There was once a time when my wife
would have made a fuss over my nails,
nagged me to scrape the dirt underneath
until I was presentable to guests.

But that was a long time ago,
back when my wife was still in my life,
and not a memory distorting mindwaves.

Now the only guests I am able to endure
are the vultures impersonating Death’s halo;
enhanced in a game of waiting the other out,
determined to last until the other cracks.

The dirt under my fingernails worry me;
ponderings of how long they will remain,
and if I will ever clean them at all,
actions depending solely on
the annoyances of a lost void.

Where are you?

Sponge eyes twisted in duration with the machines
installed six hundred feet under the Earth;
lips chapped and tongue unfulfilled,
a slight itch molesting my throat;
juice yearning, hibernation warning;
total shutdown following global release,
spasms on the floor along broken glass,
content with the shards scraping death
from behind my eyes
and flinging it in the pan
beside my feet.

nose like a sprung hose
benadryl refuses to open
and I’ve had enough of
trying to crack its code

throw the pills across the room
along with the rest of common sense
and punch the wall in with my fist
frustration through malevolent bliss

can’t stand it and I don’t know what to do
you’re so far away and I am acting up again
don’t know how to solve it and not sure I’d want to
unless I could take advantage of my medicine

want to inhale it inject it live it bleed it
snort it but never hurt nor desert it
high on our time and I am going broke
another stage of this ****** up jester twist
and I am not sure how I will ever maintain this fix

this fix this fix this fix
this dream this dream this dream
this memory memory memory
oh my God a memory memory
a memory I can’t even remember now

now remember
no

withdrawn from this life
and drawn into the withdrawal
and I can’t focus on anything else
besides the cracks in the structure
of the building encasing
my own sizzled brain
and the chains that I pay
to keep me insane
insane

keep me insane

Attracted to the moon
with as much attachment
as my mind holds on you.

Distracted by the glow
singularizing its presence,
like when you enter the room
and the music forgets to breathe.

Knowledge of contentment
drifting in this Poetic awareness,
the moon’s kiss like a favored abyss.

High on the chemicals between us,
losing myself deep within
rare subterranean spirals,
where everything is made,
save for the bed.

Whereabouts unknown;
no concern for the burn
inflaming our insides.

Paradisiacal vertigo
swallowing all we know.

Muscles uncontrolled,
voice boxes cracked,
released into the wild.

Nature startles,
flinches in the wind
and whispers in the sky,
boiling *** on the stove
with melting metal.

Aware of the world
spun in unity,
but forgotten of the world
way out there,
down the steps
and away from our Zen.

Rather stay chained
up in the cool dark,
with my lips locked
on your lips,

and my serenity locked
on your serenity,

while the townspeople
continue to ruin
perfectly good
torches.

Curly hair sprawled
out on the bed,
eyes in a trance,
clothes we shred.

An embrace of passion,
desire’s too much;
no more talking,
we speak with our touch.

Glorify your neck,
lay upon it a long kiss,
our bare bodies together;
instinctual bliss.

Slowly move down,
I stop at your chest,
breathe in a ******,
mouth engulfs your breast.

Hand rubs the other,
gives it a little pinch,
soft whimpers fill the air
as I feel every inch.

Brush back up to your face,
I take in another taste,
and you lock your ankles
around my waste.

As we absorb our lust,
we begin to combust
with every moan,
scream, and ******.

Eyes roll back, a release
and a decrease in rapidity;
love and sweat glue us together
as we melt in this room of humidity.

In a dangerous spot where my worries rot,
but never go, no, they haunt me so.
In a deadly place, mind’s bound by old lace,
burning the wick and ingesting lovely arsenic.

Let the unknown take me home;
we’re all depressed, so just let me rest,
lay me to sleep where the innocent weep.

No more comfort zone, now that paranoia’s grown
into my very own silhouette, and yet I don’t regret
looking into your eyes, planting hatred for dreaded goodbyes;
glued as one, impossible to ever be undone.

