamers too awake
for their own good.

I see you.

These doors don't open so easily
so I drink when even the tiniest
of shafts of light are beaming through.

Nothing makes sense,
everywhere is a dark room.

I see you until my "one-too-many"
weighs heavy on my eyelids
and my glass dances across the floor.

I need to get out of here.

baby,
you don't want
to see what being
in my orbit affords you.

Paris is still on fire.

I learned that fighting
something only made
it stronger when I had
finally come to hate my heroes.

I hear you breathing in
every syllable of that sentence.
I hate it.

air in lungs.
out again.
walls walls walls.
then they crumble.
air in lungs.
out again.

only the skies are ever replaced.
Zarathustra was overbriefed
as always.
it makes me want a doomsday,
a noose swing,
a new face.

this spinning plate thing
is not as lucrative as I had thought
it would be.
still no worse than I was
so that is something.

the only acceptable political idealogies
are an open mind, a heart as blind as it is boundless,
or a molotov cocktail waiting to shatter
against anything built in opposition of
the first two.

been trying and failing,
for months,
to befriend the crows
that wake me up every morning;
at the core of my being
I am a cruel person.

ive spent 32 years trying not to be.

brittle steel in cheap cheap oil;
I have no idea how to forge anything.
I have no idea about anything
other than my love for you.

crows cawing at my window.

These days the
development of a style
is like trying to translate
the leaves blowing across
concrete into Naruda
at his most heartbroken.

You either try or lie about what
is dying in the background
of every family photograph
yet to be taken.

Being well received is a gold star
sticker by your name written in
yellow crayon;
I don't want you to like me.

Wilmot in the park,
the dregs hurled at the world,
teeth stained red or falling out.

I don't want you to like me.

I want you to feel something.

lich king with a litany
of reasons the ****'s creek
trip went off the rails
last season

no end,
no beginning.

I think a spider made this.

I burn journals of old poems
at open mic nights.

Decadence is a sign that a
society is on the brink
of collapse;
kids playing with
stacks of money in muddy steets.

So on and so on.

I've been dissolving slowly
this whole time.
I dont know quite how long
that is.

Fleeting glimpses of gilded good
amidst **** loads of, well...

This isn't a call for help.
This is sincere.
This is dismantling of style.
This is alive like the rest of it.

Every cigarette I smoke
is the last one I ever will.
Every syllable I ever wrote
is abominable and I love that.

cheers to sage smoke and the little
bit of sunshine that leaks through
my window.

our halos are made of bleached bone. take from that what you will,
I've always been windblown anyway.

cheers to that **** too.

some wish life would just ignite
like a monk on a Vietnamese sidewalk,
but in 4k instead of black and white.
our apathy takes it's hat off indoors though.
they don't want to know
what goes into it.

this war is a chore I'll be more than
ecstatic to treat as a boring Saturday
when I'm finally awarded the time to.

I am cracked alabaster.
I am atrophy.
I am Saturn taking bites of the progeny.

I am the progeny.

The sky,
now the hue of dead futures,
still reeks of the need
to be photographed.

you were sunflowers
to my grey tones.

it's all so far away
that I can smell it through
closed doors.

it all just rolls like smoke
under buzzing streetlights;
are we the moths or the bats?

whose to say.
I think...
too much, in fact.

your smiles taste funny.

the taste lingers and makes
me think of the way **** smells
in a pipe
or how seeing a dead animal on the road
for more than one day makes you
look at the established order as a stranger.

it probably has everything to do with perspective...

like I said,
I'm the ******* bedrock.

go ahead,
arrogate the treasure's weight.

I'm never late for anything.

changing weather patterns
don't excuse being aloof
on the route to a better "you".

ive putrified between walls
too many ******* times.
never late for anything,
remember?

remember.
remember.
remember.

remember.

re­member.

burning farms before the locusts feast.

you sure showed them.

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.

Tumbling down
the same hole, same rabbit,
blah blah blah

does the apathy translate?

the wanton wanderlust trusted
to lead,
to shepherd a dying empty me
out of the desert in my blood,
is more yours than mine I find
when the violence of mind
is finally transmuted into the
kind of silence that usually
follows the snapping of
violin strings.

you were always symphony halls
hanging framed in monochrome,
because someone wanted you replaced.

I feel like we all are, though.

is that even apathy?

you said,
"we're just carbon, man".
carbon smiled at that.

carbon says we are just dust motes
dancing in saturday sun rays shining
through ugly beige blinds.

carbon belly laughs.
carbon hasn't done that
in a very long time.

carbon has been here
a very long time.
carbon smiled at that too.

Could we possibly just stop all of this
and melt like we're supposed to?
Self is a terrified little kid crying alone in the woods.

"Help" written with a finger
on a ***** windshield.

it goes,
it's gone,
it's nowhere;
I watch honeybees dance atop
baby's breathe from a jail cell.

it's all so ******* gorgeous.

I worry about commas
and semicolons while
a neutron star collapses
behind my eyes

two sides

in that flow state
where everything is a brushstroke

end to end
grow fade air is buried
I'm as ancient as I am unknown

period.

weary kids make the best
clearly dead adults;
my fabled gilded career tree.
if I built it they would've came, right?
cradled wilted;
the mirror me waving at me
when I'm not looking.

should have been a comma.

these kids are talking about
guns because they have no
control over their own lives.

slaves to every change in wind direction.

they will definitely shoot you.

from the womb to the lich-gate
i am stitched into seething sky
while the soil beneath it screams for the best of me.

better get in line...

