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.

I got hummus and pretzels,
but I wanted a bag of chips.
I got creamer and cheesecake,
but ate corned beef hash with a pepsi.
I don't quite think I'm lying about
who I am to myself, but
on the other hand I'm feeling
like there's something behind
those curtains. Friends I don't
give a **** about, and an increasing
incentive to just start walking
and never turn around.  There's
a diner somewhere out there
with a meat and potatoes dish
just as good as mom's, I bet.
I'd sincerely like to give a ****.
Sometimes I wonder if life seems
easier for people who feel gung-**
about dying in military slavery
and ******* to FOX news.
If you're reading this,
hey, maybe we're not so different;
You play a zealot's game of
love and peace, but pull the trigger
right in their children's faces,
and I tip-toe around people
I couldn't care less about.
We nourish each other in the way
that chairs aid discussion
in an episode of Jerry Springer.
Doesn't have to be comedy,
but I wasn't going to cry about it.
I'd probably just fib and say
everything's aces.

Dangerous times nearing midnight. Every day opens with fresh blood or ink drying down our throats, "...and I Must Scream.", Harlan Ellison [1967]

Honeycombs of humanity sink into themselves and form a thick syrup they claim will cure our ailments, but still tastes like Third *****™ nationalism.  They burn our shelters and chant, "Home."

Resistance looks strange. People aren't choking on gag orders, they're going around the wall, but hundreds are behind bars for protest, or still getting killed on the streets, or getting hosed down in the cold for advocating clean water. They're putting bounties on antifascists.

We beat that ***** Richard Spencer, but we're yet to strike the one in the White House.

Rattlesnakes under our heels, we've grown into something fiercer.
Something deadlier.

She was a trap built from
tigers and rusty pieces.
Feral, rotten, effective.
Eyes me like prey,
and I am.

I am falling slowly,
so slow they think I can fly
so slow they think I glide through
life and love with my feet on a
carpet of marbles and oil.

21st century type.
Sharp like a knife,
but not like a suit.
The music is so loud
it’s muffled.
It is smothered by itself.
I lost my wallet and limbs,
and they were replaced with
alcohol and prosthetics.

Gheists flooding
the contraption,
singing mantras
in tongues.

Now I seek a greater machine;
Skin carved from marble,
and lips from bleeding
citrus fruits,
acids becoming
nourishment.

Boiling.
I had a fever dream of being
meat in a self perpetuating
grinder. For a second
I could be
tender,
but I am made of bone,
and skin and little blood.
Brick by brick,
you've built me into
something less.
Crafted me into weightlessness,
so when I say death is my front door
and I sleep on the welcome mat,
sleep is like the police and you
are a parent strung out on smack.
I stomped on you in the clouds
where you broke three ribs.
I kicked your teeth in; heaven
came from your guts up to
the bottom of your tongue.
However, you have flesh, and fat,
and cartilage, and nail, and hair,
and willed me to sleep with less than
a flick of your porcelain wrists.
I am made of bone.
Eventual and useless.
Boiling.

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.

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.

I wish I could get
baptized and wash all of the
**** out of my soul.

I want to sleep in
a bed of sin and wake up
completely guilt free.

My Mom took me to the casino to gamble with her money.
Played video poker and roulette, and very well could have
just lit $80 on fire.
The casino was my Vietnam.
We sit down and order sodas from a machine
called "Fairies of the Forest".
No intention or idea how to play it.
Put in $20.
Press a couple buttons.
Won $140.
I think the laws of physics break down
under that ceiling.
Like Alice in Wonderland on acid...
or would it be more acid?

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.

Home should be the only place

you don’t have to worry about

an ordinary ****** taking place.

****, home or hell if you believe in it.

We’re supposed to believe we’re in

the hands of saints,

with how carelessly we’re handled.

Home should be like hell,

yet better.

I didn't know you could read lips,
so I laughed unreasonably hard when
people were telling you their *******
excuses for not being able to
donate money to you
and your family for Christmas.
The irony being I gave a stranger a
roll of quarters the other day
because they asked,
and I'm eager to lose all riches and go insane.

Yelled at my girlfriend for the first time yesterday;
she was frustrated that I wasn't frustrated that
she was upset, so
I banged my head against the wall and screamed
"What am I supposed to do?"
Still have the mark somewhere under this free haircut.
I don't get how we all push people away
and beg for them to chase us.
Never give me a word, but always
want me yearning. Not old yet,
but not from lack of trying.
Not wise, but it's not desired.
Fools make kinder people anyways.

