Death can do strange things,
like time-lapse photography,
undress those quite bored, or
make a patron saint out of a fool,
turning sleek idiots into monks
more mysterious than Rasputin.

What a place to drink, the casino
death runs, nothing fancy or beautiful,
a blind man called Dark Island
taking requests on a piano with keys
worn dull as bone handled knives.

A place the lost can find work, graceless
and not made in America without a living,
all these odd jobs death can do, like art,
factory smoke blown in the eyes of women
in Senegal making overalls for Walmart.

Near morning
by the sea
where I tangle
with the shadows
like a cage of sad tigers
by a grave I find a rope ladder
left by a thief
as the tide steals my eyes,
prisoners of time
without a hammer
trying to drive a stake
in the ground
and this is my crime
living and dreaming.

Most nights
I reach inside
my mind
trying to unwind
those thoughts
like twist-ties
that bind
to keep the loaves
of bread
free of mold
and fresh;
un-plan the long
planned plan
of mine
to choose the time
of my demise;
and sometimes
I try to listen
closely to
the constant ringing
in my ears,
the rhythmic singing
whine and changing
tones that turn
the sadness
churning, the waves
of emotions raging
in my ocean,
blue as the bottle
kept by my bed,
sleep my quest; sleep
eternal, the rest
of death I beg, leave
me alone, leave
me one more night
of breath to breathe.

Everyone has a general feeling of their own mind
She did not quite understand exactly how her mind was like
Until she started writing down all her feelings
Writing them down felt like she was organizing her own thoughts
Like looking at each small picture and then taking a step back to see the bigger picture, and fully understand it
She finally understood how her mind was like now
Hers felt so much pain and sadness
So gloomy
It was a quiet rain storm
The only thing she heard in her head was the demons telling her:
"don't eat"
"you're not good enough"
"no matter how hard you try to be special and be someone for someone, it will never happen".

Some people's
mouths are
like syrupy
fountains
spewing cloy
dew drops
clotted up
by porcelain
love stories
Their honey suckle
flavored tears
drowing youthful
spirits

I have this
animalistic
hunger
for the taste
of your
earthy skin
The way
you lick
your lips
and press your
fingers into
my ribs
leaving me
like a gushing
spring
Like bitter
wine
I cant wait
to lick from
your heaving
chest
Eat me like
a cherry
And I'll make
you feel
fireworks
swell up your
thighs
traveling through me
hard and slow