My *** drive would cause earthquakes,
but I can never find the time
to leave this place,
this bed-side lamp,
and away from poor attempts at rhyme.

Depression is a tired old topic.
But *** is forever at hand
to pin you down,
to win you round,
slinking off to the toilet in my dressing gown.

I know you feel a belonging
to the archives of music,
you drink in bed,
and sink on in,
to the restless call of another troubled head.

I will find restoration
held between your slender legs.
It is all we've got,
in this paradise lost,
in this sweaty reclaim,
to a feeling we'd forgot.

Going down is not an art,
but a way of keeping young.
How can you claim to love
what you won't dare to kiss?
How will you ever hear her siren song?

I take a walk into the parkour graveyard,
looking for Polish dealers and cellphone halos.
I heard Thoth resides in sobriety,
but words fail me
whenever you are near.

I let my tongue run in endless stutters,
disguising 'I love you' as some off-hand request.
I could take you to dinner,
I could show you a longing
without the need for ***.

This late-night food has lost its flavour.
This ******* never picked up.
All that is left is to dial these numbers,
and wait by the window
for any car but yours.

Let's take a walk to the railway bridge.
We'll smoke a joint by the open forest.
You'll push your breath into mine,
make me high,
and forget why I ever
felt so low.

I have discovered the sober sunrise.
No longer the bringer of pill-drawn sleep
or the sick brightness of morning
as I walk home via cigarette butts
and misleading signs.

Who am I, to walk amongst the living,
after all the times I have died?

I saw myself at the end of the world;
strategic scar on my upper left wrist,
the extension cord and the lower branch
of the Tree of Life.

The taste of cheap red has become a phantasm;
salted mirage of clean streams and reservoirs
in the backdrop of dry land.

Now only cigarettes or accidental love can **** me.
I have discovered the sober sunrise
but have no idea what to do with it.

You told me you could tell the sky, "Goodnight,"
and the earth would whisper, "Good morning."
Home always felt like your coffee breath stirring the hair in my face
and your hand gripping mine when I strayed too far.

You asked me what I thought of God and I said she was beautiful
and you placed a kiss on my cheek, pressed your scarred palms to mine, and told me,
"Yes she is."

When I told you I was scared you told me that demons are everywhere but angels are immune.
I felt better.

Winter was never cold with you around.

she uses her push up bras to uphold her self esteem
and make her personality look perky and recognizable...

she hides the massacre of self abuse and sleepless nights,
under the thick shadow of mascara...

her eyes twinkle when she smiles, but not many know
the shine comes from the reflection of years of shattered dreams and crumbled emotions hidden in them..

her skin looks perfect from the distance but look closely,
you can see the scars left on them from the paper cuts of fashion magazines..

the award for 'best sense'
goes to Touch.
let me prove it to you:
I can survive without
/seeing
/hearing
/smelling
/tasting
and though I'd love to see your eyes spark with passion
and though I'd love to hear your happiness when you succeed
and though I'd love to smell your aftershave in the morning
and though I'd love to taste your kisses created for me
I would rather cut off my tongue or gouge out an eye,
than live a day on this earth with no hands of yours in mine.

used out
left hand shaking over the paper
a dripping oh-so-native
to this feeling.

the window is open and the cool night breeze
touches my back as if to say
"i know"
and I glance towards those prescriptions

they sit unassuming
pretty little propped up bottles
traffic-cone orange soldiers
with little white hats.

and the wind says again to me
"i know" and I scowl
because how can she?
how can she know who I am?

the wind whispers late at night
to children like me
children who have lost their way
and play with little orange soldiers.

used out
one hand palm open to the text
the other shivering against the wind-

and a dripping oh-so-native
to this feeling.