Amen to "I'd rather get ****** and keep giving."
Guess you could say I make it rain on those in need,
but please don't. Don't ever say that to anyone.
Write it down somewhere unspecified and
lock it in a drawer, or light it on fire.
Put it through a shredder,
I'll tell you a little secret,
I'll try to tell you a secret;
Most of us are more selfless than Christ.

Merry Christmas in August.

I think most people are two dimensional,
and for the most part, exhausting.
There's a hole somewhere;
in my head? in my chest?
I can't, no matter how hard I try, fill it.
I can't stuff it full of god, or **** it away,
no accomplishment or achievement,
impulse purchase, fashionable consumption...
It's a void that not even light can escape.
It only ever goes away because you
might stop thinking about it sometimes,
but you'd feel it deeper than your bones,
on a cellular level. Boiling on the inside.
Everything is overshadowed by death
or futility. Everything is defeatable.
Easily defeatable.
I asked you if you feel it too.
You said nothing.

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.

Of all the super heroes who exist
like legends, or monuments in entertainment,
or essential cultural commodities,
and
my favorite is Moon Knight.
Never met a good reception.
Never had a particularly well done story.
I like Moon Knight in theory;
a superhero with mental issues,
with friends who face the moral challenge
of playing into his insanity,
versus helping him stop serious crimes.
It seemed like a social commentary to me;
why do we hate dictators, but love superheroes?
How is it we understand absolute power corrupts
absolutely,
yet also think having an alien demigod semi-rule the planet
is really in the best interest of our species?
The design for Moon Knight has always been immaculate
to me; directly representing the fallibility of the hero,
diving into the night with a decadent radiance,
he wears all white, and declares he enjoys it-
for his enemies to know he's coming.
Does it make sense? No.
Much like the Punisher, Moon Knight doesn't struggle with
being morally black and white, but does struggle with
keeping that identity intact. His eyes glowing,
no face shown... just darkness.
All the emotion in the world broadcast through
two glowing orbs. sometimes red, sometimes green,
often white.
A visual hint to clouded mind of Moon Knight;
Marvel's true Batman gone awry. Gone insane.
A failed son who won't die.
Here's to it.

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.

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.

A sad confession, but I still think of suicides,
which is a pointless task for even a nihilist.
A chore, really.
Yet here I am awake, without purpose,
like limp lettuce in a banquet; useless.
No career, few desires. Old /young.
Whose to say? I worry. I wish I
was immune to the trepidations of
a life without merit to society,
yet I worry. Don't even know who
I'm disappointing even any more.
Louis Keys said pondering suicide was like
a strip joint; ideas, theories,
actions you want to go through,
but ultimately you get to enjoy
nothing.
Just the idea.
If it's the thought that counts,
I couldn't live with the *******
who'd exploit my death like my life,
or the people who actually cared
having to go through the pain of
wondering why. So this is a
sorry *** confession, and a plea.
Please, ****** me.
For everything I'll never be.
****** me.
For all the **** I've done to others.
****** me.
For my penchant for spreading misery.
****** me.
For my bad skin on my nose, under my eyes.
****** me.
For the **** I'll never get sick of repeating.
****** me.
For the sake letting some people die with dignity,
or in the self interest of respect for the dead
as long as the information is present for
a ******* second in this vacuum.
****** me.
Don't the words just rush out of you too?

BANG CRASH BANG CRASH
HuuuuBANGmmmmm. WhCRASHir.
I hold my fist in the air against
a specimen that would commit genocide against me,
a semi-sapien in that humanity is devoid.
CRASH* the people we call monsters.
BANG the sound of nuclear omnicide.
whiirrrr.* If we all die, it'll be a great
CRASH to ignore. ****'em;
I'll toss my plastic in the heap
if it means we melt off the planet
or drown in our own eventuality.
If it BANGs it's head voluntarily
why's it white like a straight jacket [?],
why's isn't it a criminal like Nixon,
like no bird and two Bushes. CRASH
CRASH
BANG CRASH BANG CRASH
Hum. Whir.

Something in here's not right;
in my black box there's a fire.
If here's my home then here I'll burn;
here I'll choke, black mucus, dark thoughts,
dark matter, doesn't ******* matter,
suffocating all the time.
Captured. Figured out. Caught. Caged.
These fever dreams don't pity me,
nails cracked inwards, can't
scrape the hardwood floors blue.
Can't scrape my life together; shifting contents,
spilled out on the floor in anatomical design.
Footprints. Knee prints. Hand prints.
Face down.
I just want someone to hold me
and say, "everything is going to be okay",
every once in a while.
Okay.
GONE. Get crushed in the vice grip of
reality. Reality;
Doesn't even take place in color.
Stretches sense till it tears at the wrists
-I ***** in protest but-
Madness is my resolve! My fortitude.
I will not plead to sanity,
but why is there a light in here?
Somethings wrong.
Bitter to the touch, green/green
on both sides. What is real life?
-I want to tear you apart from the inside
deranged male power fantasy-
Running full speed at the end
of my sentence.
Bones that reverberate, echo,
rattle, then snap.
And
whats in my marrow
burns orange.
Cautionary.

