Hold,
turn a blind eye
turn an old leaf and see
what grows beneath it.
Curiosity makes you ill,
makes your
stomach empty
when you're not
hungry

&

you can teach yourself to
hate who you are like the rest of us.
Sometimes we sparkle in the sunlight,
and other times we drown in
swamps we made from
crystal clear cynical nihilism
and the ashes of everyone before us.
We understand death,
and we cuddle with it like
a stuffed bear.

Swallow fear and
die in our sleep with
shoes fastened to our
feet.

Almost drank a cigarette **** the other day.
N one is trying to find me anymore.
It's raining today.
My mother might be using again.
I'm running away.
I've run away for so long;
I'm tired of running away
and it's all I know how to do.
I've really put myself through it this time.
I don't know where to turn anymore.
Even my corners don't want me.
Sat in the closet screaming.
It's all that makes sense.
**** all means everything.
Anything.
Train with the lights flickering.
Dying, everything.
The point?
That's the incredible part;
We're all doing this for love,
then we're marching straight to death.

Some days I don't have
fantasies about suicide.

I don't have a war in my mind,
I got a pack of wolves begging
for the next fix,
and sometimes it's
a mess of aspirin
and sometimes it's
a bowl of cereal.

**** yeah,
ain't that mediocre sublime?
Can't you feel where it burns,
but stays the same... just...
Warmer?

Getting bitter,
not even for bitterness sake.
You keep picking that scab,
scratching that surface,
you'll never get to the blood of the matter.
4 am and who knows when or where  it ends-
****. Yes.
We just might not sleep tonight.
Paint it two shades darker and walk
with your head down.
Practically shameful,
or excellent in disguise.
Poised to strike;
Spat on someone's car yesterday.
10/10 would do again.
What leaps with teeth bare?

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.

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.

Approaching nuclear winter, and I can't wait for apocalypse wine soaked Bukowski to crawl out his grave and slug it out with the man in black.
I hope they buried Bukowski in that ill fitting t shirt with his beer gut trying to escape from the bottom, and we should feel ***** for making ******* legends.

We don't.

I'm collecting bottles of alcohol on my window sill;

1 Bottle of Vanilla Smirnoff to cap off poorly cooked rice dishes and sleep dizzy at night. I killed it with a screwdriver some time after New Year's Eve, I guess.

1 Bottle of Kamora, to make a white russian, but we put most of it in egg nog and then watched Neil Breen speak out loud what he should have kept to himself, and we ****** on my couch to see if my room mate would walk in on us, and we fell asleep like that and woke up with sore necks. I stuck that flower you stole inside the bottle, and now it's plastic neck wilts a little more in the sunlight and radiator every day.

1 Bottle of Espolon, but it was filled with more *****. She brought it last time we saw each other and we watched some anime and I made everybody smell the ***** that smelled like pure sugar. I don't know what you see in me, but I hope you stop.

1 Bottle of Copa De Oro to round out more nights with the only drink I can fix well, walking through feet of snow to sleep early and wake up late. I'd play with your hair and skin and watch you fall asleep and wake up at all times of the night, and I'd wake up just to do it again, because this is my dream.

A single can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, stolen from my room mate. I thought I was clever without trying too hard, I keep washing all her dishes and she repays me with a messy living room and a sink full of dishes. Living like this is **** and we get along just fine.

I hope someone gets that ******* Alex Jones with a bat to the side of the head, and buries him in a rose garden, as long as we're still fighting fascists and not trying to hold hands and sing "Kumbaya".
I think, I hope, we're all tired of holding our breath.

I’m physically crippled by a childlike sense of optimism
towards a wave of “opportunity”. Convinced I’m young.
I quit my job today, and will get my paycheck for one day
of paid training. He looked in my eyes and said,
"You made a promise for ten days, you should commit to it".
I responded, “The speed of things played into my anxieties and
it made it easy to make those promises”, knowing full well
such a “promise” never took place, and years of guilt trips
from my father made it easier to slither out of those arms.
I will spend my single day of labor on Christmas gifts probably.
"Hindsight is 20/20", except the past only makes sense
in bits and pieces at first. I’m eaten alive by anxieties,
but every bit and piece of me is stronger than the whole idea.
The future is happening all at once,
and I’m desensitized to it.
I don’t want a job.
I don’t want to work.
I don’t want to go to college.
I want to do what I love, and the problem
is that I sincerely love doing nothing. Right to work,
right to sing,
right to starve.

Alone on Sunday.
It means; "to procrastinate".
means, "time to reflect."

