Love is a ***** soup going stale but steaming like it's brand new;
And I'm Oliver twist walking up to the *** with a rusty spoon full of desire and hope asking for more but getting none.

Love is a Doctor gathering dead bodies and shackling them up in chains;
And I'm a green freak with Frankenstein bolts ****** through my head walking around with only a mumble to muster trying to love people who just want to run away.

Love is a white paper rolled so finely, full of sedatives and drugs;
And I'm sitting by a fire reaching in for a log to smoke.

Love is puzzle made by Einstein and Sam Loyd;
And I'm a child with eyes made of glass and hands made of thorns crying to my mother because that puzzle is a *****.

Love is Navy Seal training on a beach covered in cold water spilling blood for a chance;
And I'm a ***-smoking hippie who holds up signs and tells soldiers they’re monsters as I take a puff of death.

Love is a ten-syllable word compacted into one;
And I'm a hooked on phonics children’s thesaurus struggling to find a comparison that I can actually pronounce.

Love is a white egg timer sitting on the fridge set to all nines;
And I'm a busy housewife waiting to cook dinner at the sound of its bell.

Love is a robber with a 45 in his belt;
And I'm an eager dad trying to protect his family with a wooden stick.

Love is hot coffee from a luxury beverage shop;
And I'm a plastic party cup melting away.

Love is a doctor with a PHD in heart surgery;
And I'm a sick child waiting with his mother with no healthcare ******* on a free doctor’s-office lollypop.

Love is a huge pink eraser;
And I'm a graphite pencil struggling to write while me and the eraser fight.

Love is a pickup truck speeding through town drunk;
And I'm a lost puppy running through the same intersection looking for my owner.

Love is meant for fish;
And I'm a bird.

If your silky lavender eyes choose not to meet mine
That’s fine.
Fantasies live and then die.
But for you, I'll try.

A man whose eyes hold only yours,
Sweet, lavender gazing privately,
Other sight blinded by joviality.

Uncontrollable emotion,
A shotgun blast from dad,
Deters no serious man.

A princess,
A jewel,
An emerald,
A girl.

Not an object,
But a privilege.

A man not centered on ***,
Relationship not just in the bed,

Kisses on tangerine cheeks,
Through rain,
Foretelling lifelong love.

Soft skin swims,
I touch with permission,
We laugh and love,
None other.

Flawless beauty,
Like diamond,
Like velvet,
A wonderful image.
Thus you.

Hands deal treacherously,
The wind brushes the ferns;
Calamity.

Life begins.

A simple beginning,
That quickly blackens,
And fills with lies.
Insincerities fly.

Mother tries and tries,
But father dies
And the world corrupts my eyes.
*** and violence and filth disguise
Themselves Like spies.
Insincerities fly.

Several birthdays pass,
A great relief:
They do not last.
Candles burn and blister,
Trying to erase and cover
The grief.
People thanking,
People wishing,
People praying,
All for my
Wellbeing.
Insincerities fly.

Out on my own,
Meeting new people,
Still somehow alone.
A door opens and closes.
A necktie
Adorns my clothes.
“Hello, Hello.”
Insincerities fly.

My father’s tombstone,
My mothers Aching, breaking bones,
A lack of numbness.
Sadness.
The ringing of a door,
The knocking of a visitor.
Sickness.
A doctor.
Pills and plugs and prying,
All with A false reply.
Insincerities fly.

Everyday, without fail.  Insincerity.  People saying hello and goodbye. People are born and people are dead.  At each occasion they say “I'm well” and they say “I'm fine.”  They say “good day” and “thanks.”  
Insinceritas

Bubbling, sugars ignite and spit sweet white batter
then callous and cover
the thick cream that stews beneath.
Clouds pour snow and trees bequeath
blue spherical bliss
onto the wrinkled surface.

So much apathy.

I sit here and watch these red, spitting flames flickering up around me.

But I don’t give a single ****.

Life courses through my veins,

but I resist its narcotic;

My blood runs thick with apathy.



I Meet a girl;

And suddenly a light appears,

But soon,

I don’t even care.

So much apathy.



I go to work.

A dark, annoying, filth manifests itself there.

And I get real dark and greasy,

Anger and rage and pounding and screaming and stinging bowels.

But I don’t care.

So much apathy.



Maybe if I cared you’d be with me.

I doubt it.

Maybe if I cared I’d have more fun.

I doubt it.

No amount of bright, yellow, burning sun,

No amount of rain or shine or wind or life or love.

No amount of anything.

So much apathy

As a child I cried
When denied
Your creamy-white inside
So fresh and benign
You gave me addictive, bloodshot eyes
Like a sugary sweet joyride
I long for you by my side
Comforting lone nights, amply supplied
I could eat you poolside
Or outside
Inside or in a landslide,
Hearthside or in a hayride,
Formerly provided storewide
Now you sit on the offside
Nowhere I can find,
Saddened am I,
To see that Chauncey crocodile has finally dried,
Along with hostess, and died.

