If I write it in words
here on the screen
how much remains
between what seems, and what's real?

I am watching black and white films of ****** surgery nightmares,
the heads concealed behind bandages, contents unknown.

You are toothpaste: once I squeeze you out it is impossible to
put you back, as you occupy my life with your carnival apathy

did you ever fall
into the deep end?
he looked as though to fall
but in the end, he dove.

Just like a dream that seems a lifetime,
is often only a few seconds in real-time,
you passed before my mind and heart
making eight years seem like an instant.

Now I am
waking
wondering
if you were real.

Now I am
trying to get up from
the bed that we made
the bed that you sleep on now
rub your sleep out of my eyes
see again
the things that are real.

After everything, how could you walk away?
After everything, how could you let me drift away?
After everything, how could you siphon the years and pack them,
like boxes, in just those short days?
After everything, how could you wrap up our memories like twine slowly frays?
After everything, how could you break every promise to which I pray?

After everything,
how am I feeling sexlessly ******
disarmed destroyed denigrated
left on the roadside dying
to just be with you after everything?



Everything...


...


...




There's so much to be had here.
Come back to me here.
Don't leave us here.
I only want to love you.

Pink bodies glide by in an endless
sequence, one neck after another, opened
by the blade he grips. With a liquid-muted squeal,
and cacophonous struggle of the fore legs (the back two are bound
up), the swine pours its life out with just a little coaxing of the man's tool.

One, two, three...and more
drowning in the smell of ***** matter and gore.

White, brown, and black bodies
in an never-ending stream,
dangle by the hind legs, swinging
from the mass of them, roll by; the ankles
hold their weight. The man's knife is
never dull, it finds the sweet spot
where it slides between bone and tendon
and cartilage and into the vein,
thick and fleshy (a garden hose),
which pumps its contents onto the killing floor.

One, two, three...and more
near-boiling in the unrelenting heat of ******.

That knife, that blade, that tool
opening one faceless
animal after another.

Their names are blotted out in blood.
Their cries bubble out through red,
thick like mucous.

Knife in, knife out,
knife in, knife out

with dull repetition
and the precision
of a machine,
until they all look the same,
until he feels nothing for them,
until there is no difference between them and people,
until the sharp, stained instrument of steel
turns to the side
and into the man next to him.

Beads of water
cling to the glass edge
I glide along.

How the warm water seeps over your skin
in a bath that is too cold as it slowly pours into the water,
How the purr of a cat sometimes hits that cracking note
as it sits, legless, on your lap in Winter,
How a man can feel like a child again
when a woman undresses,
How I can feel so certain,
your bared back against my naked chest.

Oh,
my smashing liquid crystal,
dilating pupils and drawing back the sheer curtains
to let the light in.

Oh,
my terror in the forest,
the light screams away in silence, echoing off the walls
of bark I shake in.

Oh,
my last breath,
bleeding in the tub, blood pours, black ink in water poured
from a shattering glass.

**** me *******,
shallow and cross,
angry and peaceful...
just take me away from the marks she has left here

...just ******* drive.

Go away morning
with your sleepy eyes and sad-dream lies
Disappear my morning Star
and melt into the shadows.

Leave me here, alone in bed
longing for your touch.
But dreams are lies that will not hide
how my heart is crushed.

to the rhythm of "Miss Muffet"*

A lone little girl
sat in her room
holding her stuffie so tight.
The terrible shadows
wrapped close about her
forcing her sad eyes to cry.

she cut at the shadows
but cut only herself
wishing the shadows would leave.
she dreamed of a plant
that could bloom over her booboos
where she had made herself bleed.

Her shame was so mean
and crawled bout the corners
where all the mean memories lay.
"Can't sumbudy save me
an chase out the night,
befow I cut mysef away?"

When suddenly to
her surprise and delight
the door opened, pouring in light.
The shadows hissed cruel
as they slinked off in fear,
cursing and suffering blight.

The sound of His voice
was all that it took
to chase the bad memories away.
"Come to Daddy's arms
my sweetest of treasures,
Daddy's now here to stay."

"you will not be scared.
you will not have fright,
as long as you hold Me tight.
Daddy will be here
to cuddle you close,
all throughout the night."

There are gentle curses,
simple words that would break you
into those pieces you are,
scattered on the floor,
swept gently into my dustpan of marble,
reassembled from the
broken little statue you are
not so little, are you?

I'd reassemble your last horizons,
raining bleak shores of a suicide walk off of Beachey Head.

Smash,
dissolve into the waters,
and turn the ocean waters
purple.

The first time I ever heard the term
"Manic-Depressive,"
I was seventeen.

I walked into Andy's house,
to see the oil of his father
splayed across the couch,
in a still pool of ink.

"That's my dad. He's
Manic-Depressive,
and just gets like that sometimes."

I painted that memory into the fire of my brain,
carrying with me the fever dreaming,
the terror,
the praying to never be
like Andy's dad.

I could bleed from these arms,
into my hands,
which once seemed so strong,
drown my prize
in nitrogen and scar tissue
and maybe then I'd be happy
to destroy myself
again.

Can you feel it coming?

