There was a time where I believed that friendship didn't flicker like a waterlogged outlet. Where standing up came before standing out. I never understood what growing up was for a long time. I remember when I was 15 and I saw a man at starbucks spill coffee on his white dress shirt and thinking "**** that I'm never growing up" and then when I was 18 I draped a plain white polo over my heart and watched everyone I thought cared about me redefine caffeine from waking me up to putting me to sleep.  I insisted that success and money didn't go hand in hand and positivity is easy when the only thing you're paying for is young cigarettes and blindfold mints. When we grow on the  outside, we shrink on the inside to a certain extent. We watch death like a ****** sequel. We fear the inevitable and watch the hands on the clock until they clap and your lights starts to flicker. We live in a sea of inconsistencies that drown our livelihood and when times become consistent, monotony sits in our throat like drying cement that cracks until we can't even breathe for ourselves anymore. Can anyone define happiness? And can you tell your kids that growing up is a breeze? Cause that gust of wind can blow the half empty cup of coffee on to your clothes and really **** your day.

I thought, "holy **** man, look at yourself". The only change I ever witnessed for 3 years was the scrapings left ringing out on the bar rail. Always reaching out to a pocket for god and finding nothing. "I guess you can't refund the drinks, right?" She didn't laugh. I watched my circle get smaller, tired of the antics and my drinking became the **** of a joke. I watched my circle get smaller, my vision blurred like the future lining with a black viginette and with every drink I watched the bartender familiarize. Another? tap tap an empty bottle uses its manners and mine, with a painted smile. Until close she would become my therapist, and the salary was almost the same for the two after I left. After close the cooks offered sympathetic invites and lackluster conversations at the ******* next door. They laughed and drank and like ***** hawks watched their prey scale a poll like the fire they were fighting was inside. I saw no spark, no love given, no love received. I found it hard to love, when hating myself was the only thing I loved to feel. The grease stained fries were tickling the back of my throat on the last night I went. I found myself puking next to a coke head doing key bumps and I asked through hiccups "does the smell back here not bother you?" he said "what smell?". I wiped my mouth and stumbled home somehow. I kicked broken pieces of pavement and scoffed at the curb-sides hugging garbage. I realized through the streetlights that my shadow wasn't the only darkness following me at night. Out of cigarettes and out of my mind I resented this city for having so many bridges. The screaming trucks below gave some sort of comfort with my feet tangling with the breeze. The stretching hands from out-of-place highway trees grabbed at me and I felt the world rotating. The night that changed me, a three am crosswalk flashed its hand at me, but I kept walking.

I remember the feeling
of ****** and sleep
or sobriety and insomnia,
it was one or the other,
a back deck stained
with eggshells and
whiskey candles
strapped to my tongue
and a flame burning
my throat,
eyes like like lungs
inhaling a ****
and tearing with
black spit,
too ******* stupid
and fried to look at
a knife with malice
and then it was
only with butter
to smear on a sandwich
or uneven bread like
**** water in a glass,
in the microwave instead
of a toaster for some reason,
too ******* fried
too ******* dumb,
I felt better and quit,
no cracking eggs on deck tops
now it’s beer can rings on desktops,
like a marriage to dizziness,
I remember the feeling
of ****** and sleep
and paranoia,
depression
and anxiety,
and now a green smoke
is a double sided mirror
into the past of what
I used to feel,
and I’m spreading butter
on my conscience
and wrists
and neck now,
instead of being lifted
I’m planted with dead roots,
no turning back
no speeding up.

you wrote acrostic
poems in grade school
and thought it was pointless,
finding more than
one meaning in a
seamless word
whispers to you
and tells you that
it's not your fault
you were cheated on,
or why your
parents divorced,
sometimes instead
of 20/20,
a kaleidoscope
is the best way to
view yesterday's
circumstances.

