Deluge

            of the senses.

It all
comes

with no
fault
no green eyes

no home.
      
I don't want a home.
I want myself;
I want ******
of order,
I want weeding gardens
sprouting wild
and laughing at the moon,
I don't want to
want any longer.

I'm tired of wants.
I'm exhausted of other people's
need to want
and
want to convince themselves
of need.

I don't need anybody.

I don't want anything.

Yellow napkins
Chrystal glasses,

The walls bled golden flakes into a
fountain
ground that zig-zagged
a misleading pattern.
The wallpaper
and aroma
turned me off.
It was something of a tacky
reminiscence of the 20s,
Reaching in inaudible desperation
towards the ***** man
in his black tuxedo,
Pressing his black baby grand piano.
The waitress came,
(All-too rehearsed)
she was pudgy in her complexion but slender in build.
She crooned to me, a question.
"To drink?"
I didn't answer,

Just stayed, fixated on the yellow rose slowly growing towards its death on the table.
Everything seemed to be yellow.
And even in the azure daylight
kneading its way through the windows,
I still saw death's hoofed shoulders
crying through every object.


I ordered a water.

City of summer,
Firefly structures,
rivers of
streets and
    guzzling cars.

My mistress turns to me,
I feel bad about myself.

But the electric
hum,
the frothing clouds
hugging the skyline.
It makes me feel
like
nothing quite matters
except the
    capture Of
My moments.
I'll take advantage of it.

I won't flinch for time.

I'm going to lay here
In this unusually loud bed.
And watch unusual people
do unnatural things
on a television.
I know this poem is not very
elaborate,
But a good poem
doesn't need to say much.
Just give me
silence.
Sweet,
humble
sweet
silence.

Do what you have to.
An unfinished poem
still means something
to me.




I want to be left alone.

I have no more words.

I feel like a hundred Suns have withered up
and glazed a death
inside of me.
I am stagnant,
I am pale,
I am non-responsive.
I will disappoint you.
I don't pay attention to clocks
because time brings me down.
      I will just ferment in my
        frosty garage
          on my all-too-old
       drumkit.
   Banging away.
Exerting
My fears,
anger,
Displeasement
w/everything
through my wild arms.
A stampede is off in the distance
And it's only a matter of time before I catch up with it.

Please do not ****** your ambition
with a stubborn blade.
    Its jagged edges
Cutting,
     Cutting
        Into a second
   You won't get back.
Please do not blind your
     eyes with your
      elusive fingers
And finish off your last
Weakened
       brook of light.
Let that light
Become a humble river and eddy at its
Center with pride
and purple      Energy.

       Tantalizingly
      Fantastic.