Tried ta nap, nap ain't hap'n'n.
There's a dead seal on the beach
'n I'm feelin' lonely.
Maybe if I drink enough
It can be my mermaid =(
Her hair sparks jealousy among the autumn leaves as tourists and locals a like avert their gaze from the deciduous blaze. Displays of orange and red dance happenstance on the breeze in a last ditch effort to reclaim the fame, however, Murielle's beauty is so profound that they dance too hard and fall to the ground. One by one, they let go of both life and limb as they float down around her angelic figure creating a spectacle so magnificent the gods and demons all writhe with envy. And as she stood there, bathed in beauty, vibrantly violating all the laws of nature, the god who guarded that particular forest appeared just to say, "My oh my, what a wonderful day."
There's ghosts up in the gears 'n sprockets
hosts of locusts fear the prophets
preachin' reachin' for the sky
on the morrow we may die
I pray to trees n bumble bees
on my kneeses **** a jesus
his death was probably in vain
just wash that **** away with rain
Two dreams today bout the end of the world.
Apocalyptic and cryptic, like Hell had unfurled.
The first was more normal, yet veiled in dread.
Emptied out houses; no sign of the dead.
Something wicked most certainly this way did come.
Some plague or disease from which we could not run.
Dream number one allowed me to prepare
For the horror of the second, but what I found there...
Cronenberg ******, agony, bliss,
So juxtaposed like a rose in some ****.
Mutated creatures, ****** red eyes,
Things you've not seen but by nature despise.
You'd freeze in your skin just from hearing their cries,
Then all of the hope that's inside of you dies.
But I found a car... drove to place,
Woke up with sticky **** all on my face
May your day upon awakening be better than the prior;
Even better than that sweater on your flesh fresh out the dryer =)
Twas the night before Christmas
Not unlike the rest
Just sitting here thinking
Quite lost and depressed.
Of color and bliss
Resound all around me
But something's amiss.
Perhaps the bright light
That was burning inside
Has collapsed on itself
And silently died.
Perhaps now instead
Of a heart or a soul
I've only a sinister
Gaping black hole.
If you live on a dung hill you livin on dung. Despite you might fight for the very top rung, the whole ****** ladder is lathered in dung. But from the top rung rotten corpses are hung. Strung out and rung out, some of em even hum, 'Dng-d-dung Dng-d-dnnnn dmmm-dmmm dun-d-dun dung.' They hummin n bummin n slummin til dawn n when the sun rise they'll hum a new song. How can anyone hung from a rung be so humble? Like flies on some dung or the bees who just bumble along to their song n keep on bumblin on to forget that live on a mountain of ****... O ****, is this it? This is it.. I'ma quit... Life's just a pile of dung and some rungs that go row after row to the end of the show where some corpes who hungrily hum.... huh? Oh no!
I've been told by some that I should allow myself to submit to a higher power.
I've been told by some that I should allow myself to completely surrender myself to the drugs on which I am...
Chompin' at the bitcoin for a hit -
Groin split, oh so tender -
**** it with tin foil so you can walk out the door without sounding the alarm.
**** it with armadillo dandruff so that the Migh and Highty gemi-dods of foral mailure and tetail reft might pity your chleek seekbones long enough to get that bimmering shooty to the sawn phop so that you can Havid Dazzle-Off those pitiful pieces of plastic and fencehorth vondez ru with the dead boy crew; stew you boil cook that dead boy brew; get it all in through the strands and tubes; melt face down down to towndown..... ******.
Maybe I'll call it polisatire. Maybe I'll call it Satpolire. Satoplire.
Let's go people... nothing to see here but a big old fat *******... Satoplire...
just wasn't naked
but now is
Hillary Clinton scares me.
I think she's capable of producing some dark days...
We had the black guy... now we're going to get the woman.
What's next... An Octopus?
are you offended because I didn't say black woman or Mexican and instead went all the way down the line to octopus? Come on... You'd be offended if I said anything regarding race or *** there... that is... if you're a little *****!
This ain't a poem... more of a stream of my ****** up consciousness on
Lots of drugs and Lots of Nosleep.
kids... don't go askin' around for that new **** called Nosleep...
I just mean I haven't slept in a few days is all.
Note to self: start putting ajax and powdered ***** in capsules and market it as Nosleep
More Notes: Go on a road trip to Brooklyn with one of the kids you got hooked on Nosleeps and refuse them Nosleep the entire way there. They'll be too young to get it because it's a lot easier to sell fake drugs to miners.
