I feel as if I'm
some terrible sea creature
woken from slumber.

A Leviathan,
a Kraken from the locker.
An evil intent.

The will to rest. Sleep.
For one thousand years or more.
Stay under the waves.

Until they are gone.
Until the faces are new.
The will to sleep. Death.

Entering the room, you'd notice
the faces are young hopefuls,
or old amateurs.
Each know a handful of material,
and are desperate to play
the entirety of it.

Eager to play jazz.

Frantic cacophony
in sweet harmony,
confidence and innocence
as common bedfellow.
What they lack in form,
meter, and style

they fill with a pain
hidden under confidence.
Innocence.

I met Helen on tinder, and we kinda just had a standoff with words for a day. Then we followed each other on Tumblr and found our mutual love of 90's anime.
So tonight she's coming over to use my bathtub for a bath bomb, since she doesn't have her own, and in turn I'm getting two tickets to the Cleveland Orchestra.

Last night my room mate threw up drunk and I passed out after drinking a whole bottle of Irish Cream while cleaning the bathroom and trying to do the first verse of "Encore" over any song I could find.
She came home and just gasped at all the hair and dust moved out from the room.

Now she's smoking in it. ****.

I'm numb in the fingers and hands and just trying to not throw up. I'm having bouts of depression and anxiety and this ***** Caitlyn Sessor, Cessor, I don't even know, won't show me any mercy, or give me a break at work. She wants my ******* head.

I just want to sleep for two weeks straight and have money again.

Dismissive riots unsuppressed
and erratic rays of bumblebee sirens
cause flinching in the ocular muscles
and meaningless reality folds
it's cards and chips and dies.
Life is life is happening
and is still at the table.

Everyone seems to get off on hating nihilism,
but until they find a hint of truth
lets stick to what we know.
Thats a joke.
I make jokes sometimes too.

If I was a drinker, I’d be dry on the rocks;
if I was an addict, I’d be dead.
I’m not proud enough to call myself a writer
and I barely scrape by with the title “poet”.
It’s not all the same, except it kind of is,
and if it’s all the same to you,
I’d rather be a maniac, or pure ****, with good definitions,
than another ignorant sack of **** with lazy reasoning
and a demeanor leaning towards believing
"I’m above it" really means you are truly above it.
If I was a gambler I’d go all in on my debt,
and wind up missing fingers and half my life
to say you truly believe in the things you say.
If I was a violent man, I’d start more fistfights,
and if I was more of an *******, I’d call you stupid.
However, I’m not the boxer taking the dive,
or the druggie nodding off on the transit,
or the gambler with his mortgage on a pair of jacks,
or the ******* that oppresses someone and plays the victim.
I’m not the writer that made it somewhere big enough
to ever be a has been, or a wash up. I’m a never-was.
To say this is a sad song implies it’s not comfortable.
I’m the *** of my own visions and dreams,
and all my streets and alleys are only seedy
because I wrote them that way.
At least I’m not pretending I’m above it,
while actively participating. Although, **** it,
I guess nobody can tell from a distance.

If your question was a tree,
the answers would be the fruit
and every one
is ripe
and low hanging,

yet somehow you manage to partake
in a feast of rot and harvest sickness
where fertility is rampant.

Withheld fortunes of spring's past
spoiled in the jar,
yeah, you ****** it up.
It was really simple too,
but you break your own themes
over your knees to be correct.

You fail anyways.
White noise in sheets like
rain over your party
and your guests burn you
for treachery.

Whether you assume responsibility,
or it is forced upon you
these consequences will be yours.
The answer is simple then really;
Don't **** up.

Making dinosaur egg oatmeal,
maggots in the kitchen sink,
ants on the floor,
flies in air.
How did I get here?
Žižek on the counter,
and you're trapped here
by yourself, kid.
Trapped again.
Here we are.
Communal
bankruptcy.

They lit a toothpick on fire to light a candle,

dropped it and lit the carpet on fire.

She was upstairs and faking it.

The guys next door were cooking crack

for the sons of senators. Americans.

I am in front of  a 21st century typewriter

and I understand that this life is the

flavor of water. I wish they’d just ****

me already and get it over with.

I’m in a land where strange customs prevail.