Days tick by and I can’t help but wonder why
it’s getting harder to trust my shell, this anxiety cell,
trapped by jaded streams and fed by invaded dreams.

Waking sweating of aghast, an era soon surpassed
by knowledge fit to last, so let us take a blast
to a higher moon, where it plays our favorite tune;
together in perfect seclusion, diminishes all delusion.

A bang, a crash, get off your ***,
the Dead are here, for you, my dear,
they’ll steal your time and **** your mind,
tell you how to dress and transform you into the rest.

They are the Dead, but they’re very much ahead

with their gangs, their cults; it’s indeed your fault
that these songs are in my head, brought to you by the Dead.
Corpses lining up from all around, their Queen parading downtown;
appalled how mere strum of guitar free feeble minds to gain thus far.

They are the Dead—too late, you should have fled

into hiding, before it all came subsiding
into toxic debris, due to refusal to disagree,
like rats in the grinder, you can’t get much blinder
with your bigoted visions and hypocritical decisions.

They are the Dead, tyrants in need to shed

their preferences over you, reminding you whom to choose,
all this keeping quiet persuading my brain to riot,
difficult to resist anymore while you worship a *****;
turning the other way from the same old cliché.

They are the Dead, oh how I dread

what this world’s become, how we’ve succumbed
to shooting sprees, sugar music and reality TV;
we’re a lost cause, a wasteland glitch stuck on pause;
and tomorrow you can ensure they’ll start another war.

*They are the Dead, here to stay and to corrupt your head

Stumbling numbly through the dark
with the moonlight upon my face;
sick of this world, the one fed by grace.
I take another sip of my toxic *****;
please join me, I’ve got the graveyard blues.

Kick some rubble, stomp the dirt,
craving a human, some juicy dessert.
Its absence stings, makes me hurt;
am I the only one left to convert?

I won’t have it, I won’t give it,
gonna scratch, gonna burn your skin,
gonna stain the white flag red
and resurrect my beloved undead.

Let’s take a ride and darken the bruise,
only if we erase my graveyard blues.

Curse the soil, raise the zombie,
my little skinny flesh eater—
—ah, there ain’t nothin’ sweeter.

Laugh with my fanged beasts
as they howl at the moon,
reminding me of a familiar tune.

Bring out the blood drinkers
and decapitate the good thinkers;
brains for dinner, brains for lunch,
flesh n’ such the ghouls munch.

Release the creatures from their cell;
again, they roam the night—
—time to raise hell.

Sharpen the claws of my sinister muse,
lend it a blood-inked quill—
—no more graveyard blues.

A whimper at her window,
but no face to be shown;
closet cast reminds her
there’s nowhere to go,
releasing a flash of indigo.

A scratch from underneath,
the cry of the beast;
screams from a demon silhouette,
agony from a possessed statuette,
thinking of anything to forget
the burning of the cigarette.

Wishing for a life
of vampires and werewolves,
she conspires a world
lacking ripped attires;
no more human monsters
and beauty inquires.

She dreams of painless entrails,
creating cognitive fairy tales
where she keeps her wishes
in a cracked plastic jar,
while Mommy has fun at the bar
and Daddy does things of the bizarre,
she wipes away tears from a burnt cigar.

Climbing up from this prolonged descent,
two halves combined being what destiny meant;
losing my discontent, rare of malcontent,
forever yearning to breathe your scent.

An enchantment you present …

Hand-in-hand this world we shall explore;
these winds are impossible to ignore,
means more than some ******* metaphor;
pounding fists against the locked door.

Your mind I do adore …

Together we’ll overcome the conflicted,
negative thoughts vanished, all contradicted;
time’s ******* restricted, frustration’s inflicted;
the hourglass has been thoroughly afflicted.

I’ll survive ‘cause I’m addicted …

Like a match strike, the love’s automatic,
want to join your church, for I’m a fanatic;
your character cinematic, soul charismatic,
talking to you makes me ecstatic.

*I’m your addict.

