some greedy little bitter man has put together a picture-perfect person and out of pure laziness and malignant attempts at control he pays off a psychopath to make it happen but we’re just a little body, flesh and bones come between them and their paychecks so why not make it easier? they made a factory out of our garden and nothing grows in factories it’s manufactured, easy as one two three four five six, we’re all sitting on an assembly line waiting for some alcoholic man to shout at some pimply-faced twenty-something “FASTER! FASTER!” so it begins! press of a button, we’re created, step one: your parents were given the baby books, kids! infants, they’re all the same anyways. they’re not individuals yet, they haven’t been encoded so relax, parents. want them turn out like you? sure, do what your parents did, worked out well, eh? been occupying this factory your whole life, then? well anyways, step two: they spend less time with you because you’ve been in this world for three years so it’s time you get out on your own…. step three: they gotta YELL and scream and children aren’t supposed to touch things or say things or scrape their knees because that’s more work for the adults, and they work all day, just like they were programmed for, good little machines 'cause they forgot what it’s like to be a baby or an animal or a plant or a God but also the resentment, a child wants to live but how ridiculous? there’s no life in industry… all about the money baby step four: you buy your education because it builds your character because money says power but when did meaningless power equal respect? I don't know but they force you into reading the same old instruction pamphlets left in the break room at the plant for the past century or so and five: your turn to work for fourty years in this polluted place because it’s hard to break free from twenty-three years of moulding into a cookie cutter you never did fit, that’s why it hurts so much when they try to push you through, your muffin-top is sliced right off and you’re contorted to fit the view of perfect sugary sweetness but just to make sure you're ready they coat you with vanilla icing to cover up your imperfections, perfect, now step six, and this one is the doozy, and because you’re **** broke: go back to mom and dad’s and grab those baby books and again and again and again the cycle repeats and repeats and repeats….

your eyes
of orchids
maybe lotus...
they float



                      detached




stars perhaps.

                      a ship set sail
                                              longing...

y­ou
a pixie’s playground
or a forest,
a child’s castle
or a tree
              (it's all the same to you)



innocence
in essence;
inevitably transcends
to me

(unworthy)       I must decline,
                            my beauty;
                            so humble
                            remarkable

your eyes*
of lillies...



or lilacs
cannot describe
the          (elegance)
the          (delicacy)

the beauty
                   of your eyes.

I want cheesey garlic bread!
alas, it's all that's in my head-
and if lactose I could tolerate,
this might not be such a debate.

though I'm sure my body could conform,
but it's taken this long to reform!
from the **** and mucus that is dairy,
that will surely turn your knuckles hairy.

I'll eat a piece of gluten toast,
for it only makes my tummy bloat,
but from cheese I must stay far away,
unless I want my **** to spray.

it's a sign, I think, that my body rejects
such a harmful product, my body protects
but god ****** I want garlic bread,
the cheesey kind, it's in my head...

it’s with a heavy heart that I expel these thoughts to endless seas
toward oblivion I see a vibrant, burning entity
inviting me to spill my blood
and to unwind my mind for him,
with faith I leap beneath and into the chameleon rhine.
Her tide will keep me safe from monsters that I swim among
and current pulls me further, and then pushes me back in again.  
it’s with some heavy feet that I’ll now walk toward the ball of fire;
o’ shame of my confessions please don’t yeild this truth from me.
“I am the only truth,” he states;
we speak for weeks or minutes or days
about purple and orange and yellow and green
and how to see the colours of me;
how the blue isn’t blue unless you really look
and how you can’t believe everything you read in a book.
I tell him of sadness, which dulls his glow.
I tell him of the soulless, which he knows so well.
I tell him about sidewalks and concrete fields,
and how our trees have fallen ill.
and he speaks in short, brash flashes;
he is everything
and then nothing;
he’s gone before I get to say goodbye or really even said hello
and all I know is I’m left with nothing
and something,
and if I keep following the rolling stream
North and South and West and East,
and if I flow as One, surely I’ll find him again
and when I do I'll spill my self;
my mind, my body and this soul as One into the chameleon rhine.

