Princess, come take me
in my home and  far away,
give me something sweet.;

A kiss or a look,
a hand to hold tightly or
a smile to receive.

Watch the sky with me.
I'm dizzy on this planet,
moving so quickly.

I need something sweet
to pass the time between now
and whenever, please?

"Try to shoot me down?
You wish you were as fearless
as I am right now,

and if that heart beats
I'll **** it into pieces.
I'd throw it away.

I'm not an artist,
I am death incarnate but
warmer than you thought.

Aim for my bad side,
you make it look cliche and
I make it easy.

No one could stop me;
remind me who ***** with me?",
Princess Sleepyhead.

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.

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.

Run rabbit,
they say you live a second time,
wrote a bedtime story that was
pornographic in nature/features.

Heavens on earth, and earth is in hell.

They say they're gonna teach you
They say they're gonna learn it to you
Love me like a child and I'll
betray you like a father.

Prodigal son come back from
a land made holy by tongue-worship.
He said, "Now is the time we set aside
our petty bloodshed
and keep quiet where justice
fears to reveal itself."

Princess sleepyhead;
secretly death, from below.
His hand is fast like

how planets may spin.
You sit on a projectile,
unable to see

anger and fury.
A tiger yawning before
it may **** it's prey.

Unpredictable
/impossible to predict.
Quicker than a thought.

Born of a binary,
black/white,
white/ black.
Cultured by silence,
a blank slate,
but no more tears.
Time isn't real.
They speak, they say,
tell me there's nothing wrong with me;
standing in the kitchen with my
grandmother telling me there is
nothing DIFFERENT about you.
Strive to conform.
Sameness is a casualty.
I DON'T GIVE A ****
about conservatives
.
"Humanists" avoiding their toxic
misogynistic tendencies,
old friends enlisted
voluntarily perpetuating a
system of violence and suffering,
others are bluffing, don't say ****,
walk eggshells,
I must be a tiger loose from the cage,
and they're waiting to see who becomes the
canary in my coal mine.
Rhyming by incident,
but I hate this **** & I'm not all right.
Women can participate in their own oppression,
minorities can be racist,
we're all raised in a ditch;
Patriarchy, capitalism, class values,
botched messages, "color blindness",
etc. etc. etc.
**** everyone, and don't treat me like I'm better
or I should know better, or I have to be "perfect"
if I want to be "different". Raised in a ditch.
Cultured by racism and depression.
I think of suicide like a novelty
until I don't
.
.
.
Everything turns grey and reads like sloganeering.
Waiting for the past to manifest as a trauma.
Waiting for the past to make sense.
Waiting.

2016 saw a year of structure and measure,
a year of coun-ting syl-a-bles.

Now is a return to form.
Shapeless but congealing.

I'm just like you;
trying to find the right words,
in the right places
&
at the right times

to make art worth the air I waste
and the space I steal.

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.

Should I think of my
father as young, immature,
maybe arrogant?

My mother was a
girl who laughed with all her heart,
once upon a time.

I'm a second child,
and I wonder if I was
conceived out of love.

I try to see them
as people who didn't know
they'd hate each other.

Just a couple who'd
slow dance and share arms, bodies.
I don't think they knew.

"Sorry, Austin...not for us...Best with it."**

"Four Verses of Inexpressive Groaning,
and 15 Ughs to be Sung in Beethoven's 9th. "

Ughghghgh.
Ughyughghg.
Eighghghgugh.
Myeeeghghg?

Eeehghghg...­
Myegghghugh.
Ghghghghg.
Huhhghghg?

Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.
Shrug- eh?
Uhhhmmm...
Eghghghghg....

Myughghghg...
grughghghg.
Gaaah...­?
Blughghg.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

"Dear Austin Heath:

Thank you for sending “Poems by Austin Heath.” Your work received careful consideration here.

We’ve decided this manuscript isn’t right for us, but we wish you luck placing it elsewhere.

Kind regards,

The Editors”


Dear editors;

I’ve carefully considered your disposal of my material

and found it troubles me not. Whether you accept these

confessions or not, they’re still hand written on the liver

of every drinker from Cleveland to Ithaca and back.

Thanks for nothing,

Austin Heath.

I’ve been here before,
But somehow I was wiser
Back then, and lost now.

Doors open loudly,
Mysteries pouring out like
A broken faucet.

Hands reaching to me,
Pulling me to mouths eager
To devour me whole.

They take me apart,
Curious like a child with
A shiny new toy.

Then they put me back
Pieces missing, out of place,
Or just plain broken.