She tears through
her insecurities
on fridays and saturdays,
shameless small talk
with bouncers,
and she dresses to ****,
railing lines at pre drink,
and talking up free drinks
with ***** hawks
circulating the scintillations
of spotlights for victims
of a cockcrow regret,
she picks and chooses
and it’s easy for her,
finding a jawline
in a haystack seems
almost inevitable
when she did her make up
in front of a mirror,
not 3 hours prior,
she fills her empty
bed with cheap cologne
and sweat and gel
to only empty again
not 3 hours later.

pouring another glass  
is peeling a hangnail
down with your teeth,
a monotonous ****
will only draw blood
to surface,
waking up is now
a monotonous signature
on a death certificate,
a tedious magnificent
and I’m still here
and my calligraphy
is becoming magnificent

I read the dancing steam
above my coffee cup,
and I still drank it,
the wax hardened my tongue,
and my glands exploded,

maybe that’s the story you’ll tell
when they ask us how we met.

I wonder what type of whiskey
the man painting road lines
at 3am drinks,
am I stereotyping
or am I foreshadowing
my trip to the liquor store
in 10 years?

MJB

what does the man behind his desk
at the publishing company deem
worthy of publishing and
how much are his shoes?
I wonder if my words
will entice him enough to begin smoking,
or quit smoking,
or have a drink,
maybe sign a contract
or rather have me one,
will he turn off his Bach  
to understand or
turn up his Bach to understand?
will he analyze my grammar,
or the need of post secondary?
I wonder if he will bring forth
his obsession of
having a finger in his ***
to his wife after reading the erotics,
or will he put a finger in his ***,
will I be read in a
reader’s digest in 25 years
while a man of elder
near ***** his pants,
or will I be dwelled as an elder,
and I bet you they’re over
200 bucks.                                   MJB

broken homes
are broken bones,
no christmas trees
and more ashtrays
than dinner plates,
hand prints
tattooing arms,
hugging stair cases
over beer cases,
no shoe laces
and cut soles,
lingering souls
of would could have
been without neglect,
vines entwine her neck
and the kids tease her
for smelling like cigarettes
and her shirts are stained,
she sleeps on a mattress
only a mattress no frame
of mind will remove
these memories
from the twenty five year old
****** you are now,
her parents OD’d when
she was thirteen,
her child has a beautiful name
and beautiful eyes,
and before mom dies,
I hope she she gets
the right frame to sleep on.

I listened as a mouse struggled
to escape a half empty frozen coffee cup,
it took a while for me to understand
where the rustling was coming from,
I stared down the open lid
and saw glossy eyes
squinting up as me, as if I was the sun,
and my first instinct was to bring him outside,
I poured him on the frozen ground
and noticed as his legs were chilled, dead.
I placed him back in the cup,
put the lid on,
and breathed into the lid
giving him all the warmth
I could give,
his chest moving like
metronome trying to break
though his skin,
I could hear the ticking of his
heartbeat like a broken clock,
there was no chance,
his eyes opened and
stayed shut longer,
his legs stayed dead,
so I put the coffee cup
on the frozen grass,
closed my eyes
and stomped
like it was a cockroach,
I sparked a cigarette.

I’ve quit smoking 6 times,
quit drinking 4,
the intervals are
sparse and unworthy,
I wear jeans with
dainty holes
from cigarette butts,
my breath wreaks
of a mixture,
and my cologne
surmounts the
insurmountable,
I’ll look skyward on
chilled nights
and try to decipher
between smoke and breath,
I’ll purposefully wear worn socks
to give the sought useless
a purpose,
I’ll run soapy loofas
over scabbed knuckles
for punishment and end up
enjoying the sting,
I’ll tie ties to tight
and my shoes to loose,
I’ll scrutinize grammar,
and misspell because
hypocrisy makes me *****,
I pick at calluses until they bleed
I’ll **** on ****** hangnails
cause I like the coppery taste,
I’ll never litter,
and I fight at bars,
I drink alone now,
but I’ve quit 4 times,
allow me to put into perspective
that quitting anything
has moved from an elective
to becoming eclectic,
and new habits,
for me, don’t replace
old ones but squeeze them in
to a car destined at a dead end,
but what doesn’t **** me now,
makes death so much sweeter
in the finale.