I see a boy who is stuck
with cement blocks on his feet
locked up inside his own body and mind
but the key is on the other side

there’s a postman walking by
he sees the boy through a window
he wonders to himself Why is he trapped?
but more than that How can I help?

the postman walks by every day
bringing him bread and something to drink
he doesn’t realize that this boy
is a prisoner of himself

a little girl rides her bike past him each day
she taps on the window and asks
why do you stand here alone?
doesn’t anybody want you?

the boy stares blankly
she gives him a flower
she says Some day you’ll be loved
but you need to get out by yourself

one day the bread and the water stop coming
the little girl has moved away
the familiar squeak of her bicycle has vanished
and the flower is wilting in his hand

he stands by the window
waiting for someone
and the girl’s words ring in his ears
nobody can help you now

he doesn’t move
he only cries
he drinks himself to sleep at night
with cement blocks on his feet

some time has passed
the girl, now a woman and the postman return
and pass the window
to see a tombstone where the boy used to be

I still think of you some times,
why these wounds have yet to dry
What else could closure be
besides an endless loop of agony
because that's all we've proven to be
passionate toxic ecstacy
that will leave us shrivelled and worn
like a ****** on the side of the road
What a sad sight, they would say
watching us writhe in pain
and when we awoke from
whatever nightmare we acquired
we would try to explain
just how this couldn't stay the same
We would exclaim
that this is the last day
I loved you dearly
And I can only hope my emotions
are not misplaced
and I hope that one day
I will see you again.

there once was an art
fashioned by alphabet
and life and diction,
but the papers have been consumed
hungrily by starving brains
and purged upon the ignorant
to be eaten once again
and precisely expelled;
citations unknown.

everyone's got a little to say about nothing,
nothing at all.

o' turtle in your tank
why do you cry?
belly-ache or heartache;
which is it this time, turtle?

o' slow creature
idle too long
it's time to move on
moss collects upon your back

inimitable armour
to mundane pebble
you transform
in your tank

tell me what ails you
young reptile
do you long for the taste
of sweet algae in a pond?

or has it been too long?
have you forgotten
what it’s like
to be a turtle?

o' solitary being
have you given up?
the glass has bound you
these twenty-odd years

have you grown frightened
of what awaits outside?
you retreat at the sight
of the earliest light

o' forlorn prisoner
hold your breath a while longer
for freedom is bestowed
upon the patient

I knew when I picked that tulip from the neighbour’s yard
that I wasn’t just killing a flower but something inside of me.
I didn’t know what it was, then.


(innocence.

that’s what it was.)

I didn’t know why I told them that I found the flower that way,
broken and left to rot and “all I did was save the poor thing!”
it seemed natural to weave this story rather than confess.

I felt bad about taking that flower. for stealing someone’s
pretty pink petals
that they’d undoubtedly cared for,
pruning and watering,
that’s why they looked so good.
that’s why I picked the best of the bunch.

they knew I did it.
I insisted otherwise, and received a slap on the wrist
no more severe than when I’d pushed my little sister
or spilled glitter on the new carpet.
but this wrist-slap stuck with me.


I’d discovered more than the sweet smell
of pollen or nectar or chlorophyll seeping
out the snapped portion of the stem.
when I told this lie I’d felt a joy in me that as a four-year-old
I couldn’t explain
but it made me warm.

I inhaled the shame and drowned in guilt and I thought
of how I could do this again and not get caught.

I was addicted.


and I knew it, then.

to search for clues beneath the soil;
perhaps it hides inside the talking trees
absorbed into the longing, thirsty roots
is true and beauteous given by the sun.

they mumble -
stifled laughs from the room next door,
but they aren't really happy the way that we are
because her heart doesn't bleed when he isn't by her side
and she kissed another man last night,
not I;
my lips have been yours for 113 days...
and I couldn't count all of the ways I smile
simply from your presence;
there is a bashfulness about myself when you enter the room
and a sigh of relief as we close our eyes together
at the end of a long day,
and it's all teeth from ear to ear, I swear,
when we're together.

/

but lying in bed tonight I don't feel the comfort of you by my side,
rather a weight, extreme pressure as if I'm being pushed...
these words swim through each vessel in my brain before pacing upon my tongue,
all night they pace, as my chest becomes tighter and your touch becomes colder...
when my eyes finally rest I dream of elephants on stilts;
that is my problems which should not grow evidently finding somehow to,
and a mockingbird sobbing, but how do I know that the tears are true?
I once, not long ago at all, longed for the touch that is making me ill,
for the laughter that is turning me bitter,
for the eyes that are making me weep...
no, it is not your mouth that makes me weep, not the hateful language, nor hurtful accusations;
rather, it's how you must see me to allow those notions cross your mind let alone to speak them aloud,
and with such fury...