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.]

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.

Lint and dust in every corner,
the **** of living builds in all
the nooks and cracks like
furniture for spiders.
The room is wilting;
The walls have been stripped
and slowly everything recedes
to the center of the room.
A monument to what was.
In this room, there was;
an art gallery,
a cave,
a studio,
an arcade,
a love shack!,
a study,
a library,
a concert hall,
a gym,
a dressing room,
a laboratory,
a cafe,
a theater,
a psych ward,
a photo booth,
a club,
and a home.
Now it moves elsewhere,
a box at a time. One-two,
a hamper of clothes,
a bag of cheap technology.
A poster. A picture.
An instrument.
A lot of instruments.
There was a heartbeat here,
and now I hope you can
invest in that.
Keep this room more than
a home. Above an enclosure.
Head and shoulders above;
this room holds legends.

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.

Hallelujah for a zombie;
another plot in jazz and if
nothing makes sense,
I'm capable of virtue,
I'm capable of correct.

Capable of air.

Even between the two;
******* a redhead on the bathroom floor,
trying to fall in love with someone who just
feels ******* honest and sincere,
groveling at, practically, a stranger's feet.
Execution for a criminal
made in poor fortune.
I'm a deity and demon,
and a cannibal if you count the self,

or at least capable.

I'm a teacher and a taker,
a piece of *** and
a *******.
Reading american books
and looking uncrooked in
horn-rimmed black glasses.
I'm not unforgettable.
Gotta find a classier way to wear black;
teenagers killed it for the rest of us.

Made it hard to fit.
Impossible to be a champion,
can't take the weight of the crown
or the density of gold.
Bit the bullet and cried out,
"No."
The ghosts are us now.
Amen.

I don’t think history is romantic.

I’m “American”; this means I’m unburdened

with having to be nationalistic or patriotic.

Don’t have to be prideful about hundreds of

years of ******* and mythology.

It means I might hate Bukowski,

but I find him way less repulsive

than Shakespeare. I had to stab a

pathetic sense of “spirituality”

[religion?] in a public place with prejudice,

to truly gain a sense of enlightenment in

pure hopelessness. Something like that.

I might be deaf to some other culture,

but I’m hearing megaphones in America.

I am half the parasite to
drive you insane.
Hold your hand through
the park.
Smile at black comedy.
Smile as you cringe.
I am part of you in
someone else now.
Under your radar,
trying to get under your skin.
A monster that breathes new
life into your oldest of fears.

Forgot about me;
People tell me I'm great then
make me feel like ****.

The world feels bigger,
and I feel two inches tall.
You look over me.

I am lonely and
sad and I want to die but
life has it's boots on.

[Remember that pic
of the soldier dragging a
child's lifeless body?]

I'd need to be worse
to cry just a pound of this
out of my system

and there are still tons
waiting to claw their way in
and eat their way out.

They say there’s beauty in symmetry

and we are equally ****** up.

I left this message in your voicemail,

but who listens to their voicemail anymore?

I can’t remember why I called,

or what I would’ve said if you answered;

I guess I’m too sad to talk and

too pathetic to put down the phone.

This’ll be a sad song soon

and not a convincing remedy.

I guess I just called to say hello.

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.

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.

With no money in your pockets,
and a desire for a smooth ride.
Yeah, **** it... something simple.
Lust for something easy.
You speak like
anything matters;
I complain in
the opposing
direction.
Bleeding, and everyone would care
if you'd just ******* show them.
Overdriven in lifestyle,
by design without purpose.
Wearing black, but not poignantly.
Cursing because ****,
it feels so good.
Smashing whatever since
you don't own anything.
Dissenting because you can.
Maybe you'll steal **** tomorrow,
maybe you'll tell a lie.
Breathe in.
Cough, choke, turn indigo.
You're gonna do just fine.

You didn't say much and I said nothing till it was too late;
a synonym for everything we do. Focused in, and
why the hell would I ever want to play tourist?
I'm an unpatriot and uno American;
this means I'm burdened by a tragic history
and not pretentious enough to believe
old buildings house anything more than
more ****. Older ****. Don't let anyone fool you,
those old white people were real savages.
**** it,
I don't need to see the pope or president,
my love is in my arms.
I don't have to walk this **** planet over,
the world is in my backyard.