Eager to taste me,
Touch me into pieces though
I’ve been here before.

She made me dinner,
****** me, made me laugh, and then
told me she loved me.

I once doubted this,
but where everyone turned black
my soul is yellow.

I live wide open,
and my consequences yield
to my momentum;

The speed of whispers,
I lead by debauchery
as an example.

Some worship the dead
and some sit next to the ghosts,
elbow to elbow.

The duality
of the swarm is that it's both
nameless and legend.

I wake up to you
and I am happy again.
I'm yellow again.

We had no chance,
and it takes and it takes and it takes,
it takes pounds of flesh and leaves
polluted waste in it's context.

Permission slips into seizure
-please let it be a scream-
grind organs on permadeath
and instant failure
without an afterlife
or consolation.

Consolation prizes,
trophy in defeat;
Suspect yet accepted.
Gifts from your enemies,
presents from your past,
disorders from reprise.
Changeless.

Lipstick and teeth marks
on my **** remind me that
there are still good days.

The way you laugh as
I coax you into *******,
the sun hanging low.

Hell is above me,
I'm the **** at the bottom
of the universe.

Half heartwarming smile,
half blood curdling charm, and
lack of self control.

You craft your own sins.
Do anything; whatever
your heart desires, babe.

Three days later and
I decided I'm wasted
through stranger methods.

***, coffee, cheap food,
sleep deprivation, music
[loud to keep **** out].

Dark sunglasses, or
general debauchery.
Keeping it simple.

Keeping it stupid,
no reason for the format.
Meaningless to me.

I exist in their
sins, held responsible by
association.

They are crafting me
out of their foolish mistakes.
Eager accidents.

I drown in their filth
and come back completely whole.
The resurrection.

"The Lovely *******;
innocent to innocence/
No stranger to loss."
~
On resurrection;
Die once and live forever?
That's not sacrifice.

Christians are insane,
but I am too in their eyes.
It gives me comfort.

That's no martyrdom,
nothing selfless in the flesh.
They still consume it.

I'm not a great enough
or terrible enough person
to be a great writer,
and neither one
for lack of trying.

The days just
barely even
inhale
&
the stains begin
where the night
may
exhale.

I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big *******
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's ****-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."

I feel a kick in my chest,
but it's just my heart.
I'm choking to death
in slow motion.
The important questions
leave you in tears.
The important message.
Rifling through my mind,
but I never think of guns;
rifling for the feeling.
A ******* touch of it.
Gasping for air with arms
outstretched far above my head.
Reaching.
Reaching!
It's intanginble, and
moving so slowly backwards
I think I've gone ahead.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Less than a question,
stuck playing all the old games;
a face carved from wood.

Stuck playing midnight,
quoting Castro on hunger;
Loss of appetite crucial

to understand
the feeling of having none,
but this is just greed.

I eviscerate
and consume nothing, woeful.
Flesh does not have me.

Ticking Casio,
breathing time into nonsense.
Digital. Solid.

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.

It's walking by you;
remembering you is worse
than seeing you now,

and I'm so *******
happy I could **** myself.
Waking up alone.

A message written
so small it barely even
is said to exist.

So when we're alone,
we'd likely feel it this time,
and more than hardly.

I have given you
all of the wisdom I have,
now ******* will you?

Stop acting like I
owe you something, or that you
never shut me out.

I saw you and I
opened every door, but
you were “too afraid”.

Leave me alone then.
You hesitated and lost.
Your chances are gone.

Keep close what you have,
and cherish that in my place.
The doors are closed now.

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.

If it gets you through the night,

you could sit there on the couch and pretend that I’m not listening.

We’ve been over this time and again, yet here you are flipped

from side B to side A. I hope your tape breaks and this message

is flipping in the wind on a tab with a marker

marked red. I hope you understand.

My life feels like vacation but my… well everybody

will promise you violence over practically nothing

and I think I deserve a better planet. Instead I’m here.

It’s marginally all my ego, but mostly I just want to disappear.

I swear; If I break a heart I’ll fix it, but I’m a disease and a symptom,

and I stick like bad religion. Worshipers take shelter from this cult.

I’d even stab you if I had proper motivation,

and I didn’t treat myself like my own martyr for nothing.

The “real” me may only be what you make of me anyways.

My image of myself only exists within my head,

and in that image I am rotten with perfection.

My only corduroy is torn and smells of bleach,

but I’m too sleepy to change into my skin.

I swear I’m more than just an ordinary sin,

just because I’m also my own martyr.

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.

Sometimes I go in
too deep just to see if you
still feel any pain.