Walkin, talkin,
blinking, thinking
robots, good thoughts,
futuristic loser characteristic,
hit me, bite me, be very frightening,
please lie, don't cry, **** you, just die,
stick the needle in your arm, lie down and crawl
into this funny room, the place you know to be your tomb,
empty bottles clash linoleum and ratter, sobriety no longer matters,
quickly running out of time, but no knowledge of those you left behind,
wife and kids think you’re not the same, makes you want to blow out your brain
when you see their sadness, so maybe you’ll finally hop aboard this twelve step madness.

Air induces nausea,
hearing spills blood,
sight activates disgust;
this world, it’s just a boil
polluted by megalomaniacal pus.

Sensations unsought,
significance rejected
like a bag of bones
flung in the dumpster
beaten down to thrown stones.

Just close your eyes,
feed on their thoughts,
tighten the collar,
and grind your teeth
into that withering dollar.

Preach the way to live;
how much more should we give?

This sermon fed on lies will be behind your demise;
a loss to the reprise of fading disputes,
uniforms and suits dragging us away
from our dreamt pursuits.

Pulling up buried roots, yet still convert new recruits.
It makes sense naught, perhaps I’m dense,
or better yet, you simply recoil in defense
at the wrongs humans allow to commence,
but there’s a slip on your grip of suspense
for the boredom is so **** immense
and still in rolls the chunked cents
with our thoughts as expense.

Proclaiming yourself lyrical, it’s hysterical;
in truth, you’re nothing more than satirical
of an industrial percent you so vainly represent,
******* about those you resent with a dubbed accent;
you’re long past the extent of accepted discontent;
**** on your consent to understand torment.

Now dig deep into your thesaurus;
again, it’s time for that written chorus,
day through day saying the same old thing,
Benjamin controlling you by a string;
to the table nothing new you bring,
just over and over again ******* us
with your pseudo-cynical sting.

Hypnotic brown eyes, a lovely smile
Watch you strut over, exquisite style
Ethereal odor, arms ‘round your hips
Faces entwined, an attachment of lips

Roaming hands, a ripping of attire
Tumble to the floor, burning the fire
A series of licks, which only persist
Companied by a squeeze, a little twist

Pursue the descent, wet the hot trail
Take a little bite, swallow every detail
Like a puzzle piece, between your thighs
I taste your flesh, vision past the skies

Tongue rolls out, digs into your treasure
You arch forward, moaning of pleasure
Hunger quenched, a rapturous delight
Our souls are one, such a perfect night

I may never have you
But at least I know you’re there
With the slightest possibility
Helping to muffle fear

I may not know your scent
But I know I’d know it
If I could only pick it up

I see you from afar
You smile, you wave
Tell me to set sail
But I lack a boat
And the skill to swim
In these rumored travels
One foot drowns the other
As they forget to say

Drench my lungs
As I weaken in your core
If only I could have
Just a little more
Of your time

You may not be real
But I’m not sure I care
As we’re thrown against
Waves of nowhere

You’re real enough for me
Even if you remain
On opposite sides of circling beasts
I can still imagine your hair
Blowing with the rhythm
Your eyes shining with the moon
Your feet in the sand
The water inches from land

I can hear you call out
Even from far away
Your voice will always
Be clear as day
So I call back

Reaching you as you reach me
Our echoes hold hands
In this swirling deep

O’ sea lips,
If only I could kiss
The salt in your wind
Life would be just

O’ sea lips,
Evil must feed
Patience is our  key
To defeat its greed
And we will laugh
At the pity it pleads
For we have—
—and always will
Succeed

O’ sweet sea lips,
Breathe into me
And I will never breathe you out

There’s never enough time (yet we’re counting cracks)
There’s never an honest line (spat through yellow teeth)
There’s never a clever rhyme (though we’re all geniuses)

Sometimes we’re sick of it (that is, when we think of it)
Balled up fists (nostrils inflamed by ****)
Plug me in to your escape
Charge this battery so it’s fit to last
Inject me with a reality where this is no past

A blank page, for a dead pen
A pretty cover (illustrated by a pretty color)
Flip fast; ignore the digits
Until, alas, we’ve reached the end

(but how did it start?)

