My mind resembles something like
a rabid VCR—baring its teeth,
foaming, unapologetic, at the mouth,
rewinding and replaying and repeating
all of the small cuts of two people
I swear I used to know and love.
Rerunning a patchwork reel of the scenes
I can stand to remember—
(which is all of them when I’m feeling
particularly masochistic).
Rhythmic static travels from
top to bottom of my mind’s eye—
a familiar flaw, cracking and popping
as the picture struggles to come clear.
I try to stop it—all of it.
Rip plug from outlet—
throw this snarling archaic beast
against some unsuspecting wall.
But it’s made in the good ol’ US of A
and runs on something
a bit more complicated than
any energy they can send me a bill for.
So I'm stuck
in this cyclical hell,
where there is no fresh air,
and the only oxygen I can get
has to be ****** through
a barely functioning dollar store crazy straw.
And, really, my only anger is directed at Dante
for not including this part
in his little ditty about the Inferno.
I swear I’d take
trying and failing
to escape a river of boiling blood
over whatever it is that causes me
to create a dramatic VCR metaphor
any day.

She’s been put together;
spattered with
handfuls of shiny warning labels that
no one ever took the time to read,
only to reside in a lonely wooden box—
sheltered, still, and safe.
Living unlit and knowing nothing but patience,
she’s unaware of all the wonderment
that resides just beneath her own surface.
When the box finally opens,
she’s handled carefully
by strong, gentle hands that recognize
all of her treacherous potential.
She doesn’t flinch,
when those trusted fingers
strike the match
to light her fuse.
She doesn’t fret
when the heat catalyzes
a chemical reaction—
one far beyond her control.
She only sings
when her own jolt sends her rocketing
a hundred feet into the night sky.
And when she can’t stand the pressure
any longer
she swallows what pride she has left
and explodes—
a million strands of glittering fire
decorating the dark, ominous unknown.
Just for a moment, she hopes
she’s the most beautiful thing
those hands have ever touched.
But as she fizzles out into a small cloud
of smoke and something that once was,
she accepts her purpose
as the short-lived,
soon forgotten,
spectacularly unsuspected
good time.

The universe that i know contains infinite infinities
The more i travel the more i see and more you think

There's an abyss of abraxas in dylan dog's comics
Here's an enstraged ghost of che on the motorcycle

We made it plausible for the pagat ultimo's elegance sake
We seek for the most Beautiful to crash us like soft waves

The immortal Beauty is the terror for the mortal passangers
The immortal Elegance is shown as an unforgettable life's style

You want the depth, you play games, cast spells, and reinvent
You want to become a persona grata, the gravity ***** you in

Today i thougt how nice is to draw a bit for a change
Today you didn't like to have hollidays from a belief

I have to acknowledge the worthwile sands of time
I have to succumb to universal subconsciousnesses

Mine unimportance is a hanging shall on a tied stallion
Mine thoughst fly high as two falcons toward your star

Thine tea is served with blood, sweat, and entrapement
Thine turtle is a giant alive planet, a colourful mounted

One

I was sitting at my computer
All intelligent and nonchalant
When a personality profile test popped up
In the most interesting of fonts

I decided this might be fun
So I clicked onto the site
And right away started answering questions
On what I did and didn't like

As soon as the test was over
With my feet planted firmly on the floor
I hit the button enter
There was immediately a knock upon the door

What appeared to be three business men
All in matching suits and ties
With darkened sunglasses all around
Like Hollywood Movie Stars in disguise

Before I knew what was happening
They threw a hood over my head
And carted me off without the slightest word
Not a single Howdy-Do was said

My new found friends threw me into the trunk
Of a waiting limousine
Where just as quickly as they arrived
We all left the scene

We came to a run down abandoned  Army base
In the middle of the desert
I had the feeling that what it was that was to come
Most certainly wouldn't be pleasant

They set me in the middle of a room
As men circled all around
I knew this had to do with the test
And wondered at it was they found

When in walked "The Bossarooni"
And said don't worry son we're not here to mistreat cha
We're just curious as to why
You like anchovies instead of pepperoni on your pizza

Lookin' for a definition
The search engine position
It's a tricky proposition
Siri's off upon her mission

The standard answer is her stance
Has she ever been entranced
By starry eyes or moon's that dance?
Without a heart...? Not a chance

But maybe in her circuit board
There's an AI song... a chord...
In her there is some reward
Her humanity restored

Maybe in her silicon mind
There's a place where she can find
A way to let go and unwind....

No.

To her, love's truly *blind

“It,” not so easily defined,
catches and clouds in my throat.
Previously shot down
in a blistering passion, and riddled
with disappointment,
vague answers to important questions,
and the kind of wasted possibility
you’ve seen in a used syringe
abandoned by the park fence.
Although it may seem
wounded and unkempt,
I can feel its remaining life
writhing, wondering, and desolate.
So I let it grow, with no hope of air,
and with my eyes closed, it thrives—
sprouting fresh white plumage,
collecting its strength,
pecking, p-peck, pecking
at the back of my tongue
and ******* up my oxygen.
It’s the taste of blood
that makes me come to
before the riotous flutter of feathers
works its way
to the edge of my lips.
I watch as it lifts off, up, out, and away—
wings spread in a striking spectrum
of well-played deception.
It flies, now, fearlessly—
commandeering its own air,
and I breathe easily
knowing that it won’t die
with me.

I wandered around my grandparents'
Home and saw the forbidden door ajar.
Although locked, they told me to steer
Clear, one step in was one step too far.
The room was gloomy, draped in webs,
With a single painting on the wall,
Lighted by a flickering bulb, imploring
Me to flee from the painting’s call.
She looks at me with longing eyes,
The girl in the painting on the wall.
Alive she seems on her swing, legs
Dangling, holding a torn ragged doll.
She’s not alone, children frolic around
Her beside the lake and wild grass.
Yet she swings gazing intently at my
Soul, willing me to touch the frame glass.
My hands obey and reach for her world
And I find myself pulled inside.
I stood before the girl. Hey friend,
I’m Sally, she said, and smiled wide.  
We swam in the lake, played tag, and
Enjoyed a picnic, but the sun never sank.
Minutes rolled to hours and hours, days.
Indeed, time was merely a divine prank.
What’s your name? I would ask the other
Children, but none of them knew.
I’d ask where they came from,
But mumbles they’d only spew.
Sally I must go home! Please help me!
Don’t you like it here? We are friends.
Friends don’t leave, you understand?
Those who come, their stay never ends.
Her smile then twists to a fiendish grin
Revealing jagged, rotten yellow fangs.
Sally giveth, Sally taketh away, Sally
Stole my heart today, the children sang.
Wherever I ran, I’d end up at the same place,
Sally on her swing beneath the oak tree.
She then waved at the glassy blue sky.
My grandparents looked down upon us
With wicked smiles and laughing eyes.
You’ve been a naughty boy, Paul.
Now you’re in the painting on the wall.