A blast of stars across your field of vision,
wrapped in a vow of loyalty,
presented in the spaces between our breath,
where everything fades away,
every black spot rattling around in your brain,
blasted away in a fit of
violence,
lust,
care,
possession,
sweetness, and
love.

I'm having fists of laughter, daisy-cutter dreams in formaldehyde,
creating the worlds most loved sport by kicking the heads of Danes.

Mutually assured corruption I can feel
creeping down the inside of my nostril,
across my tiny hairs,
but I am still, let it come;
it runs out and onto my lips. I **** its mercurial
clearness down.

I was born without fingernails or teeth,
forever stuck gumming the soft pink nail beds.

I keep everyone out of my life;
it is the only way to justify never seeing you.
Desiccant children pour from their mothers' laps
as if they were clear beads from that little paper shoe box packet.

You are an apricot full of sand;
I am a Mongol stealing maidenheads.

A peach is a rose -
deep inside
drips cyanide.

Wrapped like candy in your skull
the skin crawling off the bone,  
exposing your white lie life.

"You'll end up the same as him, you know."

His cigarette burnt the faded complications of my life.

"Yeah. I know."

A princess and a puppy,
sit at Daddy's feet.
Cuddling and snuggling,
He gives His love to each.

I'm sending out signals,
trench warfare's got me down.
Digging through this foxhole,
looking for believers.

There isn't much left for me now,
as the yellowed gas rolls in,
except to look at my flare, high and bright,
(your angel-tongue hair, blowing in the wind)
and hope that you will see it.

Just a tiny spot that grew
into the crevices of our love,
a mushroom-blue fungus
spreading mycelium tendrils through

It's only been a week
trust me, I know

I've been counting the suffering seconds
while you are away, having your life there with
no responsibilities
no work
no job
no cares
(for me, even?)
no schedules

I count these seconds still as you tell me how tired you are
(doing nothing)
how there's little time to talk
in my spare time from the job I work at seventy-hour weeks,
(the one you said I needed to save our marriage)
and how the frustrations of a bad connection
mean more to you
than I do,
anymore.

So I hope you sleep well,
I hope the fact that you can show no care for
a person who cares for you more than themselves,
doesn't keep you up.

I hope your beautiful head is sleeping soundly
as I am sleepless,
waiting for your answer.

I want you, back of my throat,
past the lips, parted so willingly
around your shaft,
hard and firm.

Let me gag like a *****,
saliva dripping,
I'll be the best *****
who has ever ****** you.

Reach forward, caress you in my hands,
staring up with eyes full of fear
and hope
and relief.

*** for me, baby,
***.

Empty my ******* head out
in one great last blast of passion.

So many wounds,
bled out over years
like ink on a test
failed over and over and over

turned into

So many scars,
raised up on the flesh
like the rounded sides
of speed bumps made too high.

will become

So many forgotten memories
faded like ink turning invisible in the sun
like cement smoothed by the erosion of time.

I don't know which direction is up
appalled at my own circumstances,
retreating back into my self and floating.

When trapped between the asphalt and the stars above is it better
to spread your arms and legs, waiting for the stars to take you up

to Heaven

or push your fists into the asphalt, melting from the heat of the stars above
and steel yourself

for Hell?

The lips that met,
never touched. Or could she only
dream?

The sweat beading upon my brow,
as she was spread out like a
feast.

When certainty is unpronounceable,
and air beats harsh and stark,
can anyone not see me screaming,
at these never fading blister marks?

A halo
of blonde blacklight
Skin, stretching
A canvas
Luminous
The shadows
are wet

If only it were justice to ****
a mocking bird.

The fauna that derides one,
stares one down
and dominates
with the entirety of Nature behind it.

I'm stuck, my blood dripping
fresh from its feathers.

It leaves me empty with its cries;
lonely and one dies.
Absorbed, engorged,
elapsed, and relapsed.

Nothing works,
and nothing's clean;
everything's a nightmare,
and it used to be a dream.

I don't know
if the blankets are enough
spindled about my head as they do,
suffocating the desire right,
left,
out the skylight
and into the blood
that sleeps above me.

Orchid pod spreads
gossamer mouth opens
subtle click of saliva,
trace across the paper-thin petal,
tickle across the veins where blood rushes new life,
smooth like wet latex, tongue massages a route around the world,
face buried in field of color
osmopheric scent of cinnamon
apples
nickel
overcomes,
come over me
pour the dew across my lips
drown me in the waves
that make your muscles cry my name,
nine point nine and the world cracks open,
like the ghostly leftover milk bath
of a ******'s first cleansing after loss of maidenhead,
it spills over us.

More than lust,
more than ***,
more than *******,
is the peace they bring.

More than pillows,
more than clouds,
more than rest,
is the calm they bring.

Warmth against the ear and cheek, Mother's breath
runs through the hairs on the back of his neck
as Lover's fingers trace through his hair.

Soft, such skin.

The man becomes an infant at the touch
on ear of delicate areola,
an inverted dimple,
which he turns to with the lips and tongue,
moist.

I wanted to write you a poem
but the words wouldn't come
I searched across my mind
I searched between every line
but found nothing and suddenly I realized...

