Second step is a promise,
and you misled them
from safe haven
to slaughter.

Gods broken in fragments,
collected in plastic bags,
kept in cupboards
and drawers.

Worships in mirrors.
Praises the reflection.

You've imprisoned
thunderstorms
in your palms;
Are you the villain?
Hypocrite manipulator?
People exist to either assist you
or inconvenience you,
and your aim is to have
one class of person.

Disposable.

So many awful things happen
to people who don't deserve it,
and they try to
destroy themselves
for it.

I wish I could just burn this **** stain
world to ashes and **** in them.

This hole is full of angels
and humanity *******
shreds them into ribbons
and wears them
like rags.

My body is made of information,
I see in infrared and j-peg,
PNG formats I can't
share over
the internet.

Their eyes see mere mortal things,
and nothing supernatural in technology.
No ghosts in the machines,
no flesh in the software.

No hope in the problem,
nothing thick in the water,
don't call me at home,
remember I can't be bothered.

My skin is a spreadsheet and
my hair is string theory in action
and theory.

My brain is afloat in liquid caffeine
so it's no wonder I over react.
Where do people go when
they daydream?

You live answers and I live questions,
and yes, we can **** each other like this.

Starved in habit and attempt,
crashing on your shores,
flailing wildly, flailing...

Arms waving. Crashing.
Sleep turns red.
Sea turns blue.

Eyes smothered to death,
and a brain that poisons
the body numb.
A mind like
an ******.

You are,
so much like me
yet with a will to live
that swallows us whole.

I survive like this.

Why are you so bitter old man?
So nihilistic, so feeble and empty...


Was it the strangers? Friends?
The way everyone seems to disappoint you
without hesitation or fail?
You hate strangers.
You hate people you've
never talked to
and afterwards hate them with deeper insights.
You hate the things you see in them, in yourself,
and it disgusts you in the way only you can disgust
yourself, in the way only humanity can disgust you.

How'd you get so mean?
You'd rather people died than left you,
and sometimes they can do both
and you really don't care.
Empathy from you for these ******* strangers,
is like trying to pull a rabbit out of a hat.

Believing in nothing.
Nothing is a belief.
Nothing as a belief.
Belief of nothing.

The way it drags on a vowel
like Nicholas Cage screams.
You're accustomed to failure, loss,
defeat and fear.
You cling to what you have left
desperately
like a dying man
clings to his bedsheets.

For mercy.

Throwing myself into wider oceans
with shallow waters,
throwing myself out,
seeing myself inside.
Distant to shelter.

I've seen too many people reach
so far ahead of themselves
they fall over.

I smothered my ambitions,
and I might pay for it, yeah
but then again I might just
save myself from
so much more.

Maybe he pumped up on drugs,
but Cash never went to prison,
so what else is a lie when we
write songs that sound beautiful
and mean nothing?


Your loose clothing, strings
falling off your shoulders,
and dying plants.
Tight on the hips,
this room is full of garbage
&
I’m abandoning it in
a few weeks anyways.

I need someone to eat
all of my sins and make me
clean again, if only for
the weekend.

We fear becoming our parents,
and then spend years learning
everyone becomes
an ******* anyways.

30+ years committed to suicide
in slow motion waiting to die.
Tigers frozen still and broken,
their eyes wild, their faces frantic,
frozen; clawing each other and running
like a container of bulls on fire and starved.
Their stripes like tears in the fabric of some
uncaring and cruel reality.

Dare to call yourself an artist.

Sunlight streams
directly onto an orchid
and
eventually it dies.
Beautiful parasites.

Stepping out of bed listening to
Sun Araw yelp like a cat on marijuana
and wondering if we're all the spawn
of some great singular being.

Lying in your work clothes,
lying to yourself about showing up late
working towards that infinite nothing,
wondering why people expect dreams
out of people, instead of just
give some mercy to the suffering.

Talking about age makes me want to die young.

It's pink and orange and soon it's blue,
but it's still the loveliest most childish
painting the sun has ever spread out
for your eyes to see.

Put on work boots for a job that'd
be just fine with sneakers.
Get your ducks in a row,
and let the cute girls with
big eyes and colored hair
shoot them down
one by one
by one.

I don't know what made everybody this way,
but I hope it has nightmares.

For the record most of my writings are lies
and fickle emotions.
You can call me a hypocrite and I won't fight you.

I'm just being ****** to an audience;
It's so selfish to lash out and say I love you,
and I know it.

I think the whole point of life on earth is that the smaller creature
adapts and learns how to eat or destroy the bigger creature;
So mankind is destroying the ******* planet,
and I wonder what was taking us so long?

I've been waiting to turn to a stranger and say,
"Do you feel like everyone is living in some
synchronized insanity, and we all want to scream
and cry and break **** and generally riot,
but we don't just because we're told this is how
things should be?

So we just keep  moseying on in our illusion of security,
and perpetuate the illusion with the people who
reject it...[?]"