adolescent women
below adulthood,
high in heels,
and validating
worth by regret
and planting
seeds in beds
of alcohol,
pulling over
sheets of hair
in dorm room cemeteries,
seeking acceptance
in snowless Januaries,
because the
beginning is
supposed to be
this cold

My moods change like seasons
and yet the weather stays the same,
it’s the middle of summer
and my boots are covered in snow,
I’ll wear toques at 30 degrees
and the chills dont
come from the breeze
but from kicking snow off
shoes on green grass
and realizing that nothing lasts
it just always melts,
worrying about tomorrow
makes yesterday the future,
so I never live in the past,
wearing a mask
so that the sun doesn’t burn
my skin, it just sits and sets alight
whats always been within,
the grass can grow under winter snow
but from what i know
theres no sun above,
so I ask myself why
I’m wearing this mask,
maybe the weather’s never changing
and I’m just looking in the mirror,
I’m not wearing a mask,
I’m just growing a beard,
the snow never comes
the green just disappears,
and what’s left
beneath my feet is standing
on ceramic egg shells
slicing my toes is starring into hell
and the only way I’ll stay
comforted with the weather
is standing still.

a man in a trench coat
walked though construction
after dark,
dead branches grew
from the holes in the
end of his sleeves,
the night painted
over retinas
but his skin still seemed pale,
dyed dark hair
shined without hygiene,
and his boots
kicked the road torn,
I though of columbine
when I saw his trench coat,
I saw guns and children hiding
I heard shotgun shells
breathing smoke
onto the pylons,
I saw brand new
blood pained lane lines
in the middle of the road,
I couldn’t make out his face
but I looked at a smiling maniacal,
and I was just driving by
and it seemed cold,
I had the window down for a smoke and
I smelled tired exhaust
from sleeping machines,
and it was then that I realized
he was most likely walking home
from work or going to get milk
from the convenient store,
perception will always drape over us
in a cloak no one else can see,
it will never disappear and
to the trench coat man I apologize.

ask a stranger if they’ve wanted to die,
and if they answer no, they’re lying,
the inevitability of death has many
turning blind eyes to dying
or the thought of such circumstance
is a circus dance on a tightrope
with living in sights ahead
and death below,
it has people trying to balance in place,
rather than walking forward,
and a visually manifested
tunnel vision view on life
is hard to come by
unless you’ve come to terms
that when you die
there’s going to be a bit of happiness,
the tamed lions you know
are bound to turn on you,
and the trapeze is bound to fray
like the limbless man
who will eventually
wobble away,
and the only thing left
is a ring of fire and
the crowd is gone,
and falling off the rope is
almost inevitable.

I respect therapists
like I respect anthropologists,
they dig and encounter an ampersand,
they can always inform beforehand
and foreshadow results,
but they found my bones
below 6 feet
and can’t form an answer,
they knew where to search
they found the ticking finger
pointing at lazy fissures,
and buried blisters
but dripping shovels
keep raising a faded flag
that says
“they’re nothing here keep moving”

I finally realized that
when I grip a rose
the thorns are in my hands,
and the pedals don't wither on their own,
I promise breathing soil and
give pale pavement,
few grow through the cracks
but don’t survive too long,
some call it urbanizing,
but I prefer perpetual,
they feel heartbeats in the soil
and I’ve buried myself
in continuities,
and a stagnant earth
gives birth to a dormant death,
some call it wilting,
but I prefer realization,
no one compliments
the garbage in a
wind coughed garden
but everyone steps over
a cement rose,
I’m still here
so the dirt is still beating
and I promise to keep
the trash off the sidewalk

the spider drops down as I lay in my bed
"just the person I needed to see," I said
"every night the ceiling stares back at my face
so my eyes wander to the edge."