I have nothing to say anymore,
and it makes me into an object
but it feels incredible
so I'm taking a break
and I don't miss you.

She has cigarettes
in place of **** to be said.
She does not say much.

I don’t think I have
people happy to see me
and all these “artists”

are impressionists,
somehow living alone has
become a statement.

I consume myself,
and am neither satisfied
or disappointed.

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.

Trying to get published is a ******* joke.
My hands are tired of holding my face together,
eyes open at the bottom.
Hydrated by tiny sighs of disappointment
passing through my fingers.
I'm tired.
They seek the ******* about flowers
and the quietness of a lake,
and all I have to offer is
the hopelessness that ensues
most of these messes,
and the reality that this **** exists.
They want the "solitude of a haiku" in every piece.
Well, I have some groundbreaking news *******,
if humans were so content with everything
we wouldn't have or need any **** writers.
This is poetry too,
and if you think otherwise
your definition must be
shallow, jaded, and/or
[most importantly]
incredibly boring.

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.

Sick of platitudes,
emotional contusions,
and little white lies.

I’m tired of the ghost;
this minefield of keywords and
it’s all just a game.

I’ve never had a
birthday party and now I’m
too old for magic

Light candles for me,
put a girl inside my cake.
Sing a song for me.

It’s just a party.
I’m just another sad boy.
Just another night.

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.

Something disgusting
like a mutual friend,
or the feeling of
drinking
dishwater.

Aspirin like breath mints,
the blood feels liberated
inside the vein.

What the head puts to waste
sleep feeds on like a starving cannibal.
Everything that matters is
lost in the minutia.

Your body like text,
writ in a foreign language;
Something I can't read.

Wrestling my mind,
trying to get my tongue near
the sweet parts of you.

I'm a selfish ****,
and if we both end up hurt
I won't give a ****.

The space between us
too casual anyways.
Too mediocre.

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?"

I'm too poor for the alcohol + it's too late. Getting drunk to fill the empty feeling seems like a pipe dream. You came and I felt lonelier with you here. I still feel lonelier with you gone. I'm filling my window sill with bottles, to see how much damage I cause alone.
1 - Copa De Oro
1 - Kamora
1 - Smirnoff
1 - Espolon
1 - Can of Pabst Blue Ribbon

I'm not selfish, but still heartbroken and wishing you were mine.
I have to rationalize this in the future too.

I have to remember that a mistake is not an accident; it is calculated and weighted. I can't let them convince me a choice is a slip of the tongue. Might steal my room mate's beer, might buy my own, and who the **** knows?

All this skin to save my heart, and I'm still made of glass.
Trying to get some type of high like everyone else.
Trying to waste health like everyone.
Wasting youth.

A friend of mine was attacked by
her homicidal cat.
Apparently,
cats are quite toxic.
They are also really evil,
in a naturally stupid way.
Maybe it's about time we
seriously considered them
parasites.
Practically venomous.
This I guess is half poem,
and half cautionary tale.
Your furry friend is an *******.

You've got convictions,
mumble poems to yourself,
lost at your front door.

You sip cigarettes
just like how your ex used to,
long and ferocious.

Still wearing his clothes,
but wearing the next guys shirt,
your heart on your sleeve.

It's all for non-sense,
we're all nihilists these days.
We all lack beliefs.

You have convictions;
a speech only you can hear.
Foot steps on concrete.

I can't remember the last time I lived somewhere
that didn't have running water.
I wonder if it's actually happened.
We're moving a maximalist aesthetic
into a minimalist situation.
I just want a glass of water,
a hot shower,
a working toilet.
Ive never been so tired,
and I've never smelled so bad.
My leg are two masses of limp pain,
my hands are stiff, calloused wads of meat.
My right eye is experiencing a
mild swelling, that I'd ******* pray
isn't pink eye, if I believed in god,
which gets harder from here.
Illuminated in the dark of midnight
by computer light,
with only the tickings
of a cheap watch for condolence.
Their voices complain from downstairs.
Then laugh. Then return.
Trinkets chitter around.
Rooms full of garbage.
If you hit it softly enough,
can you still tell you're at the bottom?

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.

And just like starlight,
it takes billions of years.
It shimmers, it fades.

Cosmic suffering,
rattling of constellations.
New shapes in the sky.

Small in their own lives,
but creating new cultures
in ******* for us.

Volumes of white lies,
tenser deafening quiet,
and bright like a star.

Built as mountains are,
dense as the passing of time;
gone when morning comes.