The wince on your face,
the sudden drawing of breathe.
Timeless everything.

Sometimes lovely and
maybe just another kink
to get through a night.

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.

Gods on fire. I wouldn't **** on it's teeth
to put out the flames. I imagine it
started as an Easter Rabbit, a Santa Claus
and grew into a monster.
Outgrew the cage. Outgrew a master.
I don't believe it's real.
I am pretentious and without culture,
illiterate in compassion,
and wear empathy like a merit badge.
It's actually almost sad
to say out loud, but I'm the closest thing
I have to a voice of reason.
Reason?
I was born in a rush, was an accident,
they say childbirth is a miracle,
but it looks like satanic ritual.
My father was pagan, my mother is christian.
She chose my name last minute
[the story I heard was that it was
a street sign].
They expected a girl.
I'm not strong in frame,
not masculine in stature or mind;
People tell me I talk to much
and I find it hard to disagree.
Volumes of words I purge
into kitchen sinks/ wandering eyes/
drifting minds/ and every word
floats ahead of me like an envelope,
yet every letter is empty.
So many definitions, shades of me,
so much **** and sunshine,
and it's all equally weightless.
A trivial guessing game...
What my name should have meant,
should have been,
an idea I could have played metaphor to,
but,
instead this mess is arbitrary.

Your words grow heavy
the sparser they become, and
slippery as well.

I'm wandering still,
looking for a pain that feels
closer to the "soul".

I'm desperate now,
I can taste his sweat on you
but I say nothing.

Everyone's alone,
but it's a human concept
to be so lonely.

Everyone's dying
without any dignity,
soulless and divine.

Everyone's silent
under the deafening sound
of thought in practice.

Everyone's losing,
and we've only learned how to
fetishize the pain.

I speak and make you cry,
and you tell me not to blame myself.
I can tear my own stomach out
with unparalleled willpower,
this is my life in stride.
Full stride.
The walls; black, and orange at the tips.
The carpet slowly creeps up to you,
and the paint curls as if breathing outward.
The fire makes the home come alive.
You know where to find me,
but you wouldn't know what
to look for. What to save.
Full stride.
You don't talk to me.
Full stride;
You can't fix me. We can't fix me.
That's not how this works.
If you truly thought love could
cure depression, then...
ugh...
You've been naive.
There's not a nice way to say it.
Full stride and I'm walking into
traffic with ******* pride!
I'm not involved in a massive conspiracy,
I'm a cog in a lukewarm nightmare.

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

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

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

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

You wonder how everyone hasn't given up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anything that stands for centuries
is literally amazing,

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

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

We are a cesspool made of solid gold.

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

To get by and be happy.

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

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

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

I have priorities.

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

Got money, but I spent too much.
I have to pawn something,
something worth pawning.
Can't sell a guitar,
they gotta be firewood.
Sell what? Blood?
Maybe a ******* kidney?
Have to stay calm,
can't pressure cook it.
Have to form a plan,
stretch it out over a few weeks.
Can't breathe too fast.
Been calm. Head on.
Better make it last.

Built a cage in a cage
as an olive branch for
those who wouldn't call her an animal,
but won't call her a person.
Built a metaphor to slay her sister,
like trying to walk while hammering
your own toes;
hobbled herself to the master's home,
and played with the master's playthings,
and ate the master's food,
and received the hard end
of the master's humor
with a smile.

We are misinformed creatures-
A bird with wings to fly, but no destination.
A wildcat that hunts only to ****.
A serpent poisoned by it's own venom.

She traded hands to beat herself to death;
died with wrists broken,
lacy finger bones strewn across her throat.
No melody on her tongue.
Nobody dying to meet her.
Nobody is dying to meet us.

You were surprised I
didn't *** in two seconds
and then stopped trying.

The next day? Silence.
You attempted suicide,
got in the psych ward.

You float like a cloud,
and disappear like they do:
All of a sudden.

Paying attention,
you'd still see nothing at all.
Just clouds and blue skies.

Alone.
Someone could stab me with their fingertips
and they wouldn't touch me.
I don't think I can get much colder,
but I'm certain I'll find out.
I'm tired but I can't sleep.
My stomach is empty but I can't eat.
I'm incidental.
My existence is hinged off of mistakes-
it's a web that hangs on a string.
I don't belong anywhere,
and it's heavy and sticks to my skin
and I can't wash it off.
I don't know how much longer anyone expects me to take this.
I don't know if I can take anything much longer.
I'm scared. I don't want to smile anymore.
I wish I could remember how to cry.
I'm alone now.
I'm alone.

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.