/

I see through magnified eyes
the binocular kind out of focus
I see with a telescope mind
but I think that the glass might be broken

your face
is a smear on the lens, a bit blurry
and my house, I can’t see from the ground
I got worries

it’s like why can I see
up above it’s so clear?
but I look straight ahead
everything disappears






the anthills have all gone away
you filled them all up with your problems
but volcanos on mars I can see
and each molecule, and their atoms

well that’s just my beauty
I can’t help what I see,
everything’s just so giant
to little old me

and my eyes
the binocular kind, out of focus
and my mind, that telescope mind
might be broken

it’s like why can I see
up above it’s so clear?
but I look straight ahead
everything disappears

we had this identical spat of words
not thirteen hours ago,
in my dimly lit room, with your dimly lit eyes;
I am sure I had wondered if you were present at all.
as desires spilled from my guts
and into empty space to linger,
I am sure they had not entered your ears
because those eyes were on my cigarette and the fruit fly
buzzing ‘round and ‘round.
I wandered to the bathroom sink to stare at my face;
I pretend to be you
and pretend to care about me.
lather, rinse, repeat to get my hands clean,
once, perhaps twice, and I am free;
but how much repetition will it take for you to hear me?

where? in a land far, far away



suburbia about to crack
every Jim, Joe and Jack
solicits money for dope
with no hope for a future
for his kids cause he’s broke


                he hasn’t seen them in a couple of years



                there are all
these mannequins

they walk around like they’re people
they got the houses like us
they got their malls and their steeples

imagine




the hand that feeds them buys ammonia
and they give it to the kids
yeah, they put it in the pigs  
before they’re porkchops and ribs
they take
a little arsenic
and sprinkle it on carrots
because they heard the brand has merit

it's like




a different planet
once they had orange men and pink

and they didn’t get along
they said the colours were wrong

and they fought,
of course they fought
because that’s in all of nature


but they were given a few thousand years
they never quite figured
it out
it was a failure
and they never found a cure
and they never did mature


til the sky

came falling down




and it’s
a different time a different place
it’s not even the human race
but citizens get robbed by banks
held hostage with a gun in face




so I hope
that though the words I speak
are really just absurd
they’ll send a message that is heard




                                     almost there
                                                be the change
                                                          ­    with your
                                                            ­               words.

imagine velvet walls, pianist and violins, moonlight dancing with the chandelier
above; a grand affair.
everyone suited, of course. just alike, shaking hands,

“sir,”



“as you were.”

injection-forced smiles while shadows eclipse their heads, dimming the hanging
diamond lights as they speak in tongues.

laughter echos from cathedral ceilings, spirals down into deaf cellars and
oh, there will be cocktails that night and concoctions that night,
easy, put me to sleep and then wake me back up!
you’ll thank the waitress, politely, generously offering ten per cent gratuity, five
per cent pity ‘cause she isn’t all that pretty…

mirrors noticeably around every corner, catching glances each passing time.
adjust:
bow-tie (check)
cuff links (check)
slight quaff, unwrinkle, tuck-in your shirt. now,
back to businesss!

and dance akin to swaying scare-crow, in some flawless type of wind where steps
match up mechanically, symmetrically; photographer, and pose.
now your face is on the news
and it’s nothing new to you,
the sun could be your spotlight...



so it’s really too bad that the sun can't reach;
that those clouds suspended above you,
well you’re not sure how to rid them or even, really, how to want the warmth.

even the kindest of honeybees will be crushed under the weight of rubber and cloth, a man lacking consideration, appreciation; though he has motivation for the adaptiation of our world in his view, when he steps upon that which composes our earth it is our cue. I know, my friends that condemnation is not what we’d like to see for our nation and as we yearn for preservation while our knowledge moves t’ward annahilation we acquire starvation, gain taxation, and yet we do not question our nation. I will do nothing less than scream liberation; yes, the time has come for our salvation.