A stranger flagged me down on the street today,
and I crossed the street and just hopped over the snow bank
to help an old woman to the supermarket,
and **** me, I can't remember her name,
it was like Nancy or Margaret something old-timey.
I bought an orchid and waited for her to finish shopping,
but she told me she would be okay;

Like sometimes you want to let someone know
you're still trying, you're going to be "good",
but **** reading Bukowski still feels so "good",
and all your honesty isn't truthful,
but it's so sincere.
I imagine everyone else is waiting and praying
for everyone else to just snap and go insane.

Those people will look into you and say
"I get it. You're sad", and miss that so many bricks
and stones go into building castles,
and every iPhone shop in the world looks so
empty, disgusting, and caucasian,
and yet every store wants to be the iPhone shop
and so very few places can attempt to be the castle.

The castle takes time, effort... Tolerance.
Stamina. Weathering, aging...
Yeah it looks cold in winter,
but it'll stand in spring, and it'll
outlive the ******* iPhone shops
for centuries.

Anything that stands for centuries
is literally amazing,

And if there is a God, she is a black woman
and the entire world calls her n#####,
and she cries herself to sleep every night.

We are all the company we will ever have in
all those lonely strangers.
If you've ever seen a cat try to **** another cat,
you might be me,
and you may realize mankind is brave and noble
and stupid and messy and disgusting
and terrible terrible terrible and so much better than
their feeble bodies, but so much
worse than gods and heavens and undeserving
of anything supernatural and kind.

We are a cesspool made of solid gold.

Yet, I've taken down my nooses.
I've made my sharp edges dull.
I look both ways when I cross the street.
I take care of a plant now.
I try to take care of myself.
I get by, and that's my plan.

To get by and be happy.

I don't wanna "live life to the fullest"
with some obnoxious artistic gesture
and "wacky" mannerisms,
I force feed to people who don't care.
Trying to make people think I'm
successfully immature, because I'm not.

I don't want to be some retail manager
and employee somewhere else,
getting it at both ends, unpleasantly,
trying to make people think I'm mature
or responsible, because I'm not.

I can't be Bukowski, and I can't be Ginsberg,
and I can't be Emily Dickinson, or Jack Kerouac.
I might have lofty fantasies, and sometimes I'll
attempt them, but I don't want those "plans"
that blow up in your face when the string gets pulled.

I have priorities.

I want to grace through life on thinning plastic wings,
playing last years video games,
listening to timeless music,
and most importantly,
being loved by the people
I love so very much.

You wouldn't kiss me and cried and
I cried and I cried at work
and I cried at home and cried
myself to sleep
and woke up
numb and
empty.

You're still leaving aren't you?

It snowed all night,
and I slept from 5 till 6am,
and I still harbor this pain
and guilt and depression
and loneliness and sadness;
Solid bricks of sadness
pulling my chest into
my abdomen.

You've had a foot out the door for months.

You try too tell me I'm, "your best friend"
but I know how you treat your friends,
how you talk to your friends,
and I'm far from that. You lie and tell me
you love me, etc.
&
I hate you for this.

I will always hate you for this.
I gave you my love and you took it,
I gave you my heart and you took it,
and now you're walking away with both
and I have to pretend you're not hiding them
in your ******* back pocket or sock drawer?

I hate you for this, and
I will always hate you for this.

I just wanted your ******* love and affection,
I wanted to know you would be here for me,
and you would never ******* do that.
Not that you couldn't, you just didn't want to.
My life turns to **** and I'm struggling to
survive
and you tell me it's time to jump ship.

You shut me out and now you're throwing me away,
and in this sea of lies, somewhere I'm supposed to believe
nothing is my fault, and it stings that you can't even
tell me what went wrong and where you learned to
resent me.
I bet you're packing up my stuff as I write this.
I want to be less than zero and worse than dead.
I wish I could just sleep.

I'd promise you love isn't real, but you have mine
and it's gone with you, and now
there's nothing beautiful left in this world for me.
The snow is rising and it makes the distance
between us even farther.

**** it, why not make nothing off limits,
why not break everything with
something soft and velvety
or a sledgehammer made of
cardboard
executing murders at breakneck speeds.

So maybe nobody gives a ****,
and it's whatever, you're whatever
being lonely is whatever, this life
is so ******* whatever,
banal, passe.

Eyed like a tiger and donated blood to
the vampires, and used like a ******
but only ****** like ****** over;
****** like a father.
Lonely and sad and
contemplating if the bar in the closet

can support my weight at the end of a belt.

Contemplating if the liquor at the bar
tastes sweeter than the people.
Or maybe I should just move on.
Maybe I should pack all my bags
and just run 'till Satan can't collect
and no one knows my name,
so I'll make a new one.

I resent everybody here anyways.
Casual spite. I hope you all die,
so you can't see how much I truly
don't give a **** about any of you.

I'm just tired some more maybe.

Spent 4 dollars on the light gun game
in the Barcade, and beat it,
and there are no high scores,
just 2am and sore eyes and
lactic acid in the elbow.

We're all rats chewing holes in
the ship we stow away on.
Sinking in a desperate hunger.

You don't know me, and, so...
don't pretend to anymore.