Notes on Notes: I think he meant I should market to minors... not miners. Spent the day last day down in the ***** coal mines of West Allis and boy oh boy.... did they ever find fury down there with which to beat my *** when I tried to sell them Nosleep. Do not sell to miners
Don't sell to minors either. Jail is not the place you want to be. At least not in Milwaukee county. I'm a white boy with soft skin and the prisons here are like., well., let's just say I'd be the ******* on the black sheets
dude you can't use the word black in a metaphor if you're using it to describe black people
what was it?
No I don't
;) ;) ;) ;)
miners get awfully lonely down there
The way we don't joke.
The way we sometimes never do.
The tendencies of overburdened humans.
******* up what matters most.
Never playing host.
Chicken flavored gummy toast.
Rhyming **** that don't make sense.
Putting up with ignorance.
Thoughts of death and suicide.
Neglect on ******* override.
the silent screams of children who died while
mining the minerals to make your mobiles
echo in every photograph you take;
every call you make;
every selfie with your smile so fake;
their shrieks go unheard...
but every so often
if you listen closely to the dial tone,
you can hear a faint giggle here and there...
a chortle of a child in heaven gleaning the meaning of
when eyes on the phone quickly become
eyes in the phone... among other places.
Atoms or Adams or Adam's atoms
Lemme at em, the *****,
The atoms of Adam's Adam's apple
Slapped by a Papal ****,
Chase the *** with rolling rock,
Someone get him outta there!
Someone catacomb my hair
As I lay dying in my lair...
Frolicles of Gwarnia, I summon thee.
What the **** I'm not even high lol lol l o l
Along the crooked fence we walk
Until our silhouettes of chalk
Are stenciled on the concrete floor
Hollow, void, alive no more.
The meta-critical physicist ****** a
****** cyst over in a Starbucks bathroom,
only the prickly ***** picked
a ****** to do it in,
leaving in his wake beside the cake
floating in a rancid lake
What looked to be a
******* on what you think
may or may not pass for poetry.
what is or what isn't poetry.
what is intended to be...
what isn't that was intended to be...
what is and was never intended to be...
I've written ******* YouTube comments
that drew my attention after having accumulated
enough attention to where I declared that there
should be a Poem here. Hell. They were easy enough
on the ears. It's all about aesthetics, right?
If people are going to like my ******* comments
because they make them chuckle or ponder their sanity,
who the hell am I to say they're not poems?
how many poets are out there who just don't know it?
the twitter-critters, the instagram-crackers crackin'
crack rocks in they black socks at a white sox game
yelling at the top of their lungs,
"Abreu ya filthy Jew, *******!"
*what a ******* mess
*******, ye bandwitch
And then a little voice inside me said,
"Maybe you should get out of bed,
Do more drugs
And play Skyrim."
So I did.
This isn't really a poem. I just started spewing my drug-addled thoughts on here because I don't want the majority of my face - folks on facefuck hearing about what I do and don't do regarding the use of drugs.
I also unplugged the controller and started to use the keyboard and mouse again. It's far more better with the games like Skyrim while using the mouse to drag your freshly meaty corpses around the ground and say, "Hey. Guards. I just killed a man. What the ******* gonna do about it?"
There seems to me a bitter irony
In cutting dope with my
Health Insurance card
On the cover of a
Book written by
Hunter S. Thompson...
If humans had wings they would flock to the ground,
They would mine as they sing and dig underground towns,
They'll keep on a-diggin'
down diggy down down,
Till they dig up a well
And drown driggy drown drown.
They'll try with their wings to fly up to the sky,
But those tunnels are deep and all winding, no lie,
So they suffered, the lot of em, subterranean deaths
As they flapped and they screamed as they breathed their last breaths.
I was once issued a citation
For ******* on a homeless guy.
On my court date,
The judge asked me why I did it,
And I said,
"Because I thought he was dead."
I have a cat.
I lied; I don't have a cat...
I pack heat so the ****** on the block don't **** with me.
I lied; I don't pack heat and those ****** **** with me every day...
I have oranges growing from orange trees in my greenhouse because I believe in growing my own food and living a healthy lifestyle.
I lied; I eat at McDonald's every day...
I don't do drugs.
I lied; I'm addicted to ****** and I'll abuse just about any substance you put in front of me...
I've got a lovely girlfriend who loves me just as much as I love her.
I lied; I'm single and lonely and I ******* like clockwork...
I write decent poetry.
I lied; This isn't a poem... it's a depressing heap of words I thought might pass for poetry...
I'm actually extremely happy and optimistic and nothing in the world can stop me from achieving my--
A stiff breeze coincides with a passing jet
As I sit on my stoop watching dead leaves
Dance around the manhole in the street.