Details forgotten; ****** lacking purpose
And we’re left with a spine that snaps
Decayed oak fluttering to linoleum
Bleeding dry ink (cannot refill)
Consumed by second thoughts

(but was there a first?)

Distorted lips agape
(cannot tell
top(?)
from    
bottom(?))

Wrinkles circling bloodshot eyes

(parentheses for what others see and others don’t)

And then we fade away
Drowned in transgressing whiteout

(but where is our epilogue?)

[and therefore, our sequel?]

Welcome to
             Dreamland,
where
            even
the windows
      are
inside out.

I see you there
across the way
with that
       hideous sneer,
and I won’t become
          aware
(until it’s too late)
  of this nightmare.

Too busy lost
in your form.
Seems unreal
but at the same time,
more real
than I’ll ever know.

Are you
      what I fear?
Are you
      an altered image?
                        or a naked truth?

a substitution issued
   by my
      subconscious?

or an unveiled vision
of what I’m too blind
                    to see?

Before I can give it
        anymore thought,
the words leave your
        edited lips
and pierce my chest
like a double-sided blade
of Loki’s caress.

Words escape me
as I gasp
           for breath,
a problem you don’t have
as you progress
           my death.

With that sneer,
                 you twist,
   molding a fracture
useless to fix.

And then eyes open,
I am awake,
infected by a cold sweat
and a contagious case
                      

                       of longing.

My blue shoes skidded against the pavement
as I broke at a dead stop.

Sweat dripping from my brow
and stinging my eyes,
I peered forward at the deer
standing there a hundred feet away
blocking my path, her head faced
the other way, looking at
God knows what, perhaps God
Himself.

I started to edge forward,
my tired feet flintstoning the bike.
I held my breath, but I could not
control my heart as it pounded harder
against my chest with each inch
I crept.

But I did not get close enough,
for a neglected chain on my precious bike
gracefully slit silence’s throat,
allowing its blood to contaminate
the air within.

The deer fled back to her home,
leaving me alone to ponder
what could have been.

And I know if only I’d had
the opportunity
to stroke my hand
along its mischievous fur,
that would have been
the greatest day
of my life,

even if
I lost my fingers
as a result.

In full moon, such a dynamic night is this,
flying on my broom in a sugary bliss;
confidence follows on this perfect night,
but retreats as I come across a fright.

With a flicker of your eyes
I see hints of my demise;
my hand runs along your layers
as I succumb to useless prayers.

You haunt the ominous doorstep;
oh, so many times have I wept
from pondering your amber glow,
malignant nightmares you do bestow.

Stem shakes the imagination,
activates fear’s acceleration,
a burning plague of curiosity
digs into your monstrosity.

A sinister grin scratched into your flesh,
my courage plunges into the thresh;
your creators may label you artistic,
but your luminescence spells sadistic.

There is a path ahead;
detours include wrath and dread.

Grotesque silhouettes
inhaling dismal cigarettes,
hitching along as we try to stay strong;
only purpose: spinning good deeds wrong.

Like malicious spiders trapping us
within webs of oppressed depression,
with options of staying here or slaying fear.

Charge forward, calamity no longer sticks;
time to smash through these enclosing bricks.

Reach out; fingers spread,
nearing the yearned path ahead;
hollowness filling, an embrace willing
to revolve around multitasked moons,
clenching the omniscient strings
of an infinity vermillion balloons.

Fighting toward the destination awaiting,
draining poison from tumors complicating.

Light fall winds carry the deflated away,
leaving us to stay and sway under and over
clouds and seas, surrealistic palm trees.

Thoughts difficult to explain,
yet I’m ascertain of destiny at its finest;
so let mania relinquish,
and allow the folded to unfold.

Fables we’ve told,
soon to be a font enlarged
by reality’s ink;
an endless snapshot
captured by spirituality’s blink.

Intoxified,
out of my mind.

Paths intertwined,
running blind.