shield yourself from winds of shattered glass
sparkling and dancing ‘cross the desert
in a twist of fate
veiled
she emerges
tall with tools in hand
strikes earth with God-like blasts
and swiftly sets the dust by her command

cracked orange and beige line horizons ahead
three-hundred sixty degrees of dry, dry land
sweat drips
from forehead
to feet beneath
but the hot ground drinks
your juice before it can be seen
like the jerky flesh of a jack-rabbit
turned from corpse to some dry, dry bones

follow along the waving, molten paths
seductive tones will take you by the hand
and lead if you beware of the mirage
ubiquitous; devious, ambiguous
so shut your eyes, open your mind
"there will be no man left behind."

in her tracks she halts, and smiles
she rests in place still as cacti
a singular explosion
starts to shatter the terrain
she dives into the chasm
and  begins to dig
and dig and dig;
she builds a home
always enclosed
to dwell, to dig
warm within
the valley of
wisdom.

first
let’s discuss
the girl in the other room

you know the one?
with the hair

who's wearing too much perfume

and those shoes              ha, those shoes!
you know?

her outfit's a costume




yeah, that's the one! the pants… they did make her look* (                                                 )
and her dye job?
heard it’s box

she has a **** job and botox

****, **** there she is



phew...


haaaaay girlfriend
I didn’t see you there!


your hair
is like
so gorgeous!
it's totally a win

and I
am like
SO JEALOUS
of your beautiful
skin!!!!

but could you be a doll
and go find my brother Pete?
I think he might be out front
finding parking in the street


ex…
oh…
ex…
oh…



she totally ****** Pete.

I know, she seems nice but trust me she’s a *****
her legs are always open boys they use her like a bank
I know I’ve slept with like eight guys
I think she’s been with more than ten
I know I cheated on my boyfriend but she totally ***** over men -

Pete! hey,



thanks, giiiirl… love ya!

ex…
oh…
ex…
oh…







so -ahem- this poem is called
*I Thought I Knew You...

I hop into a bed most nights,


                         most nights I take my ******* off and if I’m lucky then there’s something soft like a blanket knit by my grandmother’s hand or sometimes the boorish **** of a man, it’s all the same;

something soft to soothe my soul at night.

sometimes I paint my lips the scarlet of a harlot so that my smirk will weaken someone at the knees,
                         I only hope; and to get into my bed at night they need only say please, brush my dissipated face
with their disappointed fingers
and then whisper you could be so beautiful… and the loneliness consumes me,
then it begins to confuse me
and I could hide in here for days simply staring at a picture,
or I could drink it all away with a girl and then I’d kiss her

    but it’s all the same escape; I’m just trying to soothe my soul with something soft tonight.

I’m cat ears on a cold, winter night;
bite a mouse neck
just for the tease
and let her run

away& life leaks slowly perhaps for
years and those
scars will stay
'til the end.

blooded fang, true love of the taste
of wide-eyed horror,
gut screams;
-- insatiable.

a victim caged yearns affection by
the soothing voice
of a beast
in the dark

but mama kept me far from the zoo.
baby eyes, a woman
never feared
                  so.

there’s evil in the way I sway my hips
                           ( like sailing ships through a hurricane hell )
where heat under eyelids
meets the cold of the outside

and storms are ****** up
from the atmosphere
and through my throat;
they claw and scratch
and make their way down
into my stomach
to sit and swell

( in a hurricane hell... )

there’s something devilish about
how all I want to do is kiss you even though
I know I’ll only **** you in the end

they tell me rainbows, they are somewhere
and sometimes I can feel them,
but you can’t see the hues through the gray and sleet
or be thankful for shoes if you haven’t got feet,
and fireworks can feign the colours so well
but nothing’s real in here,  ( in this hurricane hell )

and if my eyes were cold
and not so ******* old maybe I could see the way you do;
a ship in a bottle.