You don't talk much,
I don't talk much.
So, we don't talk much.
Yet, somehow, everything
is "fine". [citation needed]

Singing in the passenger side this time,
sitting on the vocals for the perfect song,
waiting to make you cry.

I am your doll, full of needles;
We fight by cuddling in armor
padded with barbed wire and thorns.

Mutilated "lovers". [citation needed]
Cold wars and cold tongues and shoulders,
and tired of all the *******, but whatever.
Everything's ******* now.
Nothing is fine, or good,
or okay...

When I was 20 I learned all
the music I liked was garbage.
When I was 21 I realized I

couldn't write a good song

and by 22 I remembered how.
When I was a child
I was more suicidal
than now,
and I'm still a kid,
practically.

I had a couple tapes when I was 17
and not again since then, but
I'm still a pretentious ******* *******.
I've had a couple students in guitar
over the year, but
nothing
serious.

I am a yawn and poor excuse for a human at most.
Ego is on point like maybe her crotch hairs are "fleek",
but who the **** is gonna say that to
the back of her head? Without shame to hide,
dignity to keep intact, or
a head on solid shoulders, ever, ******* ever,
never ever.

Fire for breathe. Kiss me till my lips bleed;
Speak my face in, or smash my consciousness.
**** me to death, till I die, make me dead.
I wish I was well fed and not scared of people.

Nice things come to people who work and practice.

I grew up in the furnace, halfway towards homeless
with scars on my feet to show where running took place,
and feeble lies were told to strangers for
a laugh back when people used to
use people for comedy instead of
text and image and text...

Maybe I'm still lying.

Everyone knew that black and yellow
means "danger"; from
caution tape to wasps.
Smiley faces.
etc.

Held their teeth to the curb,
and their hands outstretched
far above their heads;
Never prayed for anything.
We were taught to stop wanting
what we couldn't get.
We learned.

Whatever was whatever
and was the war chant for
Afghanistan,
and when Bush Sr. decided
he could name wars as he saw fit
[As a friend calls it,
"Operation Desert Storm™"].

Devalued friendship
in case we had to run away.
Adapted, really.
Ran away.

Prayed for death.
Fell in love constantly.
Desperately tried to have a home.
Wanted a home.
Wanted something quiet.

Out of the furnace.

Pink noise in place of somber thought.
White noise in place of shelter.
Noise instead of feeling.
Noise,
and heat.

The brightest
star
isn't in the sky.

You fill your Marlboro blacks
with marijuana and sing off key
all the way through the songs
on 90.1FM.

We turn onto the highway and I
manually
roll down the window and put my head
into the breeze and pray something stops me.
My hair too full of Murray's and American Crew
to really shift in the wind, even as it beats my
eyes shut.

Tell me about your obsessions with blood.
The kid in the back seat can't play guitar,
and the Béla Bartók inspired cacophony
in the gutters of my soul
assure me, "Yeah, it's so ******* easy to be
a 'good person', and maybe you can't
sleep some nights
or
repress anything, everything,
but the hardest smiles are reserved
for those who don't want and maybe
cannot be saved anymore."

Turn off the highways, avenues, streets,
roads, parking lots, radios, lights and minds.
My mother swears to me that Christ said,
"the last shall come first and...",
so I aim for rock bottom and
let the real drummers take a break.
Sink into ceilings and headphones and
products and senses and relish it
with tears in my eyes.

We make our blood toxic to predators
&
we don't fear hurting the people we love,
because we don't love anyone, really.

The brightest star isn't even in the sky,
but not everything that shines reeks of beauty
or significance, or glamor, or assurance, or hope.
Everything could be ******* perfect.
[It excels in mediocrity.]

Odors build up from a session of
sleep-work-sleep-work-sleep
[suicide in slow motion]
that seems to cycle
without hesitation
and soon

naturally.

Well fed big cat, poking at the
starved hysteric hyenas with
a 3 foot cattle ****. Laughing.
Avoid eyesight.
Contact.

The hand that feeds holds down your throat;
the invisible hand masturbates your false ego,
your sense of self is attained by
radioactive superpowers achieved
through the assault of arachnids,
or the bite of some exoskeletoned predator.

What gives you incurable illness provides you
with some naive interpretation of life as
"endless shining light of warmth and love."

Yeah, well tough **** for the dead,
and please, less noise from the dying.

I broke a lantern in a vivid hallucination
I had in my sleep. Inside was the scripture
of a fortune cookie from
"Golden Dragon" on lee road.
It read,

"Life is made worth living."

Buried by insane deities
that live in single cell domains.
Insecure in the best ways,
holding on blindly without courage,
not brave, not adequate.

Pick up your textbooks and
learn how to fly with
your toes on the ground.

If you go searching for dinosaurs,
or particle physics,
you'll miss everything so terribly
gorgeous and lovely
about today.

And about today;

Mistaken for nobody.
Everybody's no one.
Fractured yet generically.
They think I am a
Thoughtful
&
Slow talker.

I was born in the furnace,
and grew up halfway homeless.
Tough doesn't mean strong.
Thick skinned, maybe.