Straight ahead,
where fate bled

a new destiny,
for only you and me.

Your cosmic grace
reinforces our embrace,

as waves of affinity
guide us for infinity.

Spiraling beyond
any anomaly ever spawned.

Expediting faster,
smashing through disaster.

Dual impenetrable grips
fueling a paradisiacal eclipse.

We drift within the moons,
floating along vermillion balloons.

Impressions in the sand;
together, forever hand-in-hand.

Chest heated,
gravity defeated.

Lights are so bright,
different shades, all right.

In a linear pool
I always cough cool.

Lungs are so warm,
hooked in the swarm.

I roam this street
craving red meat.

I want to kiss you,
euphoria’s so blue,

despite a new world,
still need my girl.

Smile like mine,
dent that thin line.

Drift off to sleep,
never again weep.

Blood is so clear,
we have no fear.

Inhale our warmth,
this is rebirth.

In my sleeping bag
drawn by a drowsy pencil
and a fragile grip, ******-esque slip;
paper wings blur together,
lines like stale rivers
converging into an ocean;
lids heavy, drool present,
in the spirit of creating
untitled Poetry all night,
but the ***’s worn off,
and now I am ready
to leap into that ocean.

Gone!

Teeth like a chattering cage,
spit trickles down my chin;
a lost age insane with rage
originated from an unknown cause.

Effect!

All that you affect connects
like a forgotten dream
returning to focus,
lens cap unscrewed,
tinted glass rendezvous with you
and the rest are plenty *******, too.

Suspense!

Intense instrumental theme
heard once in last month’s dream,
tho’ it’s hard to recall the rest,
save for the way you were dressed
in that gown covered in dismal ash
and the sound we made as that bus crashed.

Death!

Interrupted breaths everywhere we could look,
blood streaks in our hair and in our eyes,
with vague corpses sprawled out on the road,
the heat pulsating on the pavement, soon to explode.

Premonition!

Grungy revved engine of a soul bound for hell,
followed by a gargling fit of a throat slit well;
a thousand ****** of a thorn bush behind my eyes
welcoming me to the world before my love dies,
proceeded by a man who couldn’t see the stars,
and now he sees them fine but it lacks the grace
that intoxicated his state whenever he saw your face.

Regret!

Wish I’d lost that game of roulette instead of you
as my lonesome legs dangle on our rented crater
on our empty moon shielded by those clouds
that once made us so **** proud;
now remorse’s just so **** loud.

Silence!

Occupied by fits of violence in this web of mold,
folded small enough to slip right through my pocket
and those ****** are enraged as I claw my socket,
but of course that only inflames it even more,
pumping steel on this bus and I’ve locked the door;
salty bliss in view where I’ll finally join you;
forgive me dear, this time I’ll help you through,
revel as I tune in to your luminescent level
where we’ll bathe in our sublime crescent,
sealed in the splash of my welcomed crash.

Home!

Within I endure madness
while outside I lure sadness.

Feeling like a biblical man
on a quest for his own grail;

averse trials mentally fixated
on a mountain universally hated,

conjured by the monster’s plague
inhaling a cloud of enemies.

Battles of the paranoid schizoid
unleashed on common ground,

soaking in a dagger’s blood lust;
and at the finish line I do trust

comforted warmth will embrace
my exhausted thoughts at last,

and will grant them freedom
like the dying man’s wish.

Dehydrated by an empty canteen,
I can hear the drops at the bottom
but can’t seem to shake them out,
and my tongue is getting so dry,
crackled like a gunslinger’s boot.

The sun is torture, and it’s here to stay,
but what about you, are you staying too?

Lick my lips and it all but kills,
so weak in these times of despair;
my lungs need your damp air
and like a fish, like a fish
I’ve become addicted
to your sweet liquid.

Need to drink you in,
have to breathe you in,
and forget to exhale,
and you’ll drink me in,
quench our thirst,
inhale our scent;
like cool cement
we are content
to be addicted
to our liquids.