I was born with an overwhelming empathy
for all creatures encompassing me,
a red heart ready to feel something
I’d never felt before,
I was born
with the ability to love,
and perhaps I’d no say in the matter
but the blood filled me no less and the strings
‘round my organs tugged and throbbed
and eagerly heeded the choir’s demands

I was born in a state of pure chaos, pure bliss;
I was born to look ahead and reminisce

I was born to the familiar it would seem,
the leaves I recognized when they fell from the trees
and how evergreens stayed so ever green;
I’d felt the life of rain in me,
death as cold as Canadian Rockies
all at once with the shelter of instinct
leaving behind nothing but footprints
and running for a different reason
into a cave that says
security and not
top-security penitentiary

I was born, learned and raw
in chaos and bliss,
I was born to look ahead and reminisce

tonight the music is the same; no glitter or fuss, just an excuse to forget.

it's a February blizzard which is the coldest kind
and we'll stand outside, smog-laced snowflakes caress our faces and I'm standing three feet from your body
but I'm warm because I feel close...
or maybe it's the rye.

I've been clutching this bottle more so lately, it's been holding on to me
to the point where I can't see
but that's a trite story, except for the February blizzard,
but even so… it's snow, it's cold.
it's biting, frosty, white blanket kind of cold.
it's a dampness inside of your bones kind of cold.
it's red-nosed winter blues, thirty below with a leather coat, and I'm warm because I forget.

walks on tiptoes; an arachnid of sorts
with ballet legs and great white jaws sinks its
teeth beside the collar of your jacket,
unfastening the buttons to expose
a healthy beat beat beat but the shame creeps
in, carressing a bare torso, looking;
searching for the fat in which to feast.

I will confide in you as the earth does the sun
trusting every ray incessently
absorbing your warmth into me;
I will need you to grow, my sun
just as you need me to balance you
and my orbit to feed the stars to you and help you grow,
my sun.
I will look up t’wards the heavens and think
not about the raindrops striking my brow nor
celestial bodies that keep our universe whole
but at you, my sun.

slither softly so to surpass the sleep-
ing dragon, through the gate he’ll bark, snarling
a heavy hollow bark with sleepy eyes
and hungry teeth, ravenous but he will not
bite through the gate, he cannot so long as
he is not awake; keep face as a snake
and slither, softly, for a snake is no
match for this almighty beast.

walking     zig-
zagged
                    like a contradiction
back and
                    fourth
stumbling drunk
like whiskey
breath

small
talk
                      it’s like an addiction
people pills
wash ‘em

down
up up and away

my deepest empathy goes to anybody who's lost friends and family today. not just in the tragic shooting, but everywhere else in the world, too. see, hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children die every day, some unjustly, but blame will never be the answer. I will work on balancing the negativity with respect, positivity, and awareness; like they say, you can't fight fire with fire. we won't find peace until we release ourselves from hatred, fear, and blame. love to you all, and have a beautiful weekend! ❤

as the savage that am I, tear
into the flesh of the weak and power-
less
my brow is furrowed.
I carry razorblades in my pocket (just incase)
I don’t want to hurt you
but I can

.it’s morning for whiskey in
black coffee
(two o’clock PM never tasted so good)
but who wouldn’t if they
cried until the sun came up?
and then
died.

.but life never over turned a stone
to find a key
hole
that fit your fingers
without break-
ing a couple b o n e s      to find nothing.

such a speech may sound superfluous
as screamed in to the sky each night but know that
such a thing won’t hinder me.
a heavy heart is lightened only by such a redundancy
and to the sky
I scream,
each night I cry:
that if it were forbidden I’m sure you would hear my whispers,
but such a heavy heart
cannot be eased by silent storms
so I scream:
thunderous,
I scream as if I’ve lost my king,
I tell him of our suffering;
through harsh winds of our galaxy
I scream with my solemnity,
he shall indeed our agony take heed.
my voice may wander eons and in fact I hope it so,
for I do not wish to beg and I do not wish
to crawl(once you told me I was strong)
I shall be with you ‘fore long,
this in my consiousness I see
so t'wards this sky I scream,
and I shall scream with no disdain;
my king will guide us with his light again.

o’ face of wicked mystery, with suffering comes you slyly to fool me
with your trickery and play with my naivete.
acquire what you wish of me, some jewelry or my first baby?
such graciousness is never free
                              (however gracious you may be)
                                                      so listen to my one last plea, I will not beg upon my knees;
with revelation you must flee.

beat as a heart should

                  Heart never understood
the motion of Her words ‘cross page
and page

and
infinite
as th’ Atlantic
kindness flies through space;
abandoned.
when He left
She clung
                   to the blood.