It's 15 degrees outside,
Yet I persist with this disgustingly pleasurable vice
That's sure to **** me... eventually.
Fingertips numb as carcinogens fill my lungs
To shake hands and broker death deals with my alveoli.
The previous chapter in my life has come to a close.
Awareness of the changes setting in
Allows for a free hand to grasp the wheel,
If only with few fingers...
It's a start.
The summer of self destruction:
Mars bars serving pints of red death
On the rocks...
Craters filled with miscreants and misfits
Lined with ***** donors and sounds
Reminiscent of the wise and powerless Buddha
Drowning in a pool of *****;
Doorknobs turn counter-clockwise
When the sun hits them from the west;
I crave the raven's guileless depth
As it rips the flesh from off my chest.
I wrote this at night. It was a late night. I have to work in the morning and I shouldn't be up. This is the first thing I've written in some time. What does it mean? What is it supposed to mean? What am I trying to say? **** if I know. I'll buy you a beer and we can discuss it over a beer.
He sits on the porch and listens to thunder
Roll on in the distance as darkness envelops
The world that surrounds him,
Which is normal enough-
It's eight in the p.m.-
And there's nobody
Really that eager to see him.
He's a mess and a half, or maybe three-quarters,
His life is in shambles and he's well aware;
The scariest part's that he don't seem to care.
There aren't any predators out for his hide;
Well, save for one, from which he can't hide.
You'd think without worry he'd find time to soar-
But he's stuck in a house built only of doors-
Doors that all open and work perfectly fine,
But on them he just hangs pictures of people and completely forgets
that the doors are doors
and that the floors are floors
and he rests his stupid head down on the floorboards
as his house is not furnished;
it's empty and bare...
save for out on the porch
where sits only a chair.
I don't ******' know
Had a hunch for lunch,
And as I heard the crunch
Of the hunch
It hit me like a punch-
With the hunch came a bunch
Filling my mind
With epic sensations-
Will it behoove me to follow it's path?
Or should I remain stagnant, like water in the bath...
Stagnation will render you hollow-
Don't have to be that one
But pick one to follow.
I'm ditching my compass-
I'm off on this hunch,
But before I go-
I think I'll have lunch.
******* mother ******* *******'s father ******* niece.
******* **** slashing triple dog **** **** **** the ****** Mary in her ****** ***.
Pass the blood around in a goblet and sip so that you might not give a ****.
Hit your mother; hit your wife; hurt your family; but don't touch the animals...
They don't deserve it.
Disclaimer: I don't condone any of this sort of behaviour... it's merely an expression of how I felt at the time.
I pray for nightmares to take me away
From this place I dwell.
I pray for a greater pain to act-
I don't pray at all-
I just fall...
Let down like a (metaphor)
On this mild night.
Surely not a wild night-
Shrieking, speaking in one tongue,
For that's all I have-
And I feel as though it should be removed for what it said today...
Clumsily written this poem probably is-
Clumsily smitten I very well might be-
But that's okay-
Because I don't think I give a ****
As I stare at the wall,
I can't tell if reality is setting in
Or slipping away...
You stole my little heart.
I know you did;
I saw you take it.
I watched as you cut me open
And removed the pulsating muscle.
You thought I was asleep,
But I let you take it.
I thought that if anyone should have it,
That person should be you.
So do with it as you please...
But I hope that you keep it near you.
It's served me well over the years,
And it's also proven to be a real ***** at times.
But it will keep you warm.
That I can guarantee.
I would like a double-shot of espresso, please.
How would you like that, sir?
In a syringe, if you don't mind.
Coming right up.
Would you like a tourniquet with that, sir?
No thanks. I've brought my own.
After I'd found the vein, I stared into the syringe
Before plunging the needle in.
The beautiful brown...
I pressed the plunger ever so slightly and watched
As the drop slid down the shaft.
I thought to lick it - licked it.
Pricked my tongue.
However, it was of little consequence.
Any pain present within would be subsiding shortly.
In goes the needle;
Out go the lights.
Perhaps I've been confused
Matted in perspiration
Perhaps I've been abused
It's time to change the station
My creation has betrayed me
But ain't that what they do
Gotta let em breathe
Or else how ever can they move
As I was driving home today,
I disturbed a crow in the road.
It was feasting on the carcass of
Some small mammal,
And as I drove by,
It flew to the side of the road
As not to get hit by my truck,
And as I passed,
I said to it,
The words from your mouth act as the most fertile soil
I can possibly find
This hole that's present in me.