Want to bathe in our thick waters;
encase our lungs in an aquarium
with a castle made of sand,
and poison the other creatures
so we can swim in peace.

Overwhelm the tank,
all that we can take,
‘til parallels begin to shake
and our surreal liquids
are their own **** sea,
and let us float, and let us be,

and once we’re finally down,
let us drown.

tears infect her eyes as she hears his car
pull up in the drive she knows he isn’t far
lights stroke the wall he’s returned from the bar
and white heat soothes the anticipated scar

drunk again he stumbles through the door
he smells of rage and his words are a slur
fists are balled up and he’s hungry for more
violent bursts delivered to a lying *****

lips quiver to be silenced further she is unable
she screams as she slams the glass onto the table
it shatters like her spirit she is mentally unstable
tonight is different she will be the one to disable

even though it was inevitable his eyes open wide
as she leaves her shell she will no longer have to hide
she reaches under the pillow and lets her hand slide
until she finds the pistol and god knows she has tried

but she already knew the attempts were no use
should have walked out long before the abuse
moved on to a better life away from this recluse
she knows this escape he will never refuse

deep down she accepts it’s either her or the other
to fix this snapped wire when he will never bother
too many nights spent in tears there will not be another
so with a grin she shoots down her daughter’s father...

Isolated in the shadows
kept away in storage
above his head.

Directed downtown
where the strangers
tended to hide.

Accompanied with
a pack of matches
and a money jar.

The jar was empty,
as was her stride;
a hollow center.

Nobody noticed,
save for the night ice
bullying her raw.

Tried to keep warm
by a cheap timid flame
ablaze in delusion.

Hallucinations kept
her sanity at bay
until the final fade.

The next morning
the matches were gone,
and so was her mind.

Body frozen stiff,
she chose to remain
in those lovely flames.

dystopia, where are your welcome bells?
utopia—must have missed the exit.
oh *****, I’ll gladly breathe your scent
if you’ll calm this paranoid cursive.

drag me from this bush
and introduce me to a forest
to claim my own.

skipped the chalk
of enlightenment,
and landed on a crack
and sprained my ankle.

head beating like a popcorn machine,
membrane popping in the sun,
sweat pours through ****** doors,
drenches my senses in gasoline
while a mosquito strikes the match.

pupils flawed by nails clawed,
bloodied sockets gouged
to forget to remember
and to remember to forget,

to stop thinking about life
after it’s all over,
and when that will be,
just let it be,
you and me?
relieved free?
maybe …

… and maybe flesh will sizzle to the bone,
maybe I’ll scream and moan,
and pound my fists into my skull.

hamburger raw,
soon to unthaw
in the flames
driving sanity
insane.

posture with the shakes,
productively stressed and
destructively depressed,
I just want to shed my clothes
and drain my lungs into the moon,
like a wolf without reason,
without a single concern
except for me and the moon;

the moon and I.

Pencil shavings spilled in the drawer,
layering over my cerebrum cortex,
like fallout that fell out from my sleeve,
shaken down with me to the ground,
but bound never to leave.

Despite all this,
the pencil tip still snaps
whenever it feels my pain,
regardless if it’s invented or installed.

A thousand pencils broken in my grasp,
yet no words ever seem to last;
rhetorical questions and questionable rhetorics
jabbing my eye as if I’ve already worn it,
but the fabric feels more new to me
than the first day I bought it,

and I can’t remember
what I did with the receipt;
think I might’ve lost it in the gutter
with the other organisms
that were no better;

but maybe, if you would let it,
I could try my luck with some store credit.

United, a day feels like a second, at most;
apart, a day feels like a year, at least;
and in my thoughts you’re like an eon in rewind,
memories, past and future, lived and invented,
slow me down and speed me up,
blood pumped in a plastic cup
fed to you through a solid tube.

So anxious in these dark times
as our internal instincts take over
and rule the peasants out on the street,
I am the king and you are the queen,
and these ants are the jester in our court,
so make us laugh, funny man,
yeah, you make us laugh.