Lets make a theory;
If we're made of the same matter from
the beginning of time, we have to find out
where that matter has been. Like a recipe;

Coffin Nails.
Bullets.
Salt Water.
Broken Umbrellas.
Cherry Blossoms.
Burnt Plastics.
Lipstick.
Mountains.
Etc. Etc.

I rang in the new year alone and sometimes
she says, "smoking would be better."
Maybe I'll pick up smoking.

"literally stop talking."
Asks if I speak in non-sequitors,
because "normal" conversation
bores the **** out of me.

Doesn't feel pain, barely sleeps
mostly numb, doesn't sleep, doesn't care.

Haven't seen many other people.
Smiles a lot. Breathes deeply.
Hates so much.

Mostly alone.
Doesn't mind.

I want to speak in poetry
about how when people say
they'll be here for you,
they usually lie.

So much has been lost to
a cold war of passive aggression,
passions in long succession,
maybe spite.

Stings like alcohol on a fresh wound.

We all get here eventually, maybe,
I'd throw us all away to just be
the last one laughing.
The last one on top of this pile of demons
with a massive crown of scabs
fit for some king monster
&
large beating disgusting
wings.

This empire needs no throne.

If you had to get that drunk to **** me like you wanted it,
I think we have serious issues between us.

I don't think we'll talk about it.

Naming objects more affectionately than people,
something stupid I hate to see in others.
Mother Brain stirs the ***, and Kraid
growls infinitely, or purrs in context.

Cheap and lonely, dressed well for someone
who used to be a teenager, but in shambles and
letting it all go to **** freely and crying in joy
at incoming apocalypse.
Nuclear, biological, biblical, bubonic, revolutionary[?].

Sleep in filth, gravity feels like the proper force
we mistook for the human soul.
The center of balance is what we thought was a third eye.
We're ******* idiots is why;
we thought dreams were some kind of heaven.
The sun was god. The earth was flat. Miracles happened.

If we're being honest, we use superstition as a crutch
to elevate beyond our ****** means and pretend
everything is going to be better than what it is.
If we didn't believe in love, and god, and karma, and ghosts,
we'd all go insane from the ******* sanity.
We eat **** to wash our palette for human flesh.

We poison ourselves to imagine we live like royals.

You stopped responding at my second
jesus **** joke, but I didn't care,
and I was the one at work. Aces.
Even vacation is stressful for you,
although I'll admit my humor isn't great,
but amongst friends I'm hysterical.

I only have about a handful,
and they're all ******* weird as me
except for a couple or several.

I'm not a big fan of most people I root for,
I'm terribly sarcastic, and if I love you
I might want you to fall on your ******* nose.
It's a fifty-fifty split,
or seventy to thirty.
I'm a ravenous cannibal when
I put words down to something tangible.

I'm also late to work or early,
and all my friends get my friends jobs
right before we leave or get fired
or get too poor to stay where we are.
It's a horribly satisfying way to live
but a ******* way to want to die.

I'm a coward and a liar with great hygiene,
I liken myself akin to the noble cockroach,

because I'm a nuclear survivor!
And the post-apocalypse started
right after Hiroshima, and now they
watch or **** everyone,
and people police people.
If you can't afford the rent stay with strangers
or starve to death on the streets while
middle class lunatics watch you evaporate
"rationally" as bystanders in a new world war.

It's not even a subtle genocide.

Dive kicked off the aspirin,
overdosed on vitamin D.
Up all night, celebrating,
properly sober;
properly hydrated,
properly fed.

Stomach ache from experimenting foods,
sriracha on salad and chocolate and eggs
threw it all over everything like "HADOUKEN!",
there's information floating on the wind everywhere
and most of it is ***** and cats,
people saying, "hey" and "yo" and "whats up?"

And I'm addicted to Tom Waits,
and probably ***, and probably the internet,
and probably video games and thinking,
but thinking about offing myself.
Genesis does what nintendon't
and lately every modern gaming console
simply just www.WillNot.
I guess we're all fantasizing till we stop.

Also, punk and jazz will not mix well,
my grandfather wrote me from the grave
just to say so.
He says the rent isn't so bad,
but the landlord is the ******* devil,
although there's a room for me to move in.
I just might if I don't get medicated,
for right now I'm whimsical
and singing up and off key.

All these zombies are feeling my vibe
with their teeth and fingernails,
and affection never felt so good
from such a friendly crowd.
I don't get out much anymore,
I'm slipping into old habits
more often because I'm lonely
and melancholic and bored.

It's all right or whatever.

If you're heart is always over-explosive,
people will call you a maniac,
I know some folk who fall in love too easy
and they're broke and they live in 2 bedroom apartments,
their rent is like the Romans sticking
nails in their wrists.

I'm not really interested, I.N.R.I.
My younger nephews crying
because I tipped over his new toy,
I laughed way too hard.
I laugh way too hard.

Sleep before work before *******
and **** your day,
constellations on constellations.
Everyone I admire wants to die.
We all commit to suicide more sincerely
than our current relationships.

We're all incompatible,
and no one sleeps enough.
I am a culprit too, I am invaluable,
I'm in denial over a lot of things,
drown it out with aspirin and youtube,
and vitamin D and spicy foods
and water and orange juice...

