I was in
a relationship,
now I'm not
(insert poem)
The End

I like your
Poem and I'll
Use of it
What I need
And toss the
Rest
Or steal it,
Doesn't matter
As long as I
Ascend

back to
wine and
stained
shirts

the truth
is not so much
a thing
but a
symphony-
that bounces
off walls
and changes
shape,
and the
honesty
is found
in the space
between

There is no color
Of death
Like eyes know,
Only death of mind
And sick plastic aura,
Death makes known
In soul depth of being
And days when
Sighting humanity
Hurts the eyes

Man's flaw
is that his
heart is far
larger than
his body,
though,
some are
not bound
by humanity,
no,
some are
not men
but ideas
in the form
of men

beer beer
beer! its always
about alcohol
with you!
ahh yes but
on occasion I
also write

the poet
must label
the world
in a way
most people
would choose
not to

When asked I said:
"I don't write for people
No, I've known too many
To waste words on
And I don't write for poets,
Poets are as bad as me
And all the good ones are dead
No, I write for god and the angels
That they may have mercy
On one of their own."
And god said to the Muse:
"The idea of Invincible
Is more important
Than life itself."

writing is not
a calling
it's a warning
it's Bukowski
saying, "get out
while you can."