The vital nutrients that can be found within
When observed closely
Kindness; Compassion; Intelligence; Humor;
All working in unison to create a
Concert which helps me
Compose my (p)rose
And nobody knows.
As the month of February draws to a close,
I look back on how dismal a month it's been for me.
Now, February is typically my least favorite month of the year,
But personal problems almost always find a way
To add insult to injury during this
Stunted funked up month.
The perpetual cloud cover matches
As the pleasant and unpleasant coil,
The inquisitive, favorable nature I bear
Seems to pack up and vanish as if into thin air.
I'm growing quite tired of girls who aren't you.
It's bitter and cold; however, it's true.
Creating escapes is what I must do;
Escapes to the places where thoughts aren't like glue.
A cigarette burns at the tip of my lips
As I sit here and write this while coming to grips
With the fact that I'll never be blessed by your lips
And I burn like my cigarette, stuck in my lips.
The ashes they fall on my shirt nonchalant
As I hope and I pray for a mental détente,
But commanding my mind is an ill commandant
Who is ever-salacious; forever in want.
There's no escaping the daily grind;
Only the inexplicable tortures which plague the mind.
For others, however, there's a blooming gap
Which presents itself
In the form
Of a nap.
How simple a pleasure;
An enchanting endeavor.
Those words do not rhyme,
Though I do not care,
For I've just awoken and tainted the air;
Clouds of tobacco smoke poison my lair.
A dream lingers briefly so I jot it down.
Angels from heaven appear -
Oh the sound!
An orchestra plays something I've never heard;
It's hauntingly beautiful -
A box pushed its way to the surface through dirt
And inside the box is a sparrow;
I do what I can
To help it to heal,
But a cat comes along and decides it's a meal.
"I know you're a cat, and that's what cats do,
But wouldn't you say you were just a bit rude?"
It replies in baritone, southerly voice,
"I am what I am and I hadn't a choice.
I'm driven by instinct,
As you may not be;
However, these feathers
The cat then exploded;
Its innards now out.
That bird was a bomb,
I haven't a doubt.
I suddenly lost the will to keep writing...
but whenever I'm presented with an object
capable of causing harm,
I can't help but envision myself
utilizing it in ways most unpleasant.
In the kitchen when I'm preparing a meal--
the knife enters my throat.
In the yard when I'm wielding the chainsaw--
the blade enters my throat.
When I grip the pistol and point it down range--
the bullet enters my throat and exits through the cerebellum.
Yet, I've never once attempted to take my life or even
threatened to do so for attention;
but that's really not my style.
Perhaps these thoughts are perfectly normal...
*yeah, for a guy who hates his ******' life.
Then stop being a ***** and fix it.
a sordid sort of sorrow
swiftly swims within my veins
til morbid ****** reward my sores
tomorrow with *******
The nights often grow cold where I live,
So I try and do what seems logical--
Build a fire.
I hastily take to the darkness in search of kindling--
The storm from last night seems to have littered the ground with
Dead branches large and small.
I'm unfamiliar with this type of tree, however...
But it seems quite promising.
I do hope it burns well.
Back in my cabin, I find the smaller sticks break with ease,
And the larger pieces split at my command without hesitation;
I then proceed to load the stove and fire it up.
All has gone according to plan--
Save for one minor detail...
Despite my efforts to further stoke the blazing inferno,
It produces no heat.
The warmth of my excitement from finding the wood
And subsequently constructing the fire has now subsided and I'm left with a
Beautiful orange flame which - no matter how hard I try -
Can never fully satisfy.
Ham sandwiches remind me of the days gone by
When I'd fly out the door to kiss the lips of glass
That would always kiss back; a kiss to get me high
Quite literally speaking, sneaking out the window
Just to do it again, sometimes I'd forge a pen with a nut
So what, yeah I've had the plastic in my lungs
But I'm climbing up the rungs with a quick two skip,
Slip n hit my chin on the rung labeled "dedication"
Forever changing stations in this ADD society we livin in today, pass it back or go away, ham sandwich.
"This dude is no longer making scents"
Regarding some thoughts on a talk
I outline some traits for a date
If passion trumps fashion
we're off to a start,
And art is another way into my heart.
It doesn't seem fair to care
Those dastardly digits depicting a cage.
Which ain't to declare I'd pair with
Save for maybe an E,
Since I'm such a G.
I digress and confess, if you'd like it
For all you've to do is to look
in the mirror.
December 31st of twenty-eleven;
Wound up in a place not so much like heaven.
No celebration - just cards and some chess,
Reflecting on how I got into this mess.
