I'm sick of this day at sunrise.  
And there’s no cigarette to smoke
within a walkings distance
before i sit across another verbally abusive *******,
telling me why i write with the insolence of an *******.  

Insomnia that could wake ****** up
has been rallying for his third evening
and my fingers can't lay still.
these hands like tremors
on the faults of my keys,
this **** screen of tectonic hills,
and the snark and bile
that stands upon them,
with humored donations of authority,
of me tryingto describe the world I see.

But still this will not ease my mind to rest
nor will my eyes roll back into the void
where this calamity is formed.  
Because there's still some suited family
at the reigns of the nation
where society is in the eyes not of the beholder,
but of the person that tells the most lies.

So I lock my ears with insanity
to drown out the sound
of souls as they scream
at how they've been betrayed.
and they sing chorus' of those
who scores before
tried to sing the same song.
So again, like every day
I'll sit and curse the dawn
because it is unchanged,
it is still another day of sorrow.,,,,,,,,,

I end my nights in racket
with my only comfort in
what some call screams.
Please sing my lullaby
in deft of tones that
blind rats of the sky. I see
Serenity in car crashes
and my head lies with ease,
please sir please, let the
sweet chaos sway my cradle.
To bring me to where
dreams fool even the wisest ***
and let floor boards rumble.
in great calamity.  I've seen
the ones who stumble
deep in opaque ravine
but I'm no better, just
another drifter trying find
a good place to lay
Just wish i could find
a place where the ghosts
shake my rafters
to help me catch z's.

You gave me the Y
and the ability to ponder.
Why is it so hazy
in the kitchen?
I recall the feel
of the virgins blood
spilt on the floor,
slipping between my toes
on sunday mornings
because you didn't have
to work those days.
But we never sat at pews,
just at the kitchen table
with bacon and eggs.
Menthol and tunes of green grass
and high tides in the air
and Gordon is sitting
on the counter top
waiting to tip it’s transparent
courage and laughter
into a short glass with Coke.
I never got your hearty mustache
like the october leaves
still gripping boughs.
Or your terrible eyes
plagued with coke bottles
since the days of your diapers
but we had the same silhouette
and I never grew out of that

18 years in and I fought for
freedoms, or my own life.
But we clashed like titans,
****** noses and split lips.
You didn’t like the idea
of me on your own,
so why not beat eachother
senseless till we each need
a Handle to stand and stumble.


20 years now and you tell me
How the levees of you vision
crumbled to the words that
I’d be dead within the hour.
So I imagine you handled that,
much like you would now
when bills smile from the mailbox
and the day mom decided we didn’t need the 84 Cutless supreme.
“Grab me a short glass!”

I’m still here.
Almost 21 years later
Saturday night.
and we sit on the deck
burning different flavors
because you like mint and
I smoke a natural blend.
I drink 14's while you still
pour Gordon’s with Coke.

And tomorrow morning Mary will be bleeding for breakfast.

It is no later than 7:30, the drone
of your box louder than the alarm
that I throw across the room
for welcoming me into this day.

I reach for you and your brothers,
like Ray pounding keys
slapping at the night stand
until the box scratches my finger tip.

I infiltrate your sanctuary,
tasting the disgust
of how few of you are left,
and steal you from the herd.

Rising from the tomb
You slip from my fingers
in one final attempt to escape.
Stupid, stupid, fellow you are.

As I stumble for the door,
your *** at my lips,
I panic in my pockets
looking for a spark.

Unable to make fire I turn and
bend to the stove letting blue flame
melt your face, you whisper "mercy"
turning tangerine in the nothingness of dawn.

I walk on the porch flicking
your dead skin away.
Hoping you'll burn long enough
to let me gain consciousness.

My father killed your cousins.
Men from the land of  Thol,
they never stood a chance.
Then again neither do you.

I taste the sweet blend of 27
attempts for a perfect murderer.
Just as good as the first time
I bit, like a tick, into your ember.

And now you've smoldered to nothing
but a **** filled with sweet aromas
I was not lucky enough to absorb.
I flick your carcass to the lawn.

A funeral for a life, so dedicated to die for me.