beat as a heart should
    
                  Heart never understood
the penmanship,
or heartbreak                       as a muse.

pursuit came to an end,

                  relinquishing  Her pen;
does beating Heart
                    demand the sight to feel?

to tell you the truth – sometimes, I feel quite withdrawn.
sometimes, I feel so tethered down like a hot air balloon in the clouds with an anchor on the ground.
I feel like gravity is holding on too tight, and not tight enough all at once…
the truth is, I don’t know whether I’d rather be up there or down here.
I don’t know where I’d go if I actually thought I had a choice.
the green grasses of Edenborough, the sandy shores of Greece,
that one spot in the middle of the ocean where the waves lie still, and silent,
or the eye of a hurricane making it’s way to land.
or would it be to the furthest star, hidden in the darkest corner of time?
or the smallest atom, hidden in the darkest corner of your mind?
if I could go any where, I don’t know where I’d actually go.
there’s just so much… so much… so much.

I walked down a silver path
silver was the moon, he told me
‘silver is money, I’ve got that’
‘silver is your eyes,’ I told him

I smelled a daffodil
I thought,
but the bright yellow mess was just a ****
nicely dressed

there were shrubs, planted firmly
I thought
until the harsh spring rain
uprooted them in a quick fit

I walked through the night,
dancing
watching the stars, I thought
they danced with me

he watched me,
watching the sky
‘kiss the stars for me,’ he told me
and I did

colours, lights, feeling
and sight
indistinguishable
in the silver moonlight

I was led, then
to an inevitable dawn
and cast into
the golden sun

as an infant born of a silver womb
I thank him for keeping me
warm at night
and I thank him for letting me go

you put peace signs over bullet holes,
you kissed the wounds and you prayed;
oh you prayed!
you said darling, it’ll be O.K.
they laughed because they ******* knew
it would never be O.K.
(oh they'd make **** sure of that)
didn’t you put petunias in pistols?
and you sang and you danced and
begged
give love a chance!
yeah, times of true romance.
well my little flower child
you're all grown up, flavourless,
mild;
I'm looking but
where are you now?
(come back because we need you now)

I thought you'd write about the other night
and you'd turn it into some beautiful dream so that our memories could start to seem a little more pure…
as pure as the moonlight pouring over our bodies,
as pure as your breath on my neck.

sometimes I wish I couldn't sleep at night,
so I'd be a little more like you, my heart would be a bit more blue and my love, a bit more pure…
but for some bitter-sweet reason I sleep peacefully until dawn, and I rise with a smile, awake with a yawn. our intertwined arms unfortunately fading, and it's heart-breaking, but my heart is stronger now, and colder, like a stone;
so I guess now I'm a little like you.

to the immaculately vain;
to the naivity of adolescence and the ignorance
of maturity;
to those who look with their eyes,
feel with their fingers,
savour that which is fed to us
as magnificence;
when you tint lips,
tone hips,
take your trips
please know that what you
see and touch and taste is mocking you.
your eyes are deceiving you.
for it is only the blind man who will recognize real beauty.

I was eight and in math class
and I wrote your name over and over again in my little green notepad hoping that you’d notice or that you’d feel the pressure of my pen tracing your name over and over again.
at the end of class the teacher asked me to walk up grab some chalk and long divide
but I hadn’t a clue and no where to hide so I tried, with minimal effort, to sketch some numbers on the board, curling my 2 and crossing my 7 so that you’d notice me.
I looked at you and your chubby face looked back at mine
and I loved you for a long time, then.

I spit words of lava, pouring passionately down my neck and to my toes; sealing me to this place where I stand, stuck in this place where I stand and my words are too firey for people to hear yet too gripping for them to look away.
and from a distance they peer not knowing how my words will quickly engulf and obliterate them, tearing up the roots of their society, the homes of families of lovers of friends demolished by my words;
my words so vehement they chase these people out of town and although I cannot budge from this place where I stand, stuck, I will ensue terror upon those who cross my path and I will burn those who rest too close to I.

forgive me mum but it’s begun;
frustration’s taken hold,
behold!