I’m home. I’m almost alone. I can’t taste it.

It’s over now though. The past makes sense.

The coffee is cold, the hope is gone.

It’s comfortable. It’s over now.

Johnny told you that
he didn't trust you as I
was saying, "leave him."

He wants you obsessed
with him while he's looking for
a new hole to fill.

I tried to tell you
this was going to happen,
and I'm still sorry.

I expect the worst
and prepare a bit further;
hope is alien.

You're full of the stuff,
and I don't know how to speak
to someone like that.

My heart is warm, yet
rock ******* the inside and
colder than oceans.

We make peace with closed fists
and sing poems to our children
about war;

“It only happens once in a while.”

We spray everything red and cry in our hands,
we crush our heads in our palms.
Shake tambourines for spare change,
and claw at untuned unfinished guitars.

Daylight fades, and darkness stumbles in,
alcohol on its breath,
a mix only sailors and their widows drink.
It’s harassing someone for a **** or a fight,
because it longs to be touched and feel it,
to shed some ****** fluid
and feel drained of the pressure
of desperation.

"You are killing me."
"Only in self defense", I
banter back at her.

A massive *******
but it's in my gene pool and
therefore my nature

****** choking,
pulling her hair and pushing
her throat in my hand.

Tell your boyfriend that
you want to **** someone else
but you still love him.

Branded with bite marks.
I let her tear me apart,
inside and/or out.

Listening to her
short breaths between my tight palms.
just like an angel.

I'm of the angels;
horrific, unnatural.
Gorgeous, but rarely.

Nothing in this ****
mistake of an existence
is flinching at me.

-She believes in some
value system that merits
her 'good" behavior.

-She has a conscience.
The notion seems so naive
looking back I guess.

I have great secrets;
I get away with ******
(Metaphorical).

Typical *******
with a heart made of copper
but so close to gold.

I feel a compulsive need to burn most of you,
or rule a few thousand with cybernetic underlings,
because robots can't say no
based on moral principle.

A season ripe with yellow jackets.

They wanted laws without control,
orders without rulers,
and religion without gods.

We made them fight for what?
Liberty? Justice? Freedom?
Not even glory...
We made them fight for a cage,
and they celebrate
even as we shut the doors.

It's absolutely hilarious.

I'm in dark sunglasses
outside of Dunkin Donuts again
taking more wifi by the throat
and tearing it into this machine.
No money,
probably $50 in debt by now.
I'm tired of today already.
Trying to hide my face,
or something about me.
I don't ******* know,
I don't particularly care either.
Let's talk about something else;
My generation.
How long are we going to cough blood
until we get our **** together?
Are we slowly losing rights
or slowly gaining consciousness?
How many days are we going to to hide
our red stains away from strangers?
Is it a push towards more
"politically conscious" neo-liberals
or
pants-shittingly insane radical conservatives?
How many more mornings will we spit blood
into our bathroom sinks?
Is it nationalism, mutually assured destruction of the self,
or culture, identity, the return of humanity?
Humanity, you know, does exist.
There's just a marginally greater infliction of dehumanization
stemming from the systems we've built.
They're grinding us down.
From flesh to meat.
How much longer till we're closer
to being dinner than eating it?

I'm so ******* lonely and
the dog is crying all the time.
I want to get **** faced
and **** a stranger.
I want to bare knuckle box
someone bigger than me.
I want to do something wrong.

I'm so ******* tired
I guess I'll stay up all night.
I can't do anything at all.
I'm gonna get a job and die,
or leave a scar on someone
or break some monument
of national pride.

Cauterize. Burn something
that leaves people in terror.
Awe-struck. Tired and lonely;
I want to take a wild swing
at anything or anyone.
****.

I want to be the blemish
on your mankind's
smiling face.

If you were a flower
I'd drown you in water,
burn you after you died,
and keep the ashes under
my mattress,
then craft a poem
out of your roots,
and toss your soil
into a lake.

If you saw me in
the eyes of a starving man,
would you turn away?

This commitment that's
ordinary to many
catches up to me

and it walks with me.
Our eyes focused on pavement,
hands in our pockets.

Looking for the words
to feed strangers where our hearts
leave people hungry.