I must confess, I thought it'd be worse;
Violence and **** followed up with a hearse.
But my inmates were kind, despite their transgressions;
Most of them hauled in on counts of possession.
Fiends all around me, missing their dope;
Counting the days with a glimmer of hope.
It made me depressed, though I could relate;
Recounting the highs and how now they abate.
As I lay in my cell on that cold wintry eve,
I found it a bit easier to believe
That I ****** myself dearly, right in the ***;
But I mustn't forget that this too shall pass.
I've said it before; I'm afraid what I say
May not always present itself in the right way. ,.
Perception is key; How You think of Me;
Circumstantial ad hominems swing tree-to-tree.
How much should I care about your opinion?
Am I to remain a chained worrisome minion?
Is my message to you of any import,
Despite you might mangle my angle for sport?
The popular discourse of this day and age
Has decided we dance ourselves right off of the page
Into uncharted territory; will we survive?
I really don't care... so long's I'm alive.
Anyone wishing to build up their ******* detector should study this list: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_biases_in_judgment_and_decision_making
It's been almost a year since the apprehension.
Almost a year since they grabbed me off the highway
With their assumptions and lies.
Guilty until proven innocent is how they view you on the street.
It might be a different story in the courtroom,
Out on the desolate interstate there's not much one can do
To keep them from infiltrating your right to privacy.
What is privacy anyway? Does it even exist anymore?
A few simple clicks can open up one's entire life;
Locations, relatives, work history, criminal record.
And on the highway,
All it takes is a few simple lies;
Do you know how fast you were going?
What's that smell? Please step out of the car, sir.
And shortly thereafter I was on my way to the lovely
Tooele County Detention Center.
I was afraid at first...
Never having been to jail before.
But I think what I feared the most was having to face my parents.
I knew full well how disappointed they'd be.
I knew full well how they'd do everything in their power to get me out,
Despite the fact I was comfortable and relatively safe.
Nothing could prepare me for the onset of tears I could literally see over the phone...
And I haven't seen them since...
My parents, that is.
I think about how much of a burden I've been on them over the years...
Racking up piles of juvenile offenses;
Underage consumption of alcohol;
Underage possession of marijuana;
Underage possession of tobacco;
Operating without a license;
Operating while suspended;
You can't park here, you ******* idiot - give us your stupid money.
What is there to be proud of in that?
Is this how I repay the people who brought me into this world?
Yet they bear no grudge--
Perhaps I should reconsider my line of work...
I get depressed at the thought of reading this, but then when I get through it, that goes away. I wonder...
Awakens cold and dreary;
Vember Nobody, is in, no more.
Awakens daddy's paycheck;
Cember de'Lusion, is holiday cheer.
Remind us why we're happy,
De'Visa and de'Scover.
Remind us why-
Why we smile.
His little elven children;
He doesn't pay them,
As I sip on my Coffee
Which is ever so Thin,
I'm reminded why I Buy
From the privately Owned
Local joint which has Been
In town for Decades.
It's appropriately Named
And I remain a loyal Customer,
Save for when I'm feeling Like
A fat ******* who Doesn't
Feel like getting out of the Car.
Drive-throughs are the Killers
Of Small Business.
A solid gold oak tree will shimmer and shine
And many a man will declare it as "mine;"
It'll stand firm and tall,
Keep its leaves in the fall,
And around it some humans will build a great wall.
A solid gold oak tree will draw the religious;
The meager, impoverished and the superstitious.
They'll come just to gaze
At the golden sun rays
Which reflect off its branches as if its ablaze.
A solid gold oak tree will cause a great war;
On one side the rich; on the other the poor.
They'll fight until civilization's no more,
And the gold will then melt back into the Earth's core.
Do what you can in life to not squeeze babies.
Squeeze them when they get older...
They might appreciate it then;
But while they're young and brittle,
Lay off with the bear hugs.
On second thought...
Even if they cry and show utter displeasure,
Babies need to toughen up and learn that
No matter how hard life squeezes...
Don't squeeze babies.
What the hell are you going on about now, Auroleus?
Klonopin Clonazepam Sintonal Diazepam
Refill my Rivotril Don't spill my Risolid
Alprazolam Bretazenil Bromazepam Lexotanil
Dadumir Olcadil Nobrium Stilny
Halcion Hypnovel Tavor! Tavor! Tavor!
Gimme gamma-aminos but only if they're butyric
With Xanax as my hand ax; Anxiety, *This is War!
1. Another name for lorazepam
2. An Israeli assault rifle
The acoustics of a pack of cigarettes...