Enough coffee to drown a child,
they say it only takes three inches though
[everything's a *** joke, everything's innuendo,
or it's a gritty reboot of a silly franchise,
Robocop was ****** up in the eighties
now it's warm milk and
grandma's pull out couch].

I can't figure out why we need
two holidays to celebrate genocide,
my friends probably think I'm insane
and I'd never call them wrong.
I'm not really interested though.

Low voltage and the battery
is glowing like some hippie on drugs,
man **** the hippies but they are
radiant.
I can't respect people anymore,
I step on toes and curtsy sarcastically
and if I'm being kind it's somehow ironic
and everyone is fair game and an easy target,
I see in targets and blink like a ******
and bat my eyes like dragons breathe fire.

Be anything you want to be except a doormat
a pet, an iron chest, a superstar, a sucker or lollipop,
a lawyer or boy in blue soaked in red.

Run for your ******* life,
and die in the process.
Stop trying to make treaties with the modern world,
boring idiots with their noses buried in their ******* phones
and I'm not even close to old fashioned, just spiteful.
Spiteful because I'm lazy.

When the bass kicks the speakers out
my head is always between them,
so you know I don't always
listen to music
to listen to music.

They say there's no cause for these,
yet dream like, "yeah it's plausible".
We don't make laws for people,
which is why they don't make sense to you.
Another high percentage stacked
against you.

You don't wish people good luck,
and I want everyone to crash and burn
and be worse than me by comparison.
I lie when I talk about you.
I lie about a lot of people.

I dreamt we drove a car backwards
down a highway and they threw
every cop car in the state after us
and gave us a $5,000 dollar ticket
and even though we were on the
wrong side of the road
/wrong side of the law

I said, "**** no, officer and *******."

I've never seen miracles,
and I never hope to.
I just want to wear my black tie
and dark sunglasses
and make them think,
"he knows where God hides,
because he puts it there."

Common folk in a state of fear always,
and everyone has a revolution theory
or an apocalypse set-up,
and there's more than one way to skin a cat,
and no reason to keep to one method.

We all think so hard and none of us really ******* get anywhere.

I spend so much time not saying
"I don't care" & "I don't give a ****"
and people stay around but
my life feels shorter for small talk.
Like how I could've left this
idea written in 13 words
but decided to keep going
till I got here.

And here I thought you were fixed.
You shoved a few bottles of fixed
into your system
and called me because
I am helpless to help you.
This hopeless helplessness
and you were bleeding from
your mouth and all I could say

"I'm gonna miss you."

You're probably catatonic or dead
or comatose
with another 1 or your finger on send.
I'm sorry he didn't love you.
I thought you were better.

You and me had a lot in common.
Now it's probably just me and I feel empty,
and I hate you for this because the alternative
is no good, and I'm no good anyways
and I'm selfish here writing about me
but you're dead or I can't stop you.
What am I supposed to write about you?

You're not gorgeous, or funny,
you don't have a beautiful smile,
you're not silly or soft or kind
or kind of an ***.
You're just ******* dead by now I guess.

You should've been breaking hearts
in backseats and bathrooms
and writing novels for lovers to
commit to memory
or professors to loom over melancholic
and sad, ******* sad, ******* too sad to cry.

You're not amazing anymore.
You're probably dead.

I'm twelve tones of ****** up,
and you gave me hope,
and all these people keep coming to me
and I'm broken and lonely and ******* up
and I'm sorry I wasn't there,
I thought you were better.

I know you want me to think it's not my fault,
but here's the ******* kicker
[because I can kick the blame, but];
I still could've been there.
You're probably dead now.

You ******* idiot.
I want to feel sorry, but why?
Why? I hate you for this.
I hate you for doing this.
I hate you for doing this.
I just ******* wished you'd just
see that me and you deserved living
and I don't believe in ghosts
but now you're another demon
in my closet in my head over my shoulder
out where a god should be.

I knew I couldn't fix you,
and now we have that in common too.

I loved you. I'm so sorry I was so afraid to just say it. I was afraid this would happen, and now it has anyways and it was so ******* stupid. I've never ****** up so monumentally. I just didn't know. I swear if you had just told me sooner, I would've been there. I didn't hate you, I just wanted you to find someone else. I didn't hate you.

But now you've gone,
and you've left me here
and you're probably dead,
and even if you're a vegetable on blue sheets
a white corpse on the floor,
a demon in my red heaven,
a ghost under my bed,
a skeleton in my closet,
or the hand that holds the next
nail in my coffin steady as the tide,

Now, I hate you for this.

The pythons on the branch
and you were headed upstairs
to greet it, tongue first,
lips pursed
willing.

Wet chunks of shattered glass
singing through flesh,
singing in multiple octaves
howling in pain and you
took your hand away to
kiss serpents.

I reached out for you.
Furniture rising to the ceiling,
air escaping, but me and the
love seat float upward toward
a new heavenless home.
We see a new horizon.
We breathe not of our own accord.

I dropped a bag of free muffins
on your shins and the cat
freaked out on top of you
ran off, and knocked over your water.