You never really frown,
but your face sinks like
the weight is still there.

Your eyes are just
dealing with it.

Shoulders bent forward.
Spine like a roller coaster.

Unkempt everything.

Practically dead;
a skeleton wrapped in
worn tissue.
Breathing ignites the dull
pain in your head.
Breathing hurts.

Neck feels swollen
somewhere untouchable.
Uncomfortable is the word;
Uncomfortable everywhere.

Uncomfortable.

Hexagonal yet
fashioned into a pattern;
process of dying.

Sleepless before day.
"Sunlight"; a curse for vampires,
not wretched function.

-Not impurity,
the presumptuousness of
those who point at us

and call us sinners.
They pray and sacrifice their
children [pentagon].

-We preach free speech, but
stab the tongues of fascism
deliberately.

Gaslighted by a
genocidal culture, we
fight back [pentagram].
~
Carving sigils in
frantic vanity eating
death incarnate, whole.

Hell is paradise,
and here we relish the filth
built up in corners,

where history fears
to show it's face and be struck
back into darkness.

Back into process,
simple pattern of dying.
Machines that grind flesh.

War machines by name;
"Liberty", "Freedom", "Safety".
Sleep can be wicked.

Where it interprets
the death of the innocent
as "necessity",

or claims tradition
is inherently wisdom;
"That's just how it is".
~
Sleeplessly in night,
I tap my finger against
a cold damp window.

Mass paranoia
for doomsday ticking downward,
not to zero though.

We wait for midnight.
Perpetuation of fear
is hexagonal.

To who gives a ****;
I left all my opportunities behind once.
I’ve broken hearts, many actually,
and I even had mine broken.
I dropped the dice and lost almost
as many times as I’ve won.
I’m surviving though, aren’t I?
I’m not sure whether I should celebrate
in a suit or in a corner somewhere.
I haven’t collected dust.
I haven’t grown moss.
Are you proud of me?
I didn’t have to step on anybody,
because I didn’t want to go anywhere.
Some can argue I’m cheap, or someone
who despises the mediocrity of responsibility.
I think we’ve all dreamt of wandering though,
and I wonder how many of us didn’t have a
choice in the matter. You can tell the
difference in whose looking for
vacation and whose looking
for home.

Nowhere to run,
hiding in plain sight.
Some of us live solitary
with people strewn about us
more like decorations of meat,
some of us crash into others
and stick on a molecular level.
We turn ourselves into monsters
of the bonds we craft;
mutants of desire.
Love without reason or understanding.
It's the only lesson I can't teach you;
the only freedom you may ever realize.
Hide in plain sight and love recklessly,
fall comes on it's own terms.

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.

There is an answer
to why every privileged
******* can't write;

They talk of heaven,
they preach about angels and
how they might sing, yeah,

but haven't seen one.
They haven't listened to them
and cannot hear them.

***** rhetoric
applauding their enclosure
as the door closes.

Brain dead featherweights
tethered by their bibles and
white supremacy.

"Ideology"
cult of the soul without a
purple beating heart.

***** rhetoric;
repeat Frances Scott Key and
emphasize landscape.

We've all seen the fields,
we know how green the grass is,
and how blue the sea.

Biblical visions;
worship "democracy" and
call your leader "king".

"ideology"
a mask for supremacy.
***** rhetoric.

You're going to choke
and you can't have the angels
after you **** them.

I've been imagining a niche of people who take me seriously as a writer. People who see some beauty and legitimacy in the way I float through paychecks, late on rent and holding my breath as I sink in independence. I see the waterlogged corpse of an old man in the mirror, sunken in and sullen, melting like wax off a candle.

I thought these were just waves of depression, but I feel an entire ocean lurks and churns inside me, begging to pour out.

My ribs are bending under the pressure, my lungs are folded flat against my chest, my breath is short and cold.
Thoughts are the moon that stirs the tide.

And I carry this weight on a foundation of ******* sticks.

I'm sorry if I came on too hard, or came off too melodramatic.
Although honestly I'm sorry for too much, far too apologetic to be a legitimate writer anymore.