Clouds blind the sun,
shielding what we’ve done
and will undoubtedly do again
whenever the chance arises;
fog banks keeping us safe
as we shed our clothes,
and I kiss your nose,
and continue on below,
an adventure we both know;
always much more to learn
as another day turns
and our craving returns;
we feed on knowledge
and warmth sheltering us
from this starvation
of each other’s salvation;
such wicked dehydration
eternally quenched by
mutual infatuation.

Pressure between your shoulders,
shaping your spine; shadowing the blind,
stress relief through ancient grief,
tho’ less wise you’ll still criticize
the actions of your reflections
painted in the mirrors leaking nightmares,

And in the end you’ll still evaluate
only when things aren’t great,
while I’ll continue to *******
on these precious tectonic plates,
painting over the old world
with new shades of chaos.

We’ll ***** and moan until we all grow old
and increase the fire until someone puts it out,
and yet we’ll never know what it was all about.

The answer buried under the aged wonder
flowing beneath my chambers,
never to be uncovered
until everyone is in the pit,
skeletal ash, so delicately rash,
now consequences return
as the careless burn.

and we are our own ****** hot spots,
erupting over your own ****** thoughts,
mixing lava where it doesn’t belong,
and ******* your world into a massive batholith,
a dried chunk of a once damp heart,
now contemplate how to complicate
and begin again from the start,
until the pressure of it all relapses
and from within a fatal collapse,
Poetic caldera relinquishing the day,
and all that you know will be broken,
and all that you don’t, you won’t.

Building up until you’re breaking down,
closing in until they’re all around,
fish like thoughts like robots in reverse,
like a curse in clockwork in which

you've forgotten how to flip this switch
from off to on from dusk ‘til dawn;
boiling point to make you clench,
teeth gritted and nerves pressed,

cerebrum stressed like a suicide hex
wearing you until you’re skin and bones;
zero fat and a bundle of mistaken homes
but none your own, like an infant alone

abandoned in the freezing cold,
no sense of the blessed nor the rest;
calming tears for misguided fears
shed along the wild prong,

poked and bled into those ahead
of your own flesh and bone;
with tension evolving to apprehension,
nails dig into palm as you learn never to stay calm.

Over time we lose our mind
deep in valleys indiscreet,
bound with treasures buried behind
the empty vessel we’ll one day meet.

Searching for an answer to it all
even though it’s written on the wall,
blended in with spare last words
engraved along the bathroom stall.

One day maybe we will see
the bottle floating in the sea,
and unwrap its final note
to reveal what destiny wrote.

Can you feel the distraught knot
suffocating the veins which keep you sane?

Melanoma of melancholy’s coma
inflaming the reins attached to mares

leading us into inevitable nightmares;
valuable stallions influenced by fiery battalions

with the scarlet eyes that makes the harlot cry
in the depths of nerves long burst, retinas forever cursed;

visions plagiarized by the pseudowise,
those not destined to die

now tip their glasses and dine;
a toast to regretted time.

Bold texture, innards feasting
on an empty mixture
of this, that, and the other,
and whatever else that feels
like sticking to my shoes.

Can’t conceal your fear, nor mine,
of being left far behind
in the blood dust and crude crust
plaguing our teeth
and all that **** underneath.

Oh, what is this?
I don’t even want to know;
you say you’re alone
and I say I am too,
but who was it that first blew
air onto the other?
and who was it that first said
don’t even bother?

Bold eyes staring into these cold skies,
ice on the sheets chilling our blood raw,
freezing to the point where we can’t even fall.

We’re so raw,

and you’re so wrong, and so am I,
and I’m so right, and so are you,

and answers don’t even matter
when you can’t remember
the question you wanted to ask,
like the future and the past,
and this ******* present
wondering where it all went
when you had it in your hand;
come up with another plan
to make up for yesterday,
you bold clever man,
and compensate for what you’ve wronged;
could have said it in your sleep
and shrugged the thought away
like a broken microwave.