"you're always in the corner consumed by your web,
and the same question always spins in my head:
what's it like living in the darkest corners of the room?"
and he said,
"the darkest corners of life only exist in your mind."

my second personality,
he loves you
and i hate myself but
he loves you,
he told me the other day
where to find you and
I didn’t want to look
my eyes were burning,
but his throat was too,

I feel bad for him sometimes,
he doesn’t think very clearly
but he knows how to write,
very well actually,
we have similarities,
we’re liars,
our brains are the same,
kind of,
we wear the same clothes
for the most part,
he takes them off
easier though,
he likes to yell
and get angry
at nothing,
he hits things
and i wake up with the scars,
he’s selfish, he doesn’t
believe in karma,
he has no conscience,
he sits outside
and watches his breath solidify
and doesn’t feel the weather,
he likes to bury memories
and then sleeps with shovels,
i shower every day,
he doesn’t,
i can feel him coming,
i have to go,
i’m getting scared.

she told me to write about
the happiest I’ve ever felt;
the happiest moment in my entire life,
and there is never such a circumstance
in it’s singularity that can be defined,
but in a string of circumstances
a definite divinity can be seen
through the cracks;
sobriety, the comfort of sobriety
makes me feel not quite as content
as the comfort of intoxication,
but the fact I can find refuge
in both is enough to make me,
the way the legs of my bedside table
are cut uneven and the way it
dances when I write,
the knuckle of my *******
kissing a hot coffee cup
in weariness, it makes me,
clichés and the cologne of
grass after rain
petrichor and nasal stained
memories make me,
smokers coughs and phlegmy
clearings, mental crosswalks
with hands and I still walk
with my mouth,
that makes me,
the sky,
and the ground,
mailboxes with the flag down,
telephone poles with expired
promotion posters,
faux homelessness
in small towns,
leaves changing,
trees dying and
coming back to life,
how the wind feeds
conservation,
weeds growing in pavement,
dandelion stains on new jeans
or new jeans staining dandelions,
snowfall,
struggling to pick eggshells out of
yolk bowls,
*** and cigarettes and they dont
go well together
for me at least,
abandoned barns,
barns in use,
the sound of tires on
gravel driveways,
the strength
or lack there of
to smoke when I’m sick,
it makes me,
the look of others when
I allow my dog to kiss my mouth,
the top fret of a guitar,
it’s low and reminds me of
a child’s cough,
wearing my fathers
stained white tee’s
under 80 dollar plaid sweaters,
it makes me happy,
all of this and more make me happy,
but I still can’t touch mirrors
and listen to the way I breathe before bed,
and thats why I sleep with a fan on.

I'm more or so
consumed by pleasure,
call me a hedonist but
my definition may differ
from yours,
contentment is subjective
and the objective
of attaining gratification
has dusted from belying
to sincerity and I've found
happiness in the way the
sun comes up
rather than the way
the moon can go down on you
and have you clenching
nocturnal bedsheets
with a beer and a beer
and a pen
rereading that it seems
my hedonism is
ambiguous and subjective not,
to myself,
I take that back,
I'll be having threesomes with
the sun and the moon now,
give me my fix of both

I’m thankful for our encounter
and smooth seas
dont make good sailors,
you were a near death experience
and nothing more,
you were always a story
that was written in sand on shore
and the tide that washed you away
also dusted off my spine.

I used to go out for cigarettes before bed
with music and connection to the world,
I’ve learned to clam the
addiction to nosiness about
trump and
syria,
petitions about
dying dogs and
sensitivity,
and I just sit out there with a shovel
in my eyes digging the other way and
appreciating the sky and watching the
clothesline sway like elevator wire
and I feel more connected
by reading the stones that
shower a braille on my palms
as I tap the ground in withdrawal