I  actually
expected you to do this,
and that feels ****** up.

I expected this,
and I should feel *******, but
it's just whatever.

~

Jay texted me, "hey"
and I  felt my whole body
sighing in relief

as I messaged them.
Things are to be okay.
Guess that's how it goes;

Can't predict these things,
but if you tried you'd be close.
I'm not clairvoyant,

but I know enough.
Enough to see where this ends.
Things stay as they've been.

I abandoned you,
and we are still not talking.
Maybe it just hurts;

I fall in love fast,
but this distance was hard to
acknowledge at first.

I knew we couldn’t
satisfy each other so
I had left in shame.

Then I was *******
strangers to fill a void where
I tore out all love.

Someone read my soul.
You know I don’t believe in
spiritual ****,

but it was gorgeous.
I read myself as something
that you wouldn’t want.

I tried to find me,
but getting closer to me
was further from you.

I acted like it
was okay to keep you on
a string, just because

that’s how I felt too.
Second hand, second rate, I
wasn’t good enough.

But now I can see.
This fight to be important,
to feed my ego?

Rotten perfection.
I offered you something I’m
incapable of.

I’m hurt and sorry.
I’m not a lover… **** I’m…
not even a friend.

I’ve never been good.
My father, my mother, you,
I just cut things out.

My ex-girlfriend, or
my oldest friends, my brother.
I’m cut full of holes.

I’ve kept people here
Long as I could lie to them.
I’m not lying now.

I was happy to
pull a new honesty out,
but I lied to you.

You attacked me and
I deserved it completely.
I had just forgot.

Maybe it still hurts,
I’m numb in my fingertips.
I abandoned you.

It's useless.

Also, I am useless to describe
any situation where
I get out okay.
I want to take the blue line to
somewhere new and mysterious,
and try to fathom life
beyond,
"Giant Steps?"

No, that was John Coltrane.
"..."
That was John Cage,
and somewhere we roll in our graves
because the best references are lost
and the best ideas, spoiled,
and the greatest thing
about it is

who we've wasted it on.

There is a scream in the back of my throat
for every human in the world to hear;
I'm sick of every system and every heartbeat
and I'm angry. Angry. Angry,
but too tired to throw something.
I'm angry that it feels like every human being
is on the other end of some joke and
I'm the god ****** punchline,
and you can call it paranoia or narcissism,
but I'm able to drink both and still
sit in the waste it makes, and see it makes no difference
what label I give any metaphor.
They all say the same thing.
They all say the same **** thing.

I’m a woe bearer
Posing as a sunflower,
Reaching for the sun.

They’re looking for me,
But they don’t know that yet, or
How I slept last night.

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."

“Wanna break into Case?”, she smiles as she says it, “I’ve done it before.”

I doubt nothing that comes from her, and I shake like a leaf on a tree climbing up the children’s rock wall because she doesn’t know I’m afraid of heights yet.

We sneak into church and listen to their choir off key and someone walks in right as I’m about to ****** Christ’s abs right on the cross.
We’re young and we’re loud and we’re unstoppable and we’re fearless, unless our strangers are louder than us.

A heavy fog is rolling in.

We wake up early and soaked in affection. You leave and come back with coffee. We are desperate to stay here, in this bed, in this moment. The rain outside, our warm bodies next to each other, kissing and laughing at Reddit memes.

I’m not a crook, but I stole you and I’d do it again, and I’d do it every chance I could or had to. Closer to home here then where I struggle to pay rent.

I had to laugh when you mentioned it first;
told me to have a heart,
because love is real.
Well I believe in love
and humanity,
but all I had to respond with was,
"Where?",
and you said, "Everywhere".
That was so stupid I couldn't respond,
so I let it sit there for awhile.

I got sunshine on my back,
I used to wear a lot of black,
then I found I like the color
yellow.
I got sunshine in my heart,
if it all ends the way it starts,
I'd just like to say,
"hello",
and if the sun doesn't come out today
I like rainy days better anyways,
and if darkness creeps it's way back in
I'll say, "hello".
I got sunshine in my head,
bright ideas and messages,
I got nowhere, nowhere to go.
I got sunshine in my hands,
answers I don't want or understand,
I guess,
I don't ******* know.
But, if the sun doesn't come out today
I like rainy days better anyways,
and if darkness creeps it's way back in
I'll say, "hello".

If I was god I would hide in space,
tell everybody that I died,
tell them I never tried, skip the truth,
behind the curtain is another lie;

If I were god I would go back to day one,
Tell romeo not to drink the poison and juliet
you just met this kid, put away your knife,
I'd teach Shakespeare how to write a love story,
yeah, uh, yeah, uh, yeah, uh, K.