Darkness gorges on lutescent light,

Deep sapphire water and sage woods encircle.

Lush sylvan vegetation coughs angelically,

Sprinkling aurulent dust upon moss and grass;

Fantasy collides and abolishes night.



Rough paper melts into bliss,

Glassy eyes wander, hopelessly, wonderfully lost;

Passionate fingers flip,

Cinnamon aroma burns nostrils,

And electrified mind lofts reality,

As eight-horned fairies lick moonlight lakes,

And vermillion hued suns burn cerulean skies.

Lethargic nights flower in their beauty,
But dire mornings follow.
Light eventually spills from the foggy window.
Yet, slothful sleep seems better than life.
Hazy eyes burning red not white,
Austerely droop,  
Numb fingers struggle to subdue,
And I wish for night,
To return and soothe.

Rain floods the sage canvas,
Saturating greenery to bring life,
And rot.
Thick, musty brown deals out death,
Next to brilliant lilac lilies and
Mazarine weeds.
Luminous sun scorches grass−now brown, and soil−
Springing seeds, gorged with life, loftily.
Human oils from fingers touch,
And pluck:
Ending life utterly,
Within stained glass and water.
Yet, this pastoral corpse produces beauty,
Love, and hope: healing hearts,
And mending stems of life through smell
And soft touch,
Until rusty leaves, unshackled, and withered aroma,
Plummet.
Thus our destruction, brings life,
And rot.

Would it make you feel better if we closed the blinds?
Would it make you feel fine and warm inside if we just closed our eyes?
Would it give you peace and love if we just ignored the cries?
Darling, we can close the blinds with one hand, and close our eyes and ears with none.
Yet going out and listening, going out and feeding and giving and being love personified is tough and hard and no fun.
So honey, would it make you feel better if we moved down the street,
Or just read a book aloud, or just went to sleep?
Would it give you pleasure and fulfillment if we did nothing but pleasure ourselves?
Would it make you feel better if we treated them lower?
Darling, we could give them funny names and pretend they aren’t even there.
We could ban them from the news and ban them from our hearts and ban them from our lips, so our banks and fridges can stay fattened,
And all that greasy money and greasy food can sit until it's spoiled and we can give it to them then because it doesn’t hurt.
So I ask, would it make you feel better, if we just stood here and stared?

Well, here I am.
This is what I wanted, right?
It was supposed to end so lovely and tranquilly,
It was supposed to feel soft,
It was supposed to be perfect;
It was supposed to go according to plan,
It was supposed to be productive and just what the TV said…
There was supposed to be ******* hearts and teddy bears singing hymns:

Because My imagination told me so!!

Twas wrong my imagination though.
So I'm sitting here slumping like a rock in the mud,
Smoking my love away out on the fire escape,
Wallowing in the falling snow waiting for an ambulance to take me to the hospital so someone can pull the plug,
But first let me drink myself into the next year.
    −−−
It was just last year we were shaking and shivering,
Bundled under the covers in passionate joy like a couple of kids in a leaf pile,
Inflating our hearts with warmth and ecstasy…
But now your body is the pile of leaves,
And my fingers are fire;

And behold, the New Year is upon us my dear!

So fill yourself with our fallow love and make dead resolutions to fill the gaping holes,

And the big ball that drops will correct our mistakes!

Corpses will lay tattered,
Whether burned with fire or frozen with ice,
In the streets and in the taverns,
Bodies will lay in macabre patterns.
Deep, red blood produced by inhumane devices,
Will stain every street and every country,
Delivering humanity’s demise in one simple trice.
And this destruction looms with great certainty,
Whether burned with fire or frozen with ice.

If Santa saw us now,
His copious joy might melt
And stain his white palace black.

Oh, if the jolly fat man saw us now,
Our black bells ringing scarlet,
The white snow-globe flakes flowing ******,
And the consumerist *******
Selling love for slick green and silver;
Oh, if he saw these rabid dogs,
Chewing flesh and spitting bone
for an iPhone,
His joy would end right there.

If Santa came down off his throne,
And saw our minty venom saturating sacks
Staining toys meant for joy,
His steel boots rusty from snow;
Oh, with this glance he takes upon us,
Witnessing a competition of hate,
He’d scribble his two lists black,
And his red joviality would pierce homes,
With death,
And holiday.

I  
   C    H   A  S   E   D
                                Her,

                                                                           {{Intimately . }}  

Until she Felt My presence    -(softly)−       and ↑↑↑↑

Opaque   blankets         covering         s.c.a.r.s,

not cut

d    p enough to hinder  Our ∞ love ♥
  ee

I k.i.s.s.e.d

       Her           body

Until,
It was
Liquid in my hands…