I’ve manifested
an after midnight symphony,
looping mp3’s of my own eulogies
and consecutively callousing
and shaking hands with death,
the feeling brings a paradox of
finding warmth in cold palms
and it cuts between relation and
addiction to a palpable misery,
shot glasses of blood trying to make
home in my throat
drawing *****
and neglecting to force
warmth back inside,
left cold
and red hands ramble
abstract frigidness
on a livid mess mimicking
a sorry excuse for a heartbeat,
and all i’ve been doing is
touching myself
and each fingertip friction
formalizes an addiction to
a wintry contagious

for a man who doesn’t believe in god
I’ve been spoken to by the devil more than once,
he sent bullets of whiskey cutting through my throat,
he made me realize that it’s a problem
and then dug me a mote,
and he knows I can’t swim,
he put pins in my skin
and glued me to a bed,
he put demons in my mind
and put happiness at the
end of a frayed thread,
he stands beside me at funerals,
and behind me in line at
forced confessions
in catholic high schools,
he washed my hands clean
of blood after breaking a heart,
he’s points south of finish lines
at the north of where to start,
he puts me in the shoes
of the man in the mirror,
he makes money in my
wallet disappear,
he tells me to control my anger,
then lays hands on my little sister
and puts blinds over my eyes,
he tells me tomorrow will be different,
and laughs when I call him out on lies,
he takes vacations from my brain
and brings rain
when I’m parched,
then sticks his skin peeled
fingers down my throat
and makes me *****
out on to paper, to regret
what I wrote,
I will never prey
because to my self i won’t lie,
after years of mirrors I realize
that in fact the devil is I

bottle caps bouncing on cement floors
played in a constant loop,
cigarette ash fraying the
consistency of the tapping,
tapping and tapping on a window pane  
with only rain reciprocating,
if only any of this was real,
real,
real life is but only a manifestation
of manipulation of the things,
or by the things that make it easier,
a broken clock synchronized
with progression
of this silent
lunged apparition and
mobility has never been
defined by an antonym
until now,
now,
now formalized mistakes
carve themselves
inside the walls
of a crimson tower and shine out
as the falsities of my “finest hour”,
hour,
our lives are controlled by vices,
vice grips and patterned slices
solidify consistency in off-timed
8th notes that tick
tick,
tick like the broken clock.

Today I walked about 70 metres and
saw two couples fighting in their vehicles,
the first couple stopped at a red light
and I could still hear the bickering,
the child in the backseat was yanking on
the straps of the car seat like
a regretful rollercoaster, and
the only thing I saw in the reflection of
the glass was a teen drinking away
the memories
...or lack there of,
the second couple looked well off
they were driving a jet black Jeep Cherokee
and it looked well maintained, the type
to wash his car in the rain,
and his face was full of blood,
no kids, maybe they were older
and off to college but the steering wheel
took beatings and the gas pedal
cut the floor carpet into regretful pieces,
the cause is unknown, the affect is unknown,
I sat staring into an hourglass wondering how
beautiful their first months or
maybe their first few years were,
did he sit in the bathroom
while she did her make up?
did she put on layers of interest
when he told tales of how
****** his day was?
did he accept the concept that
girls do in fact **** a lot?
did 25 years go by quick?
or 5 for the first?
they were younger,
are they ******* right now?
or is she on the ground
or is he on the couch?
this glass of wine
will continue to tattoo
foreshadowings of minuscule information
on my fingertips, and I’ll sit in wonder
all night if they’re going to make it through this,
cause for now, I have no hope.

we built a house with our bare hands
and you moved out,
then back in and it’s haunted now,
I know you have a hard time sleeping
but I’ve memorized every floorboard
that creaks and it sings me to sleep
every time you try and leave,
I get confused whether it’s the lullaby
of coming or leaving that knocks me out,
this house began to burn and I sat for months
putting it out while you stood
there with cold feet,
and now you’re warm and I’m
stuck peeling the ash off of my skin,
the grass is still green and the
picket fence is freshly painted
but I used the wrong colour,
the door bell is a muttering of
apologies and the doormat is a mirror,
the bed we slept in
hasn’t been made since you left,
I’m stuck sleeping with ghosts
and brushing my teeth beside
no one to tell me that I haven’t
been brushing for long enough,
I’m showering in hot water in the middle
of summer because the steam
pulls the mirror off the wall,
and all I want is for you to come back,
our house is ***** and the callouses on
my hands are starting to become smooth,
my skin is almost clear again,
please come back.

anxiety is wet sand seeping
through a growing hole
in a sieve of positivity,
lasting like migrating birds
arriving to find snowfall,
a **** victim of hands bound
by unmet expectations
and spines realigning
to throats and throats
plugged with damp cement
and every time I speak
it dries a little bit more,
the english language is
written by children
and broken branches
carving into the back
of my throat with
no way out,
I’ve never viewed my
ribcage as prison bars
until now,
I’ve never been
locked out by my own walls
until now
and this sickness is breeding
vines all over any guard
I try to knock down, it’s not
contagious but it will wrap around
your heart like a drunk tattoo.

