Warm liquid running down my ribs
Down to my legs where my flesh is chunked in gibs
I waste my last potassium on a final lib
Tire do I of being society's *****
Time between hugs will be measured in years no more
Clocks matter not, neither do I
Silence the speaker of the meek and shy
No longer will I be kissed with a knuckle
Nor will anyone else have control of my belt buckle
Taken so much from this dying earth
Robbing it blind since my errant birth
Give back or give up is a relative term
The wording can be selected by the feeding worm
Celebrate what you find and catch my fleeting dream
May it spark you to travel up stream
Never again will you spot me on the shore
Forever yours aquatically, he who is no longer yours

"Who are you? Give me a clue"
A common question shared between reader and writer too
That is an answer held by only a few
I'm a man of few hues
I own no creatures that mew
The hands on my watch are bound by glue
Not too fond of things that are new
Blot them tears, on your face a smile I shall imbue
A simple favour only returned by a few of my crew
To find me, follow the flaming flat footed prints from my shoe
Get lucky and catch me asleep under a pew
Invade my dreams if you must answer your question of who
The skeletons there will whisper my name, "Rip Blue"
With bruised bones and a burnt soul, I'll pluck you from my head
Toss you aside so you can plan to **** me dead
Bury in my garden behind my white shed
Until you get the courage to do just that, I'll monger fear and dread
Up until the day I find my Shred Red

4/15/14

A fistful of coins and an empty room with an old claw machine. I stare through the glass for what seems like hours. Many riches are inside the machine, but in the center of the machine, or my attention, sits an object of my desire. I catch myself drooling. After drawing my tongue back into my mouth, I steady my hand and contemplate trying to win. This machine takes both coins and confidence. I lose and lose and lose and lose and lose. The machine swells pushing my against my knees. Choking on frustration, I throw the rest of my coins at the machine and hang my head. Out from the prize slot drops a lighter. I take my consolation and adjust my hat. After one last longing gaze at the prize in the center, I leave the empty room to be burned up by the sun. Maybe someday someone better than me will bypass all the jewels and gold inside the machine and truly win the stuffed cat inside.

4/13/14


It must be Winter. The sound of the insect orchestra is nonexistent. I sit upon a roof top watching chimneys lazily hack up their smoke. There is no season with greater beauty. Above me is a full moon. There is no object of greater beauty. I feel alive here on the roof, but I'm not sure if that feeling is correct. How does one feel alive without knowing how to feel dead? Is this something I test or wait to find out? If I'm dead, why do I desire nothing more than a loving hug? If I'm alive, why don't I feel so repulsive anymore? Answers can only be bought with time, and I'm not so sure how much of that I have left on loan. The sun will come soon leaving nothing but a shade of myself, a cackling mad man. And I remain with nothing but lonesome. The two of us are no longer on speaking terms inside or outside of my mind.

4/3/14

In the setting of this dream, I am setting in a field of roses and lillies bordered by sunflowers. The sun and moon are both in the sky. From my perspective on this lonely planet, they are dancing in a circle in the sky. My claws shift through the dirt, I am uncertain of what I hoped to find in the soil. To the north is a medium sized ravine, to the west endless vegetation, to the east the plaguelands, and to the south a large clay cliff that overlooks the flower stage that I reside. I have no words or weapons because no one comes. Everyday is peacefully similiar, and I do not mind. Upon this stone I watch my world grow, die, and repeat. In my mind I pray someone finds me before the plague defiles my flowers and heart. Suddenly, there is a sudden shift in the sound of the wind. It is as if there is a new presence blocking the flow of the air and my thoughts. I open my eye to search the surroundings. Has the disease finally reached us? No. On the top of cliff stands a purple foxen humanoid with a bow her hand and ire in her eyes. Our eyes lock until the wind shifts in my direction. On the wind rides her gentle war song. With a deep thump in my chest, my heart begins to pump fire through my veins. I'm the only one who can take my world from me. The flames first pervade through my tear ducts. Quickly standing and slamming my fist to the earth, fire pours out of every pore of my body. A swift jab in the air toward her direction unleashes a fiery hell ball that misses her narrowly. She doesn't flinch or blink. I prayed that the first person to find me would be gentle, but that only exist in the dictionary. My heart is racing flames through my body, a heated aura oozes from my heat. The plants around me begin to melt. I take an offensive stance with both fist clinched by my waist. I'll sink her and that cliff. I'll show her true passion, true heat, true pain, a swift end. Her focus never leave me. She reaches for a single moon bleesed arrow. Her bow string comes with a 300lb pull. With the arrow in position, she pulls it back with just her pinky claw. What is she? A demon? A saviour? A thief? A lover? A warrior? No point in asking because she is going to be a skeleton in a few moments. Before I can show her my pride, her bow lets out a mighty thud. In my ears I hear a single heart beat. She got me, right in the heart. I sink to my knees. The red mage downed by a single arrow. NO! I try to use  my fleeting heart beat to summon one last blast. I can feel my lungs fill. As I go to breath her death toward her, nothing but blood comes out. She slides down the cliff toward me. As she picks a rose with her bare hand, she approaches me with her tail and fur flowing in the breeze. After pushing me over, she daintly throws the rose and its blood covered stem on me. Holstering her bow, she continues toward the plaguelands. I muster a final chuckle. Thank you.

4/7/14

Lazily shifting through the internet on a moon milk rain day. I come across a video that relentlessly grips my attention. A man in front of a webcam holding an ice cream dream drum stick and a pocket acetylene torch. Througout the rest of this sequence the man I am watching stares into the camera without blinking, smiling, breathing, or speaking. He ignites the torch in his left hand and uses it to light the tip of the dreamy ice cream. The ice cream remains lit as a cigar. Remaining steadfast in his ridgid posture, he passes the lit cone to his dog. His dog is a female chocolate lab named Gurny of Galil-Bruce-Lee. She holds it in her mouth, but refuses to inhale. Although she does not desire to smoke this treat, she is extremely appreciative of her partner's gesture. After savouring the smokey tastey of the cone for a few minutes. She ashes it out what I think is my knee cap because it is now missing, but to me that matters least. I must see what happens. Doctors can't help me anyway. Gurny reaches into her apparently existant pockets and pulls out the cutest pair of reading glasses for dogs. She slowly approaches a desk to the right of her owner. Quickly sitting down and pulling out paper work and pens. A subtitled bark emits from her mouth that reads "Cray, where is your W-2?" The man doesn't break form. With a long sigh, Gurny shifts through the desk until she finds the paper. After flicking on an old radio, she proceeds to do his taxes, but not using an EZ form. Gurny turns to the camera and mentions that this is how a dog should thank their owner. Gurny does all the math, paper work, and double checks her math before pulling out her check book and paying what he owes to the government. My vision is fading, I'm losing too much blood. I have to hold out. This man must break before me. I will defeat him. I will have Gurny's love. But in all truth, I have nothing. Not even knees for you to make weak. I am what I have and always been. Darkness encroaching in my sight. Give in. He can't see, nor can the rest of world. I tell you what, it really isn't as cold as you think it will be.

Most days, it is all I can muster to say
My voice and opinion fades everyday
Guilt for each breath that I take
Hatred for every smile that I fake
This Earth is where I do not desire
My thoughts against me they conspire
Apologizing to all for every second my life is longer
The stares make me feel like a war monger
Their eyes arrange the scars to say "Do it"
But I am in a constant battle for intuit
Good news has to reach me, one day it may
I just wish to the moon that I didn't feel this way