I think everyone knows that everything
is incredibly stressful and the pressure
is exceedingly painful, but
they refuse to recognize
it could be different.
So when my girlfriend
tells me, "I worked a job
and went to college full time",
I don't know how to say, "Great!
But I would crack under that pressure!"
I don't know why going to college
is supposed to be so important when
college is really a market of
diminishing returns in exchange
for crippling debt.
I just want a simple stupid life
in a simple stupid place
with a simple stupid routine.
Why's that so ******* hard to ask for?

So I had to put some effort into
finding things I regret these days,
but it wasn't too hard coming from
a bitter mindset.
Come to think of it,
I regret many years of my life,
even if I don't regret the people.
Sincerely wish that wasn't the case,
but whatever, right?
Pour me another glass of anything,
I think I'm drinking anticoagulants
these days, but remembering
is so **** painful,
I forget...
The numbers on these pencils,
so I switched to ink;
Now I cover up the mistakes
I used to erase.
Now when you call me
I don't answer quite
the same way I used to.
Now when people look
for me, they find me lost
or wandering somewhere
I really shouldn't be.
Sitting in living rooms
with pictures of people
who aren't smiling.
Fix me a drink!
No, fix the one in my hands,
or the one in the back of my
skull.
"Fix something already",
he said, comprehending
the wounds were indeed
fatal already, yet eventually.

Homeless. Crazy.
Everything is smooth.
No,
no one really knows enough.
No one cares enough, or gets it.
Close to charity,
all is oppressive.
Keys on treble, wishing
everything was ******* brilliant.
My planning is a bet that
it all comes part unevenly.
Yeah,
neon smokescreen,
lime green cigarettes,
and I'll leave you to carry
that sentiment on your
shoulders.
I hope you feel empathy like
a child that's ****** the bed;
warm and embarrassed,
take as a symbol of
habitual  weakness.
Take it like a pill with tap water
that sticks in the throat like a brick.

Next door to inhumanity.
Every day is slightly
darker
than the last.
****. forgot the punchline…
something about how daylight fades
and darkness falls.
If we could all be so clumsy and respected.
A "feared klutz."
Anyways.
All the geniuses are dead,
and I hate most writers;
Snarky, uppity, *******.
They're all dirt now.

I passed a man who spoke gibberish,
but ended his mush mouth with some
statement about getting food.
I told him, "I got nothing on me."
I lied. Of course I ******* lied,
I had almost $270 dollars in my wallet,
cash.
I don't even know
what  I'm supposed to do with the money.
Just **** it away, I guess.
Start looking for another handout myself.
I can see the lines-
washed out, skillfully ignorant or oblivious
&
whoever said I was a loser first,
won the grand prize.
Some truth in the
universe.

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.

You're one to believe in god,
so tell me Grandfather;
You believe everything has a meaning
and war can be righteous
and war can be hell.
What does the rain mean?

It's not a metaphor for pushing life
into the festering corpse of a beat horse
in the late fall, early winter, is it?
Is it a drowning of that mistake?
A bed to sink your imperfections into?
What is this grey sky speaking to?

Was it WW2's tail gunners dead in the back
and pilots swarming like flies in vicious harmony?
bloodthirsty dogfights, and the folk guitarists
standing in awe,
jaws unhinged,
mouths open,
wondering,
"What the everloving **** just happened?"

You believe in God, so tell me;
They stuck your body in the dirt
over 2, or maybe it was 3 years ago.
You never told me anything about this.
You never told me anything
but empty threats.
God is a mass hysteria;
a mental disability,
a harmful fantasy.

But what does the rain mean?

Into oblivious territories,
acting like the sun is up.
Burning the candle at
both ends.
Then both ends meet.
Walk in the dark like
some great mass,
slither on two feet.
The present is a mystery,
so why should I worry
about tomorrow?
Blind in both eyes.
Creeping as if
something slimy,
as if you'd leave a trail
behind you.
Time is slippery.
The world is hopeless.
Impossible to stand still.
Try to keep in place?
Hold still?

Dying so slowly they think they're alive.

I can't imagine a word that
means anything close to what I'm
imagining.

Utopia to some, post apocalypse to many.
I had to describe how someone can exist
and cherish a person,
but hope to annihilate their species.