I’m starting to come to terms
with hate and insanity,
I drove to her house at 4am
because she wasn’t answering her texts,
and I called her 30 times cause I thought
she got into a car accident,
I hit a skunk just
after leaving my house at 4am
and I never smelt anything,
I’ve been sitting on her shoulders for
as long as we’ve known each other,
and all I’ve become is heavy dust,
I have good intentions,
but they’re transparent,
my heart is consistent
but translucent,
a transient feeling of
reciprocated compassion
sparks immeasurable
inconsistencies in
sane behaviour,
but I have good intentions,
and every day we sit in a vessel
with no holes and I try to patch
them because I feel like I’m drowning,
and eventually she’ll want to swim,
she turns turns amnesia into a theory,
she’s a mirror and I’m seeing
an evolutionary reverse,
before I see clearly
I'll have to wipe the fingerprints.

a broken vessel
and bailing water is drowning
out the ability to drift back to shore,
it’s always calm before the storm
but when a breeze disappears
the chance of moving anywhere
flies away like the seagulls
laughing in cocksure,
the water seems so thick
like drifting in ink that draws out
abstracts of stagnancies
and ever time I row,
the boat rhymes in harmony
with the singing current
and cisterns will begin to cry,
I can’t travel alone and
I don’t know how to swim
but at least the sand below
will be softer than rock bottom

                                       MJB

a soft voice that can
sanitize a mind, and
that mirrors skin like linen,
hair flowing faster than
blood to her heart,
looking in her eyes
proves that cerulean skies
can walk on earth,
anxiety blurs the lines
of a perfectionist,
leaving reservations
in the minds of anyone
lucky enough to
grace tangibility and
her footsteps cohere,
with lips rarely touched
a godless man can feel them
in his fingertips when praying
to a god he doesn’t believe in.
      
                                       MJB

I sat watching 3 girls,
couldn’t be any older than 12,
wearing shorts cut by
expectations and
            taking pictures
with coffee cups and
wearing make up
stronger          than
perfume clouds
following like
hitchhikers
and
a slow car.
**** magazines          and enraptured
by the           irrelevant famous,
exposing the youth’s lack
of interest in literature,
callow   and murderous,
glasses filled and cocksure,
the world in front of them
and yet they’re taking
steps backwards

MJB

I like 90’s grunge that
makes me want to **** myself
and not wash my hair
and drink beer,
don’t see 90’s bands
in concert,
they’re old now
and it ***** you
with the bitterness
of life,
get drunk
kiss the floor
for supporting you
and lay in comfort

I’ve been scolded at before
while smoking in front of public places,
but today she
stared at me with a
cold look and bitterness,
were you sent
to school smelling like
the couch cushions and bedsheets
and your mothers hair?
was it the ash trays beside dinner plates
and squinted grins through dancing fog
watching television with your ears?
no silence came only burning lungs
and showers, breathing with your eyes?
I’m sorry, I tried blowing smoke
the other way.

I’m not a liar
but I lie to myself,
I’m not a sociopath but
I dream of killing people,
and I know that
I’m a person at heart,
I sleep on pillows made
of memories and
listen to my own screams
and take them in as whispers,
I sleep on mattresses of
dad’s smiles and yesterday,
self identified as ignorant
and educated in night,
the sun went down
on me once and
I never came.