Aesop Rock and Freddie Gibbs.

cast me into the fire
of your future
unfolding infinitely
behind a whispered
"I hate you".
Prima Materia,
kindling for the Great Work,
entropy warping days
into centuries bored of the
historians misinterpreting them.

somewhere in all that
I am child chasing fireflies
and couldn't careless
that I'll eventually meet you.

Evoking an old ghost from smoke on the night of a new moon,
curses written in perfect cursive
by the light of my gloom's doom.

I'm purification.
I'm uselessly aloof
but in full-bloom in the basement
where your mutiny is reduced
to a tomb for the nameless.

I am not that dope in the spoon.

Anymore.

this is what happened when
i sat down to write something.

an aimless stroll through the
crooked halls of memory while my
pen drips potential onto the page;
a homeless man, drunk and starving,
singing hymns in an abandoned
mall food court.

why do i do this to us?

a little bit of distance
goes a very long way.

is that a pun?
honestly, is it?

alacrity has always eluded
me; always the dumbstruck
drunk stumbling through
the realization that his revelry
is past it's shelf life
and immediately forgetting
what it felt like.

displaced perpetual.

still, i write love songs to
the hum of an empty fridge
for no-one in particular;
call it a romance or
call it pathetic.

i couldn't care if i wanted to.

even the sun becomes a myth
to anyone who stares
at it long enough.

so i'm ok with it.
all of it.

at least, that is what i tell myself
over and over until even
the love songs stop
spilling.

we were never not just
wisps of smoke twisting
slowly off the remnants
of someone else's hopes
yet to be made manifest.

maybe, they were.

éphémère.
perpétuel.

nothing ever ends
because it was nothing
to begin with.

it feels like a sunset
in an orange grove
and a swarm of flies choking
the life out of a raccoon
dying on the side
of the highway.

at the same time,
yes.

we will take a new day
and swallow it whole.

oh, woe is me.
say it the 3 more times.

I'm almost alone
and ok with it.
pivotal moments
long past.

slow rain will fix
whatever.

wine or blood?

either way, a window opens
and all I see is how the sheep
and the wolf share a common
enemy:
the shepherd.

blood it is then.

after all these years of spitting
blood and laughing until it feels
as though ribs have cracked,
there is one fact that never
changes.

one note that persists after
the curtains stop swaying
and the audience has gone home.

one line that seems as though
it is etched into the bedrock
of everything.

it has haunted me throughout
my life, only because i
misunderstood it's attempts
at relaying it's
message through slamming doors
and creaking floorboards.

i've come to know it as grace;
a gentle touch of my face
by someone who loves me more
than i could love anything.

it is that it's not easy being green
and it never will be.

this path was meant
to be walked alone
and i have accepted
that now.

the birds don't sing for me,
but i delight even more
in the melodies because of it.

ephemera,
éphémère,
let's talk it out.
its chalk outlines looking
like milk in the rain, remember?

I'm here.
my flesh searing on
a grill more alabaster
than aluminum.

I'm used to "done" as a theme.
keep that to yourself.

it's the "what" in the meantime
between here and sleep
that fogs up the lens.

Scattering when the caterwaul
shatters the silence
has been the modus operandi
since band tees became mandatory
for imparting a personality.

I'm a casualty of my own inability
to mask anything except excitement
for that same silence.

This is all over the place,
I know.

Art, artist.
Form, function.

It's whatever.
It's nothing.

But I'll still harvest the stars
out of any hardship
like some lovesick punk
drunk on the assumption
of the eternal life of his forgettable darkness.

You touched rolling clouds
without ever knowing there would
be no touching down
and that “good enough for jazz” ****
is ******* trash.
So, just come back.

erasing the outline
of a full moon;
I'm struck with how much
I couldn't give a ****
about this parralel
"reality"
losing it's whatever
the moon was to it.

casually...

fungi sunshine ride try time
grimey-find me-blinding--house couch tv--remote variable-gruesome food spoonfed by joanna newsom
singing in the key of airplane noises--make-shape-exorcise fate from cups half full of lulls and binary--hi-bye--lycanthropic soda dealer guilt tripped by the full moon--cool dude though-fun crunch curmudgeon stuffing love into guts-upchuck-punch drunk-cousin to state vector wreckage-barbecue-hard to loot-heart over headaches--family-friendly--revelry-devil setting clocks back--watch-lost and boundless-child in a wilderness--eat-eat-drink-****-****-****-pistis-missing person surgery--blind forensics-thick skin---little bitty mystical-sit down

some of my really long practice rambling put through a few text
manipulators. it is 95% random.
I just took out repeats and misspellings. the rest is how it was spit out of the TM.

the you with whenever
back insensateness
window benzole Benzes
superstrength
rats have ichthic because
pried be how are tide
randomised the doors
limbs perpetually adrift
until reactivating evocative
phonetic persuaders to a ok fog
all undepraved the time
gainable arrears
financial nonteachings
stuck *******
space circumfusion
to things still doom of mending content
believe broadcasters highdive
into glycosylating days
classmates trepanning to
delightless clocks
sovereign
tiramisu isn't ruinable
Other then to repopulate gigaflops