You're such a ******* stiff
you might as well have
rigor mortis.

Gorgeous though.

So I tried to be nice,
but I laughed too ******* the inside,
and I'm probably
never apologizing.

If you're looking for one,
*******, buttercup.
I got fuel to burn
and I'm saving my remorse
for the people I've ****** over
worse
and you ain't topping that
totem pole.

You wonder sometimes, don't you,
often as well, but maybe when
you're in bed,
or
on public transportation.

You wonder how they all do it,
and how they all step like ants
to a rhythm without numbers.

You wonder how everyone else
can possibly stand all of this *******
nonsense and not just blow up
or snap and just lose their
******* minds.

Start fires and explosions and
**** prime ministers and presidents,
and cry and **** and protest the
meaninglessness of such a
cruel gift as humanity.

You wonder how everyone hasn't given up.

All the while,
everyone else wonders
when everyone else will
******* lose it too.

At some point every holiday
becomes a masturbatory overload
in the name of insincere flattery,
and gifting is the peak of this.

Everything in motion comes to a halt
as I lie down here and watch the
Christmas tree
sit still like 7 feet of holiday garbage,
and the cats relish it. Black and white cats.

Yeah, we all die in the process.
Successfully, we fail to accept
a single validation of the
handfuls amongst us.
We explore the sandbox
for the tools in our back pocket.

Has there ever been a more
fruitless and pathetic creature?

Ghosts sitting on the trunk of
a sea foam green car
smoking Marlboro golds,
their teeth gnashing at
carcinogenic tips.

Discussing tastes.
Aesthetic pleasure.

The past can't haunt you anymore.

She said, "we all wish to take a scalpel to
our past.
It's like a sore muscle and you need to
stretch it out."

This repressed everything, and
enforced amnesia; more complex
than conspiracy or tacit reality,
because

you're not supposed to hold on
to something that hurts you.

This house in on fire,
not home, house,
and I'm leaving,
and I've taken what I want.
I'm escaping.

She asks if I'd want to know.

I wake up missing something,
and missing a past.
I don't mind
the weightlessness.
This is how I will live now.

Uncharted ground in typical fiction;
all your friends around me and I'm
uncomfortable
unfathomably
alone and lonely.

Covenants between strangers
and maybe a splash of blood
a splash of innocence a
tired man's inner demons,
maybe we're all tired of
pretending we don't want
to explode.

Explode and send fangs and horns
and pointed tails and fire
and tar and dead things all over.

Parties are just riots with their
heads up their *****.

We're all alone, you know?
Sometimes we just drown in it,
and it's when we think we can
**** down some type of atmosphere
that we remember how bad lust hurts.
Lust for life, and living, and *******,
and kissing, and affection.

She holds her face in her hands and cries.
Some of us are used for love.
She opens her arm up right in front of me,
and I can't cry.
"please stop."
I'm convinced we all want to die.
I'm convinced only a ******* idiot
wouldn't consider suicide.

Showed up early for work.
An hour early.
Sitting in the Starbucks out the back door
sipping a tall blonde with room for cream.
No one calls me
whisperhide,
hammerfiend,
lineheart,
professor,
&
shitlord.

Dark. Dark dark circles under the eyes,
I imagine. I could look.
Stayed up with strangers. Stayed up alone.
Unhallucinating. Disengaged.
Sinking a woozy reality in place of solid illusion.
**** it stinks. Job's great, work *****.
At least the coffee doesn't taste like cigarettes,
today it taste like water.

******* in place of sleep. Feeling numb,
where numb is such a relief you'd swear,
you'd swear to your god and stars
you were happy.
At least grateful the head is quiet.
Not silent, but at least quiet.

Switched from TV on the Radio to Death Grips.
Wanna stir the ***? Really?
I'm afraid we're all cowards.
It goes it goes it goes it goes
it goes it goes it goes it goes
...

Overflew from the sewers into the chalice
and they drank it because
it's soaked in
jewels.

Toxic.

Wagging a finger like it's a dense singularity
being hammered into by juggernaut.
No. No. No. No. No.
Smiling because futility,
chuckling because we're so ******* stupid,
blowhards, tryhards, beggars, dancers,
corp. embezzlers, poets with loose morals
and empty wallets.

F is for ****;
like I'm gonna ******* till you **** me over,
waiting for someone to give me a lobotomy in
metaphor or metaphysics, or spiritually,
or actually take a butterknife
to a soft spot in the skull and
drain the fluids with mosquito bites.

I.E; I walked home in the dark alone
and broke down in a cereal aisle
and asked the cashier if I could get
help with the self checkout while
tears in my eyes.

**** whose watching over me now,
white people **** white people just for fun sometimes.
I really don't care how low the human soul falls
even as I investigate accidentally.

Bedlam in the parking lots and Babylon
is burning, burning, burning,
hair held high up by olympian comic book super heroes
[Clark Kent is an ancient egyptian]
tossing egg salad and burnt coffee into
the sphinx's gaping swirling pampered flushing mouth.

We lose ourselves when we follow our moral compass.