everyone owns
that t-shirt with
a worn hole
that they
neglect to throw out,
you are that t-shirt,
and though
torn and threadbare
a distant dead stare
will bury deeper
and purpose will grow

life is more than
eating, drinking,
*******, thinking
about regret, and neglect,
finding new ways to
keep the sadness
you curse every night
in your writing
to stick around,
holding addictions
to things you know
you shouldn’t,
watching ****
and thinking that
your *** life is less
than ropes and
fishnets,
eating food and
smoking things
you know
you shouldn’t,
saying things to loved
ones you know you
wouldn’t if you were sober,
and dwelling
and never forgetting
and never forgiving
life is realization, resilience,
and repeating mistakes,
hating yourself and loving
yourself and enduring pain
embracing serenity and reading
in-between the lines,
being able to clean
***** mirrors,
seeing reflections
in coffee, and being able
to finish it,
having ephemeral
epiphanies and going back
on your word to quit
smoking, quit drinking
and eating terrible,
being able to laugh
and cry and punch drywall
in the same day ,
life is realism,
not some realm
of imaginable
perfection, you’re going
to fill a glass with constant
**** ups, just keep finishing it
and filling it with a
manifestation of manipulation
that you have no problem
seeing past,

be an oxymoron

I’m an ******* when I drink
and the manager of the only
bar in town found that out,
I never was keen of
social drinking anyways,
everyone thinks that
drinking alone is a problem,
I think alone,
and a thought process
like mine is a lot deadlier
than liquor when left in isolation,
prioritize your worries, friends.

Not sure if overreacting is a
sign of weakness or passion,
I lash out over little things
and shorten breaths over things
that live for little in my mind,
the violent expirations of chest
and mind saw the door frame
a little bigger every time,
regret comes after,
I’d call it short term memory loss,
with every responsibility I’ve taken,
steps back; I’ve taken two
the ratio is uncanny,
I’m starting to believe that
instead of the urge to change
I have the desire to
desire change,
the steps that follow
are getting deeper
and situations are
becoming shallow
yet my reactions
stay the same,
I’ve wished
and promised reversal,
the pills and reclined leather
really does nothing,
I’ll swim in my vices and
the unfortunate thing
is that I know how to swim.

She saw through
my        pseudo smiles
and
empty eyes and
        gave me
iris’ of blossom
and perpetuity
if she had       kaleidoscope lenses
she’d still see
me
clearly,
she’ll always
be my median of
perceptive mires
or
thoughtless meadows,
if a diamond in the rough
sleeps on spikemoss,
is it
still worth something?
                                              MJB

I create my own jealousy,
       and load my own gun,
I make my own bed,
       I never shoot
and
      I never sleep,
I’m a stagnancy
of
imperfections,

the cement is dry now,
I’m sorry,
but you can't leave

She's claims
she's homeless
and heartless
and lives
under a roof
and her chest
still sings

some of us
think differently

An after midnight wolf
lives as a sheep by day,
amongst opposites
he sees through
sheep’s clothing
and moralizes through
insecurities,
though inaccurate,
accusations man
a marionette,

a wolf in sheep’s clothing
can manipulate but
is easy to forgive,
an after midnight wolf
can ruin his sheepskin,
and have follicles run dry,
alcohol and anger
and selfish malevolence
over compassion, thought and
apathetic benevolence,
the sun can divide strong from weak,
an after midnight wolf lashes
and drinks
and lashes,
regrets and lacks morals
yet lacks intent
only listens to his mind
and not his heart,
he sheers himself
with broken bottles
and it takes a while
to grow back

I'm a mosquito trapped
in a clapping hand,
I know that I can be bothersome
but I'm just trying to survive.      
                                                          MJB

The aftermath of a finished
cigarette lingers in the air
and I pick at it like a
cobweb in the wind,
floating aimlessly
unable to grasp,
and I’ve never felt so weightless
                                                            MJB

I told her she reminds me
of a bird chirping at 1am
and she never asked why,
strange yet beautiful,
inconsistant and seldom,
appreciative upon scarcity,
a hedonist of silence
has never found serenity
in the blurred lines of infinity,
but the confidence of
clamour will fade
with every night a chirp
goes unheard,
the consistency
of inconstancy is the hand
that feeds and the
bite that bleeds.              MJB