been sitting here
a day or year
just waiting to get old…

blood-shot eyes again,
you comprehend?
no **** she’s on the ***

and grasp that ballpoint pen,
again
I hope she’s got a plot

I'm quite sorry
no plot for me,
I’m simply not that able

I’ll spit some views,
I’ll sip some *****,
make poems out of fables

it’s really not that
interesting,
but something in me’s beckoning

to write write write!
so I’ll write write write
while you sleep and work and eat and live;

I won’t eat or sleep or work
I live
to write write write
and I write to live

new is now old,
my fingers are cold and shaking yet I still grasp at what once was.
it's hard to remember you.
fog-headed, I'll close my eyes to try to see
a piece of the past with clarity
like when your heart would beat for me.

like silence, only the sound of our lips
and the backs of my eyelids painting works of art.
like when your breath would whisper my name
and fill the room with ecstasy.

now only one appendage is flooded for me,
and I only feel you angrily
penetrating with resentment
and a fantasy I can not conceive.

but one day we had love, made love; and this is one memory
that above all else I'll choose to carry
in the hopes that it will re-emerge from the hole that it's been ****** into.
though I'm black and blue,
I won't give up on you
but good lord, I feel like I'm dying...

I often wish I were a fish to feel the water cleanse my gills
I’d play all day with mantarays and never have to **** (for fun)

I’d save a whale who lost his tale I’d help him swim along
and if he died I’d eat his eyes and then swim to Hong Kong (for fun)

if I were a fish I’d be served as a dish and probably wouldn’t know why
though my life would be nice and that would suffice
I'd probably have to cry (for fun)

there’s always this voice in the back of my head, mumbling words that I don’t quite understand so for years, I've sat, listening; trying to decipher a code lain before me but with all of the noise that’s around me it’s tricky to see the significant things.
what’s important to us now is presented in dully coloured paper with a number and a face that’s screaming:
we are only as happy as our number, we are only as free as our number;
we work for a number,
while they’re dying for their number.
and what’s important to us now is not what we do, or if we smile when we do what we do but the smile we get at the end of the week when our numbers multiply by a ten, or a few;
we are controlled beings, my friends.
we are one in seven billion, artificially intelligent, thinking we know what we know because we know it and not because somebody else decided that they know it;
so listen carefully, my friends because it’s on those cold nights the ones where nothing really feels real that you’ll hear a mumbling voice,
and instead of pushing it away, embrace it;
because what’s important to us now is more important than ever.

curious to distinguish that which resides within us; defined so greatly by our flesh and the colour of our fingernails and what’s underneath our blouses or the size of his



wallet.
but to figure out yourself is to figure out the universe.

curious as our species is, our species yearns to advance
(quickly!)
and in that acquires indolence.

                                                     ­                            [one home
                                                            ­                      one source
                                                          ­                        one try]

like black molasses, poison gases;
curious as to which race our race is running.
but to figure out the meaning is to figure out yourself.


the blueprints left of thou are hidden in plain sight;
the blueprints left of thou are hidden in the planes (see it)
are hidden in the mountains,
are hidden in the trees.
o’ rotten heavens, fill our souls with waste but veil the orders that you’ve written:

what happens when we renounce?
*to figure out the universe is to figure out the meaning.

oh I don’t know what to write right now
the words are jumbled in my head,
I think they’re stuck somewhere between
my frontal lobe and I’m not good at biology
and they’re becoming overrun by
Cops on the TV
and you chit-chatting,
blah, blah, blah-ing in the corner of the couch
with your plain ruffle chips
and the switch switch switch
of the channels on the television;
you never could make up your mind.

I really don’t know what I’m thinking, now
my vocabulary has vanished in thin air
and did you know Houdini’s straight jacket
is now worth four plus four zeroes?
I know, I know
the insanity!
perhaps it’s a sign, I should be locked up
so I could never charlie horse you when
you **** me off or hide under the covers
when it’s rainy or question the sense
of reason of humanity,
how ironic!
oh, I don’t know what to write.

the winds swept me towards the great birch kingdom,
where thousands of kings and queens pirched gloriously upon their timber thrones
before the crackle of a twig snapped by my toe swept them away.

not long until I found myself upon a mountain, in a cave, where I began to whisper gently to the void
and listened back for days as my voice stayed.

when my finger touched still water I watched the ripples dance for years
until all of the oceans were dancing
and they danced their way into the night's sky.