If I were god I'd be a deadparent,
I'd leave the planet and never come back.
As a deity I am a hack, and a poor artist;
I've made creatures so heartless,
watching as these flames grow larger,
they pray to me like "father,
you said if a poem rhymes it makes you a sap."

Do as I say, not as I do, and never as I act;

If I were god I'd abandon my creation,
I've seen the richest nations turn men into rapists
leave women with discolored faces,
we're all swallowing words that are now wasted,
you wanna pray but you can't say ****, uh,
yeah, uh, yeah, uh, yeah, uh, k.

I work now and have no creativity during the night.
I don't sleep well either.
I crash a lot during the day.
I slip into deep sleeps for
2 seconds at a time.
I'm mostly just
bored.

All the money probably won't get me
anywhere, anyways.

Something particularly crazy happened
the other day and
I can't remember it already,
and all the old people
tell me I'll be
just like them

except,
I can't even begin to understand
because I can't listen to how many
opportunities I'm supposed to have
and everything is so great
and the kingdom is wide open
if you're young and willing.

Salivating, eager to get ******
for the idea of getting ahead.
We all ****** our way to the
bottom
&
the glass is small.
Not half full,
ain't half empty.

Idiots speak to me with
a flavor of prejudice
because I
don't care
how much money
they never made.

I met this girl and
she’s absolutely perfect.
No ******* so far.

Has brain damage from
a past suicide attempt.
“Parkinsonism.”

A real survivor.
I can’t keep my eyes off her.
Hands are guilty too.

Took her to my room.
Asked her if she was single.
Smiling, she said yes.

Asked her to make out.
Asked her if she wanted to.
Smiling she said yes.

Without our clothes on;
played street fighter alpha 3.
Dramatic battle.

Laughing as we lost,
M.Bison wrecking our ****.
Kissing when we won.

Kissing as we fought.
Kissing as we fell asleep.
Kissing and dreaming.

You are... what? Thirty?
I'm twenty three and full of
******* and pure charm.

You were drunk enough,
didn't care about *******
on your period.

Barely there, yet soft,
so soft you felt like velvet.
Grabbed your stomach and

asked, "Do you like this?"
Sober, sober, sober, I
said with a smile, "Yes."

Square up, and form the norm.

Grab your partner and abuse them

psychologically without understanding

how or why you’re doing it.

Do si go to an institute or university.

Get a job and step to the right.

Dip into cold waters,

fall into a trap

with broken limbs.

Suffocate in desperation.

Somebody has turned the

lights out and is hiding

the sky.

Strings are the new chains.

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?

Dear Mr.Heath,
      Your latest poem, titled after a single profanity five times, has come under review for being trite garbage. We would ask that if you pawn anything, it be your left and right hands, to set up an obstacle which we are hoping will ensure no one else becomes subjected to your painfully transparent cries for help and attention.

      Sincerely,
      The Editor

...But you don't have a grave,
do you?
You own,
***** ****,
bugs in your clothes,
holes in your shoes.

[Crept in through a window;
He holds her close and says,
"You're everything I ever wanted."
She falls asleep, smiling.
He continues,
"But I'm also still looking."
Left through the back door.]

Left a note that said,
"Couldn't take the pressure."
Looked up the most painless way
to **** oneself on google.
Thirty minutes later,
added Medical Crisis Hotline
to my contacts.

An iconoclast.
Destroyer of images.
Executioner

of text worshipers.
Without a star to guide us,
drifting aimlessly.

The unworthy gone,
and banished from existence.
Crushed into splinters

under the pressure
of their reflections, much too
heavy to carry.

I saw heaven once.
I clawed at an angel's wings.
Almost beautiful.

The depravity
of instinct might repulse you;
inhuman impulse.

The gods they create,
yet it's godless how they pray.
Prey upon the weak;

Those conscious angels
ugly by purity and
lust of good virtue.

We rot like they do;
with our eyes being closed as
our pulse cracks the night.

This fear is not that
someone is frightened by your mind,
but that they find it
both typical and mediocre.

If you live in this fear
you are slave to your own supremacy;
Create a devil and live in it's shadow.
You can't even be
the filth you sink to, fully.

If you're still chewing on carcasses
you fished out of the graveyard,
dining out for the apocalypse,
taking ******* from strangers;
Snap and start walking with no direction,
sit in the shower and try to put the words
to **** you can't understand.