We only connect when you cry it seems.
So many different stains on this bed,
and I wish you were here when I was
happy, but not smiling;
Any of the moments that would be
cheaper for sharing,
but stained if you were there, now.
Here, now.

I wonder, (now, and not often)
if those sheets hold more
tears, or *** fluids, or sweat.
I don't dream anymore, however.

I've never had a beautiful dream
about us, and when I did we were
awake
and a long time ago
we shared that common dream.
You don't even feign interest
in me anymore.

You watch me starve and carve myself into
morsels, easily digestible fragments,
and then turn over and, maybe praying,
though we swear we don't believe in god,
that I'll die mad and half naked in your sleep.

Some trees bear flowers and you'd swear
they die in winter and may never blossom again.
They freeze and turn into wonderful spidery things;
fingerbones strewn haphazardly on some streetlight.
Petals that were pink like new flesh,
rotten out of mind and existence.
I wonder what the blossoms become
when the tree sleeps.

Chaotic ***** lover,
skin made of cyanide
a princess made of man.

I get anxious at silence and wait.
How can you love someone you
give so little effort too.
Minimal.
Garbage.

I don't hear whats so beautiful anymore,
so I revel in the filth that I've become.
Shitlord.
Taking time to cough out
fragments of clockwork,
carrying cracked lips that
sway in a breeze
beat on a broken ankle.

Are you somewhere lost at sea?
Are you riding on a storm?
Do you feel lonely when you
turn over and there's another
cold spot in the bed?

I don't expect much anymore.
I want to sit in muttering silence and enjoy
the quiet in my head.
[where]
You aren't real to me.

I relish the chance to yell you into something small;
a field mouse or the belly of a great monster.

Love is tearing me into ribbons,
but with care, they become banners and streamers
for a parade held in honor for a martyr
who hasn't died yet.
The reality is smeared into the genes.

Downgrade in technology.
Lost in your own eyes.
Aggravated.
Always paranoid.

Sleep in for
a couple months.

Lets not **** around anymore; you feel pain.
You have to learn to be alone.
You're weak.
It takes practice.

I've invested a lot of time in trying to make an us
out of a me. I am so very empty.
After a year, I'm still a stranger in your home.
You distance yourself, and next
yeah you'll run.

I ******* see it.
Future? Me?
Nobody stays for this.
Nobody wants this.
Mood swings, erratic behavior,
late nights, crying, crying,
thoughts of suicide,
dependency,
nobody
wants
this.

Nobody wants me.

Two days ago you broke down at 12am
in the aisles of the supermarket, crying.
Swore every set of headlights that danced
by you was another set of eyes to
see you through to nothing.

Spent the next night awake and laughing,
quiet as a mouse,
except the repetitive cackle
and spite for all things.
You lost your mind.
You're scared kid.

Scared of losing.
Tired of losing.
Always braced for losing,
too stiff to just take the next step.
Haunted by your own shadow.

Nobody wants an insane person.
A walking corpse.
A MANIC.
A ****-up.
A dead-beat.

Austin Heath.
They come looking for you sometimes,
but the reality is so much more terrible.
The reality is so much less than mediocre.
No one cares.

Yes, I believe in love,
and I feel stupid and small and pathetic, often.
I'm tired of laughing it off, but it's in every song,
and every song takes that sensation of
self loathing and makes it permanent.
Not something tangible to dispose of.
I can't even cry myself to sleep.
I'm worse than depressed,
I'm never happy.

It is winter inside my home.
I lay under a black cloud, starved,
naked, half-cocked to explode,
basking in the white rays of
computer light,
alone.

I am an islander.

I try to reach you.
All I want is you.
You whisper my desperate wrists
away from yourself and escape me.
I am a necromancer; My corpse is
Alive
among the living;
I am a ghost. I am seven dollars spent
on B-vitamins, and a well-pitied man.

I cut deep into my own mind with
words that sink blue, like the stem of
thyme sings through my gums and
stays until the next morning,
I am crying in the bathroom at work,
I am listening to my mother go insane,
I am crying all day,
all day in bed,
running

back and forth, back and forth,
heart beats like;
doki-doki-doki-dokidokd...
I am a comedian laughing till his own demise,
trying to finish the punchline but

I am an islander.

You don't get back to me.
You don't make time for me.
You're not here for me,
I ask you to just tell me why you love me,
and you
tell me annoyed,
it's time for sleep.

It's always time fo

I am an Islander.

I cry so much these days. I cry cry cry,
and I promise I'll get better, I'll be happy,
I promise, just get back to me, okay?
I'm so sick of crying. I promise.
I can smile see?
The sun is out, but
it's ******* winter,

it's always ******* winter,
and I can't
I don't

I am an islander.
I am an islander.
I am an islander.
I am an islander.

I'm alone.

The train screams and you twitch your fingers
consciously, yet still nervously,
you're thinking about the first time you attempted,
and it's vivid and terrifying,
like dreams of falling that last one second,
but strung together for about five minutes.
You breathe irregularly.
You think about how most people can't read your handwriting.
You write a masterpiece on the pillow,
right next to her head. Hope that she sleeps better than you,
with sweet thoughts she easily forgets,
and the bass of that train rocks the
boulder in your stomach.
You shift your feet, your legs, your body, close your eyes,
exhale,
and pretend you are completely still,
but subconsciously those fingers are twitching,
until the feeling is gone.