There are no words
I could use to describe
the way these butterflies spasm inside
the way my heart reflects in your eyes
the way the starlight can trace your lines
the way my tongue ties up speaking desires
the way my life is more by your being alive.

And so I sit, silent
in front of a six-foot tall altar,
carved of white marble and onyx
covered in black raven feathers.

She has become my idol
her image replacing the god
I no longer believe in

and I pray to you each night.

There is no greater clarity,
No greater freedom,
than a pistol barrel
in your mouth.

Clamp onto my weakness,
precious.
Where did you run to,
holiness?

Your everything
equaled torn ligature,
some jaw-grinding equation
where I sent prayers,
unanswered.

Strip me naked,
break my bones,
open your heart,
and breathe in the butterflies.

This love burns and drips

an unclean **** knot
******* and *******
at tailgate parties in basements
where everybody is satisfied
except for one...

The sky is painted static:
I can't find the channel.

A frail cherub descends
gossamer threads of maize splay out about its head
brings the sky back with it
and in hues of pink and life,
restores me.

I am the caustic clarity in a thought
I am the clearest day covered in storm

I am the brittle bit of bone
that Old Men toss onto the dirt floor
in deep emerald Congo

I am the Winter

I am the glass tube sliding in
the steel cold to the plastic.

I was once something that meant something,
but you see,
I am that lovers' kiss,
that first cross-room-glance,
that needing-you-like-the-desert-needs-the-rain,
that poetic ******* cliche'

And like them,
I,
too,
have become meaningless.

I'm in the passenger seat
next to you
and you don't say a ******* word
and I don't say a ******* word
and we watch the world speed by
eyes ahead
in silence.

I am content.

Search me,
stretch me out over the table of our history together,
with your tongue trace my skin like it's a map,
and find your way back home to us.

There's a caterpillar in my right ear canal.
It's almost neon-green,
with poison-orange bulbs,
the color of grafted cactus.  

It's squeezed its way quite far in, stuffed
itself in as if it were an expanding foam earplug,
the spines stuck in my inner pink skin.

I lean my head to the right, knock
the left side with the flat of my palm.
Eggs, the same as desiccant beads,
the color of earwax, pitter-patter out and onto my table
as if they were plastic raindrops on a trampoline.

There will come a day when it cocoons itself, and that moth
flies free, but until that day, I will continue
to turn it towards you
every time you speak.

I will show you
just how soft
and close
it can
feel
when
it is

engorged in near-violence
shudder your teeth
as your whole body
grinds on its own shaking muscles

inner thighs
*******
neck

and suddenly
you aren't sure anymore
that more love is made
making love
or being
******
and
owned.

My bones reach you too late.
Would
excuses heard as lies
lead our ghosts into
their graves?

My skin soaks you too soon.
Would
heart-break lived as death
give my life a way
into my tomb?

My loyalty ***** your face.
Could
prayers answered in vain
let my life ever
escape itself?

Weight presses
concludes everything,
decides what is nothing,
whips an errand boy to its whim.

Pressure,
withstood
at the promise
of jewels.

It was a blurred mirror
on that Sunday morning,
the wall, black
stretching above there is nothing
but shattering little words
that fell
into his sleep.

There's a Greyhound destination
stolen from the eerie
little pieces of falsetto voice carrying me
through the end of times like
Revelation could make you wet,
I'll make you ***,
split between what should be
and
what was done.

I feel like you are the only real thing I've had.
I feel you in my heart.
I think about your taste, your scent.
I think about you.

I think of you as a child to me.
I think about you all the time.
I think about my seed pumping into you, your *** up, my feet planted forward
(you know the position)
I think about you.

I think about your smile.
I think about that giggle.
I think about your eyes rolling back as you ***.
I think about you.
I think about you.
I think about you.

My favourite pet daydream,
(her combustion creates me)
that I eagerly await
to set fire to flames.

I am only three thrusts away
enjoying the girl,
oh her little bones,
sweet somber hair
as my pants
become tighter.

I watch you brushing teeth,
foam on your lips,
as my crippled spider
legs sway forward on
towards your tender little ***
hole like a cherry,
hidden within the cleft of a peach,
sweet, then a flash of violence
towards your haunches, hips, shanks.

Older women are sweet like saccharine,
but you are pure cane,
****** peppermint
cinnamon disks,
which drip
the same as crushed
maraschino cherries.

I cycle,
as little as possible
much more than I'd like
thinking of you
feeling you
wrecking myself
wishing this life would end
wishing this feeling would never end
alarming myself
at how fast
I cycle.

This is dedicated
to the dead words
deleted.

And I remember fantasizing about your
Death
My hands wringing out your delicate
Throat
My weeping member pumping you full of
***

I spread gravel once
flat across a lawn...
wishing it was me.

I made a trash bag-wreath once
white-pure strips of plastic...
wishing it was me.

I looked up at the delicate sky
held in place forever
crying to be fleeting
trapped in existence: eternity.

I heard family ghost stories once
stained branches on family tree...
wishing it was me.

I long to slip
beneath your surface,
but I freeze everything
I touch.