"Imagine someone hands you a glass of water.
You imagine they mix tap water with something filtered,
still drinkable right?
Imagine they mixed in poison, or waste.
Would you still drink?"

Maybe now, that limelight you seek

is not as glamorous as you once thought.

Nostalgia replaced with a shield of infamy,

infamy that doubles as shield and sword.

Your eyes grow green with beautiful

unrighteous envy, obvious jealousy.

You’d strike down your best friend to

glow like citric, pour out like acid.

I’m not sure if I know you from somewhere anymore.

I’m not sure if we’ve passed each other in bright lights,

or in dark rooms, or daylight, or barlight, or held hands

or narrowly escaped a world trying to pump us full

of *******. Now you’re just mean in spirit, as a cliche.

You’re Charlie Sheen by way of Kim Kardashian,

You’re plastic by way of cellophane.

If it’s hurts it’s only because I try as hard as you,

it hurts only because this time, I want it to.

I sank my heart just to be with you.

You put towels under the door to hide the stench of cigarettes.
Put your hands on your head and your head in your lap.
You bled from your thighs and I kissed the back of your neck.
You cried in the bathtub while I tried to stop the bleeding.

I wish it wasn't you.
I wish I never saw you open  up your arms in front of me.
I wish I never even met you, or learned your name just so I could forget it.

I sank my heart.

I got hickies from
an absolute angel, and
I feel like magic.

All the sleep I've missed;
she wore no bra and still she
pulled off her sweater.

Pulls my face to hers
if she desires to kiss me.
She said she'll be back.

Been ****** all weekend
by angels with brain damage
or cleanly shaved heads.

Could not sleep when she
was riding me to heaven,
so stayed up longer.

Finally trying
to catch up on missing rest
when my head grew loud.

Now is not time for
day-dreaming ; it is late now.
We sleep in silence

Dream of tomorrow?
We rest in the future and
wake up in the past.

Stare into their eyes,
run my fingers in their hair.
Mistake this for love.

You worship yourself,
and pander this as loving,
not narcissism.

Your America;
Ghost of Andrew Jackson, or
genocide elect.

I wonder if they
hear freedom ring in Iraq,
or Afghanistan?

Unlike how you can
cover your eyes and still see
a beautiful world.

Covering your ears,
and nodding, "I can hear the
bells of liberty!"

You do not love them.
You love them like a dog you
neglect, then put down.

To me, it's a joke;
Your love of people is a
bastardization.

Guys getting faded,
losing at Street Fighter 4.
I am among them.

I scream from passion,
and realize the sickness of
privilege congealed.

Less sleep, more caffeine.
Secondhand smoke and curse words,
trying to stay cool.

Keep it together,
breathe for just one second and
settle down tonight.

Irrelevant, but
today is just tomorrows
obscure reference.

They might be giants,
but you’re just one man, and it
slides right out of view.

Some talents will always go to waste.
At the end of the day it's good to feel numb,
sometimes even better than feeling good.
A strange misery can feel so cozy.

So we continue our bastardization
of everything beautiful
and praise ourselves
for creating unnatural symmetry;
undynamic, sterile,
processed.

A running theme is that mankind,
we think we're special really.
Life is rare, but not phenomenal.
We are just as we are made;
unfortunate accidents
conceived in circumstance,
heat and pressure.

We are not miracles, we're mutants

formed out of the trash left unattended
by a thoughtless and lazy reality;
Reflecting nothing, like the waste we create.

I'm chewing on my thumb
and listening to ice
crackle and hiss
as it deflates.
"Melts."
Once,
you were an
artist swearing your
mistakes were your genius.
Now you are locked in
place and waiting for
some monster in
a fishtank to
manifest,
but you mailed
your change to some
shady place in Wisconsin
you saw in an advertisement
in a comic book from the
seventies, or eighties.
You've gone mad.
Everything else
suffers for it
and you
can't
see.

I don’t go places.
People find me amazing;
I’m mediocre.

I stay in most nights,
I have company, or try.
I have long mornings.

I watch Youtube and
play video games alone,
or sometimes online.

I love what I like,
critically, but shameless.
I can tell you this;

I am amazing,
God, I love my simple life,
and I do it well.

A painting of men,
tangled in a web of flesh.
Drifting into hell.