Your frail fingerbones
against the palm of my hands.
Impossibly soft.

I dream in color,
watching myself receive a
just, violent abuse.

In my dreams I’m strong,
but not now. I’m helpless now.
Then I’m waking up.

Distortion season,
a heavy fog awaits you.
Early sunglasses.

I’m helpless here too,
just graceful under pressure.
I handle it well.

Haven't really eaten, in a long time.
Wasting away. Physically,
but not mentally yet.
Yet.
Banging on instruments for
the perfect cacophony.
Stormy tonight outside Cleveland
as I stab away inside my laboratory.
Raining hell and I **** around
till my ears are almost bleeding,
screaming, more aspirin,
lighting thunder, and in the
dead sequences of recording
IT LIVES.
Strings detuned from a menace,
pure chaos on a note rings on,
SKRONK.
Skronk is freedom,
every voice saying what
every voice has to say.
5/4 and it's ******* outside,
and all I know is the key to
utopia is any note you like
in A major.
**** the signature.
Skronk is *freedom.

Fireworks that spray paint
brain matter and bits of tongue
like obscenities in a bathroom stall.
Spray paint everything yellow.
Own everything. Burn everything.
**** everything. Invade it;
infect it, vivisect your name
as an iron-on patch into it's guts.
Stitch it in close to something necessary.
A little bit of everything dies.
Anything that can be possessed,
umbrella of oppressions.
Prancing.
You'd make me cry just to see if it's possible.
You'd push me off the edge to see how close I am.
You'd push me off the edge to see how fast I fall.
You'd step on my fingers to see if they bleed.
You'd stomp in my teeth to see if they crack.
You'd spit on the corpse to see if it hydrates.
Cartwheeling.
Anything abrasive, anything slightly toxic,
something disgusting to indulge in.
**** the gardens, **** the rivers and lakes;
Died in a boar's den,
died in the stomach of a volcano,
gave it three days and decided
death suits one just fine.
Pieces
of
dishes
stuck between your toes.
A rainbow in violent undertones,
the ROYGBIV of slashing motions.
Tax exempt.
Cartwheeling.
A little bit of everything dies.

If you have enemies.

If you live in a constant state of fear,

or you live in fear of state.

One day you wake up and realize

nothing you were promised was delivered

and resent the wealth of the few.

Sleep with the lights on.

If you live in fear of guns because

you don’t fit the status quo.

Sometimes you have fits of anxiety,

and other times you have sudden

jumps in identity and everything

makes sense because you’ve

stopped trying to analyze the chaos.

Start searching again.

Sleep with the lights on.

If you can’t breathe and can’t accept

that this is happening, although ****,

it’s so real, and all the pain feels real,

and the hunger feels real,

and the sickness feels real,

and you may sleep many days at a time to forget.

Sleep with the lights on.

Some win,
they'll declare a celebration in vocabulary.
Pat yourself on the god-**** back kid.
You went there and committed those
worst of evils.
I was alive in a time of great confusion
and mass hysteria, post WW2
for 60 years, and they still
haven't put out those fires.
Yeah, some success you have here,
that machine burns just to burn.
Perpetuates for perpetuation.
The purpose has become
redundant, in and of itself.

It doesn’t make sense why I hate myself so much

from the outside, but try to understand;

everything that supposedly makes one stand out

really just makes them blend in somewhere else.

So I can’t sleep and don’t even want to be awake.

I’m here because of that and a lot of ****

I just can’t say out loud. **** it.

**** everything.

I could be sunshine.
People tell me that I'm sweet.
I'm glad they think so.

They ignore my hate,
turning blind eyes to the sun.
I am not so kind.

"It's called an Ouroborous",
says the voice,
in the back of her mind in
the front of my skull;
and this coffee taste like cigarettes,
but it makes more sense than
conversation.
Cause for later, like I "need"
an excuse to duck into the
night like a spy. Pity; cardboard boxes
don't work as well in real life.
Privy to the ebb, but avoiding it?
A shape that consumes itself?
A cloud that eats clouds-
A saint to any who would
worship in a mirror.

This stick and stones ransack rebellion,

and now a broken appendage is just, well, that’s it.

It’s going to be that way now till I die.

Inside we’re all screaming, even when we scream outside.

Subtlety is not an act of human consciousness,

and truth be told, sometimes I forget why we try

to find the longest way around what we want to say.

Love would be easier if you’d all just *******.

I hate myself, but I’m content with that.

I’m not anyone’s biggest fan, but I’ll learn.

I hate religion.

I love curse words.

I ******* love curse words.