Nobody has time for me, I wanna cry so bad
but I'm afraid if anybody hears me  sobbing
I'll get harder on myself even though last night
I wanted to ******* but my body wanted to call it quits,
but my mind was so awake I didn't sleep for a single second.
Or maybe I did.
I keep thinking about how
I never know when I'll see you next.
It's like I tried so hard to just be ******* miserable,
I bought a notebook, but locked myself out,
so I yelled at it for twenty minutes or so;

"WHAT THE **** WAS I SUPPOSED TO BE?
THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"
This music thing was supposed to be my dream,
and Austin you're gonna go places, or get everything you want,
my mother says we'll make millions off of all my ****** songs,
as soon as I'm on the radio,
but who the **** listens to the radio?
People counted on me to be someone,
like I'm ******* somebody whose supposed to be somebody.
I've ******* ruined people for you.
I've done things I still can't live with,
and most of them started with a pen.
I'm supposed to love music, these songs were supposed to
take the sadness out of my head and make it tangible,
but instead it made them permanent.
So everyone else gets to be saved by music,
but I get to destroy myself with it.

My head gets so ******* loud at night.
Everything is in caps lock.
I stay up for days on end
until the feeling is gone.

A cardboard box to place all your hearts into.
Squander the pretty things.
Cut everything into small shapes and pray
for grey clouds, rain clouds, secondhand smoke.
Something has to be destroyed again.
It is a season not for harvest,
but to gaze at something empty, cold,
and left in waste, helpless.

The side of the head collapses inward.
Bone snaps and the breath is so short
it would make you wonder if it happened at all.
It would amaze you how you have hurt others.
Like a pyramid in selfishness;
the Niagara Falls made in barbed wire
and infested with small biting insects.

You had to teach yourself, and it wasn't hard.
You taught yourself how to hate, but more so;
How to hate everything you know, to-
find flaw?- in everything you hold close to-
Hallelujah.
Angels with eyes eyes sewn shut, monsters,
monsters with white wings, feathered.

Flying. ****, I want more dreams of flying,
or even another dream of falling.
Always awake. Circles nourished by your
happiness are well fed under your eyes.
You are not.
You are not
falling or flying,
&
never in my life have they felt so similar.
So much the same.

"I don't know if you're going to read this or not but, looks like you used your Bandcamp profile recently.......and I've been thinking......your a ***** .....and I never got the chance to tell you. You can ******* off thats fine, its been a couple years and you just completely wrote me off. I understand you may have wrote other people off because they did you wrong, but you wrote me off on judgment alone. I did you no wrong! You deemed me unworthy of your company as if you are somehow the dictator of all social interaction, because you didn't agree with decisions I made about my life. **** move....you could have at least had the decency to say, "Hey, I don't want to hang out with you anymore.....or even speak to you for that matter." It would have ******..... but it wouldn't have been a **** move. plastic blood indeed"




You are one of the most beautiful people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting in my lifetime.
I was a ******* kid back when I knew you man, **** I still am in a lot of ways. The truth is that my father got really upset when he found out you were smoking **** with me in the car and guilted me into not making music with you, and being a stupid kid I handled it as well as I handled everything else. After that it just seemed awkward to try to say hi. I'd figured you either hate me or move on, and either way we both probably had lives to get to.
I'm living in Cleveland now, been here for three years since my father kicked me out after we got into an argument. It ain't bad. For the most part though, I've kind of quit on music. I make a CD here and there and record a song, but I'm just really tired of trying to impress people.
Nah, I still think you're one of the coolest people on the planet, and I did make a **** move, and wasn't even the last in a string of **** moves I'd have done to a lot of people, and I did do to many.
I'm sorry. You made me a better musician, and person, even just by knowing you, and you deserved better than that.

Laughing my *** off because Louis Keys called me a ***** today,
Austin Heath.

Fingers stained black.
Careless.
Spine bent like the railing
after the crash. Bent hard.

You're not even solid ground.
You're a whisper in the air.
Everything that
vibrates
has a pitch.

Everybody's muse.
Everyone's *******.
Plastic-like.
Flimsy.

All the switches
are off.

There's a resentment that grows in me,
and I don't know when exactly
what day I became this bitter old man
stuck in the body of a **** young idiot.

I take my love wherever
it'll ******* come from now.
I yearn for anything.
Everything.
Death especially.

I don't wanna survive another winter.

I'm sick of having what should be
a discussion on a serious topic
turn into,
"You're ridiculous for thinking
otherwise;
this is how it is."

I am;
something you forget.

Remember
after.

You don't really care
about me. If you did
I wouldn't be.

Your care for me is
a consolation prize.
An apology.

I'm there after the people.
After the places.
Behind the background.

I'm after words.
After reaction.
After thought.

I commit a crime.
Deviate.
I sin;
I don't believe in.

I shoot myself in the foot
to learn how to walk
differently.

I do something evil.
I bleed.