Drifting into sleep,
I put on your mix CD
to rinse my eyes clean.

I would pray for you.
Writing it gives me chills and
I might wash my hands.

I yearn for your arms,
and exhale daydreams of love.
Pretending to breathe.

I want you to breathe.
I choke you as we **** and
say something nasty.

You know, John Cage said,
"In the dark, all cats are black."
Maybe that's why we

close our eyes to kiss,
or sleep in each others arms;
We don't fear our night.

A car alarm stopped going off.
It's like being in a dream/nightmare,
seeing all these stupid faces,
seeing only faces you hate,
and after a while all
those faces look
alike.
Pressing palms against my head
and screaming till blood
shoots out of my nose;
I remembered a cold morning,
early enough to be night,
but late enough to be morning,
or maybe it was
early enough to be morning,
and late enough to be night?
I was staring at a grocery cart,
peacefully coexisting
with the parking lot
while I waited for the bus
with not a soul up and out
except myself.
I walked across the street
and kicked it over, and
kicked it a few more times.
I returned to my side of the
street unscathed [victorious].
I may have been late to work,
but I certainly didn't give a ****.
Some lady
coughed up blood
while I rang her out and
I think about suicide
out of habit now.
I'm a ghost that haunts itself,
except which tense is more real,
or did I mean,
who is more valid?

Voices,
and
they're all mine.
I reside in the
heartbeat
of my own God;
On the scarlet
knuckles
of a
voice.
Pale night,
and fear.

It's late enough already.
Scrubbing your gamepad, salty at A.I.,
thinking of cleaning metaphorically;
Scrubbing behind your ears.
Scrubbing behind the skull.

Contemporary 80's synth-rock in both ears,
I wish I knew what you were singing about.
I wish I knew who you longed for,
I wish I knew what you did, where you were,
on evenings like this when you can only

think

of the people you wish you were closer to.
Skin and talk out of touch. Imagine;
Conversations imagined aren't enough.
Words you wish were out loud
will eat your sorry *** alive.

16-bit racial stereotypes onscreen
pummel each other to mush faced
ground meat caricatures.

Groove like a shark trapped in a box,
make yourself sharp to the touch,
then make yourself tangible.
Absence lets the shoulder grow colder,
but this?

Things imagined and wished for.
Fantasies a child would seek,
pulling the words off of your tongue
An apology, a love letter, a eulogy
/vulgarities and praise as bedfellow.


Words you wish were spoken
will eat your sorry *** alive.

**** 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.

I wanted to die.
I want to hate you for this.
Beating a dead horse,

but you taught me love.
You taught me to be patient.
You taught  me to care.

To have empathy.
To be unconditional,
and unrequited.

To give hope away,
to wish the best for someone.
To turn a light on.

You left me behind.
If you are alone, I hope
you remember me.

Remember I care.
I still cared. I don't hold pain.
I hold these fragments,

and offer them to
something in the wind; asking,
"Can this be whole again?"

You turn your back on an angel,
and swear you'll set it straight some time.
Sort it out, you guess,
except,
these fangs keep coming back
and this venom burns on contact
curdles the blood.

They never mention that just sometimes
you must rend the body from the serpent's head.

Trust that I know many secrets,
and of those kept, stolen, or borrowed,
the ones I withhold from you
are what strip angels of flight
and leave them in gutters
with alcohol dampening their feathers

too heavy to fly.

If I could scream your
perfect **** out of my brain
I'd do it nightly,

or every morning
right before brushing my teeth
[or probably not].

Lay in your textures;
I'd live on a seat of noise.
Quiet to myself.

Not sleeping.
Got a full day tomorrow,
whatever,
**** it.
Awake.
Everything is cold
and sore.
My head is a rocket
that explodes in the air,
but it's just sizzling and
sparks for now.

We face the new cliches;
Hell is on earth and we keep it here,
we stand in it’s way.
Obstruct it’s path.

I am certain of very few things now

,but if anybody thinks a blank page makes
“4′33″ [John Cage],
they’re a ******* idiot,
because

If you’ve sat in silence in love
and sat in silence with demons,
and sat in silence in the rain,
or just outside it

You learn a little bit about silence.

"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.