Press your foot on the gas and blast off into space
while waving fingers at aliens with phones
pressed into their stupid faces.
Engineer something ****** and useless.
Break something important and unnecessary .

Stress on their brows and iron in their gait.
They exhale smoke like factories.
Extra arms, and packed in like ants.
Soldiers **** innocent people.
They call themselves "warriors",
and here they've become talked up
to the positions of saints and angles.
Deified.
Soldiers **** children.
With lightning at their fingertips
and thunder on their breath.
Our unfettered support into
death and those who would
perpetuate it.
In the name of God and Country.
******* idiots. We're all ******* idiots,
and we can't tell our ***** from our elbows,
but you know what makes sense?

Everyone seems more eager to
tell you that you're wrong,
-ahem, incorrect,-
than to actually enjoy what
you've said anymore.
So, **** it, tell more lies.
As you stumbled in,
I was sifting through these
texts and letters
because I have a key,
but no lock,
and you can't have all the answers
if there isn't any question.

I wake up like this;
toothache, slowly, sweating and
over the covers.

Speak lowly of me
if you think I did you wrong.
I change names often.

Though I'm not hiding,
my movement mimics prey and
gives thanks to hunters.

Seasonal regards.
I can't get it off my mind
so I sleep like this.

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.

The internet has killed the value of everything,
and sometimes I wonder where we'd all be
if we were behind typewriters sending transcripts
to ****-head publishers who trash the mail,
or burn it in winter. Not quite kindling.

We'd be in the hole about five dollars more,
and still cashing **** paychecks, if we're
lucky enough to get jobs.

Maybe living out of boxes, suitcases,
the backseat of a stranger's car,
or squatting in a basement with
three different species of arachnid.
Romantic.

Anyone who envies the experience
of the oppressed is a ******* *****,
and deserves exactly what they
are so eagerly wishing for.
Everything else is just information.

Laying in bed with feet
I can smell from the other end of me,
with a poster of Malcolm X
and one of Rosie the Riveter.
A suitcase full of lights,
a wooden violin case,
a pull up bar,
a briefcase full of comic books,
and my bag.
Barely room for me.
No internet tonight.
Bad television.
A cardboard box
missing a panel, that reads,
"size matters!".
Tired. Alone.
Packed up all my books.

Moving into half of a home;
no toilet, no kitchen sink,
fridge is broken, paint missing,
smells weird, windows are *****,
everything is smaller and we
have too much ****,
so far all we have is electricity and
light.

Three hampers full of clothes,
two amplifiers, 5 guitars,
2 keyboards, a television,
a dresser, and a night stand.
Also a bed.
Whats left to go.
Me.

Cigarette smoke fills the rooms,
but it isn't mine obviously.
Still fills my lungs.
Fills my soul.
Commercial voices
fill the rooms.
Lust for sleep.
I wanna wake up somewhere
more comfortable than here.
Every insect in this room owns it
as much as I do now.
Nowhere to run.

I'm on a ship and I'm scared,
I'm not panicking, but
I'm scared of drowning.
Sinking has ceased to
stir my fears, because
the reality of drowning
has been realized.
Nothing can be fixed anymore,
least of all by me.
Cracks in the hull.
No iceberg,
just pressure.
I'm the type to choke in puddles,
so I'd say I'm handling well.

Hallways full of trash.
No furniture here… just **** on the floors.
I was concerned that I wouldn't
have my **** together when this happened
and it appears to be the exact opposite.
It's a darker comedy, that's for **** sure.
I'd sell everything if someone would
just ******* buy it, and if you feel that
then hold a lighter to the sky
for me tonight while
I'm still here.

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.

Some people just drink it all away,
and sure you can misfire but we all die sooner or later.
This is a small part of an ongoing stand up routine
that ends in personal self destruction. I’ll continue.
I am my own voice, and I consume that which
over time has become redundant in uselessness.
I stand horizontally between two extremes;
Somewhere between “not quite invincible”
and “rancid with mortality”. Conscious effort,
and I play the fool who reasons with serpents
by keeping no literal distance.
A shape into itself. No thread in the needle’s eye.
A cloud that eats clouds.
A saint to anyone that would worship in a mirror.

Gonna sleep a little less tonight as usual.

Probably wonder why I’m tired in the morning.

Come on in and break me;

a gentle breeze that places you on the curb.

Leave me alone then.

Winter has released me into the comfort

of a warm, warm grave.

My anxieties are eating me alive.

Like worms;

turning me from flesh

into ****.

I am using them;
Their bodies constellations,
to fill my own void.

