I sing to you
who makes me sick,
who sleeps in my house in a bowl on the bed
And drives a car as I scream of the hollow lives I live.

There, there.
Everyone who is happy this hurts you,
I am.

Hail unrequitted love,
ancient poetic rite of passage.

The bullet-burn of countless ant bites
knawing, devouring at young and tender flesh
empties soup-bowl eyes of suppose'd might,
a ringing scream sprawls out of each biological mesh.

You have never felt anything this full-of-feeling.


Never have you been so overcome
with nausea that you have no out
but to *****.


You have no choice but to cry:
Yet your sacred spillings prompt
your pen to fly.

Inspiration,
when stripped of romantic charm
Is nothing more than a
pollen prelude
to an uncontrollable
sneeze.

They christened me Pink
in my downy, natal cradle.
It was then that I received my yoke:
I was to pale
'neath the obscure shadow of the Blue--
my rosy blanket-veil of subservience,
swaddled eternal in woman's dues.

They christened me soft
and henceforth i was to give, and so I  gave
and caved to the ferocities of Indigo-coated generals.
i must always Behave!

They christened me not
a mindless bot;
I think, reason, and ponder.
So I made the trade from rose to sky
and have since found it ever fonder.

I’ll ne'er forget that day
The sky a lavender canvas outstretched
It was the day I broke my timepiece
And the puppets called me wretch

My empire of daisies wilted 'round me
Closing me into my grave
I was buried with my handgun
Under layers of black lace

And the sea doesn’t weep
And they birds they still sing
All the colors haven’t faded
Why don’t they mourn for me?

The stars haven’t dimmed
No expression grey or grim
I hear a distant happy hymn
Why don’t they mourn for me?

I’ve restrung my violin
To play my sorrowful song
I won’t drown in my self pity
For I’ve been dead for far too long

And the sea doesn’t weep
And they birds they still sing
All the colors haven’t faded
Why don’t they mourn for me?

The stars haven’t dimmed
No expression grey or grim
I hear a distant happy hymn
Why don’t they mourn for me?

Havoc of the heavy-hearted
Which from their grief are never parted
Gloom by sunshine never thwarted
Stultified, folding down on knees

Excess of nothing, excess of nothing!

And the absence of all.

From canyons do we creep,
Endlessly creep,
With blisters on our feet
From abysses twice so deep.

Love is not matter.
But matter is does.

These ragdoll knees render my collapse;
Caught midway 'tween a twinkling synapse.

Pond surface ripples;
Yet tremors below seldom
stir the anchored soul