Exploring them, I
might find something nostalgic,
even romantic

to fetishize or
mutilate haphazardly.
Accidentally.

******* problem solved;
Fill in your holes with nothing,
to slow the bleeding.

Bleed from the mouth as
you kiss their own deep red lips.
Hold hands as you ****.

Mercy, mercy, I
pray for something to stop me
as I go deeper.

I empty my own
empty self into their voids,
as they place their stars

in my otherwise
empty skies, begging, begging
begging for fresh light.

Message sent and seen,
sinking in histories of
single sided talks.

Emotionally;
Contorted, flexing, bending.
Stretching at the seams.

Trying to love you,
slipping, slipping, slipping, and
falling like feathers.

Softly. Like whispers;
too close to miss anything,
or too far to catch.

You are bad weather and
lightning striking for the second time
on a single target.
You are an illness,
a sore that never goes away.
You ruin things.
You ruin everything.
Even when you try to ruin one thing,
you mess that up and ruin another.
*******, it's a black comedy
and nobody can win it;
nobody can smile here.
Yeah, sure, you can't sleep tight in
your moral blankets, but can you
dance a two step holding onto
nothing but the skeletons in your closet?
I won't be grateful for anything now-
I won't be waiting anymore,
I can't keep up anymore,
not like this. If madness couldn't
keep it in place, now I'll wear sanity
and be all the more psychopathic for it.
You are as you are
and everything else
just exists, doesn't it?

I'm not very impressed with
these modern advantages,
especially
ever since I grew a beard, and
now women tell me I'm sensational.

Didn't like the sun very much
till I spent two weeks basking
in computer light,
might get a warehouse job, it's nice,
although
I'd recommend never letting your
employer see your affiliations
with unionists.

Ever since I started blogging,
my face feels less appaling;
my cheap ties feel expensive,
tooth paste stains seem trivial
by extension.

Now that I've started complaining,
I feel like I'm inspiring a younger generation.
Must be what my parents felt like.
I hate myself for the similarities.

When I tell people I think I'm gorgeous,
they tell me I'm not a big deal.
For the record I never said I'm important
but I like myself sometimes,
and sometimes enough to be a priority.

Now I'm an East Coast savage wondering
if the other side thinks we're even stranger.
Less free, somehow.

I almost spent the holidays alone this year
until I whispered
"I want to be very alone and die"
about 4 times instinctively
under my breath.

I read, "Honest Helix"
and realized nothing has changed.
This **** is ******* maddening.

So ******* for what I did,
and I'm going to make it
through this season,
and ******* for reading this
because I never wrote
**** for any of you anyways.

I hope you're either ecstatic,
or you suffocate when you
think of me.

*******. *******. *******.
And a Happy New Year.

Do the trees just die

every season out of

a sense of habit?

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
...

If you don't wave flags in people's faces,
they'll never understand what you're about.
Subtlety is not a natural act of human
consciousness; we think in screams,
even if they whisper. Hence;
"Austin Heath Music".
Like a gunshot in the suburbs;
not uncommon, just annoying.
Not uncommon, either, to think
lowly of your species
if it commits war and genocide.
"Austin Heath Music"...
has a certain ring to it, right?

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.

Always get this feeling,
like a bullet the size of a bowling ball
is stuck deep in my chest. Like,
a child lost in a supermarket
whose parents were stabbed
outside in their minivan.
Got a shake in my hands
or a spark in the front of my skull
I can't press out no matter
how hard I squeeze my forehead.
My brow furls.
Think about biting off the tongue
a lot lately. I have you, always,
in place of cold solace or warm comfort.
No real reason, emptiness just
creeps up on you and grabs you
like a good friend. Gotta love it, right?
When you want to just
climb in a box with your
arms around yourself;
it's like your holding something
together.
"Like" it...
It's not even anyone's fault anymore,
I just get here on my own.
I know the path, and I follow it.
There's not enough sad songs in
the worn out jewel cases from the
90's to 2004 to stop my...
I don't believe in souls anymore...
from being troubled.
In the back of a yellow cab,
somewhere inside, raining.
The driver looks at you in the rear-view,
asks, "Where are we going?"
You curl up by the window.
Just gaze at the storefronts,
the gait of the ordinary citizens.
"Yeah", you tell him, softly,
"Anywhere is fine."

Weather your gold crown
Rotten down to copper, your
Hail of sustenance.

Despite your new crown
You’re light as a feather, you
Try to get better.

Halo represents
A mirage of purity,
Hemorrhage of love.

Bitter and toxic,
Alchemy of illusions.
You don’t try so hard.