Wait, there’s always time
to **** up and shut up and build up
until there’s nothing left,
until there’s anything but it all,
until we’re so **** raw,
arms out but we’ll never fall.

Stop and explode before our hearts implode;
yeah, it’s a mess, but I digress,
such regrets, like a hole,
why aren’t we whole? why so ******* dull?
and we were just on a roll, it seems, such deceives;
juxtapositional dreams aren’t so rare
when you’ve misplaced the world
and we stop to care; where did it go?
oh, we were once so bold, long ago,
when our shoes were so clean,
and dreams were easier to believe.

Such heavy weights straining anticipated dates,
with dysfunction swallowing eternal junction,
the shadow people bait us into nevermore
and then they seal the door.

Swiveling in my chair;
chivalry’s not so fair
when you aren’t here
to compare

the ducks in the pond,
where we used to ponder
temperatures on the other side,
and wonder

how much bread we needed,
and where they went in the winter
when wind was thick with frost;
how bitter

life seems now in my lazy chair,
lonesome feet limp on the ground,
with thoughts of your touch
spinning ‘round

my mind; consuming my time,
memories like scrapbooks
flipping from front to back,
with looks

that excite me years later,
as I dwell in my little chair
and you sleep under covers
we share

two thousand miles
away.

Dirt from under the tire swing caked into my fingernails;
so raw, they’re beginning to hurt like hell,
layers crusted upon layers until they’re busted.
You can smell the smell and I can tell
you’re disgusted.

You shoot me down
with that knowing tone,
as if you’re too good,
as if I’m just ****
with ***** fingernails,
with that *** that shakes in your stride
as you walk away from me,
as you shoot me down.

I’ll shoot you down.

You leave me trembling
in my wake,
in my sleep,
as I shake,
as I weep.

Soon you will tremble,
and I will win,
and after you’ve realized
why we’re perfect,
you will also win.
.
We will tremble.
We will win.
We will love.

Perfume savored,
I return to my sanctuary,
my four walls;
walls stripped of character,
walls strangling my mind,
a mind running out of time,

and the cellar door
leading to my dirt floor,
where I can collapse
on my knees
and scream pretty please,
and pound my fists
into my skull
until I bleed
enough sin to succeed
in my goal of filling
a paradoxical hole
eating my stomach
to shriveled bits.

Crimson tears forming puddles
to drown my fears of failure,
I continue to formulate your ideal man,
so you will be my ideal girl,
and together we shall rule the world.

I pry at magazines with cutout eyes,
I dine with your hologram,
but it’s never the same.
I need the real thing,
I need you here,
underneath me,
on my dirt floor,
where you are mine,
evermore.

When I am through,
flowers will grow differently,
and the moon’s glow
will never glow quite right again.

Music will sound completely new,
histories forever tainted,
our love will stay true.

When I am finished,
nothing will ever be the same.
They will say nasty little things
that you’ll never hear.

They will say I’m crazy,
and they’re right:

I am.

I am insane, but at least I know
I am the rain and I am the snow,
I am the cloud destined to guard you
until the sky falls down.

I am the hand that comforts,
the lips sewn into your own,
the bleeding heart dying
beside your bleeding heart.

I am the creator,
and you are my prize.

Claim thee I shall.

My fingers bury themselves
in my cellar floor,
as I try to grasp
how to make you happy,
how to please you,
how to complete you,
how to have you,
got to have you,
need to have you.

Must have you.

Fingers so *****, it’s sickening.
Maybe one day I’ll cut them.
Maybe one day, a lot of things will happen.
When I’m finished with my project,
maybe that day will come.
When I’m done building your present,
maybe you will have me.

When I’ve built your man,
maybe I’ll build you.

With a toolkit like mine,
there are no exceptions.
I can reject your rejections,
and accept my paradise.

Madman’s fingernails
claiming handfuls of hair,
so stressed, so pressed,
trembling on my workbench,
striving to at last add
the finishing touches
on our present,

the one I’ve built
just for you;

my magnum opus.

I hope you like it.

Night air, so tranquil,
accompanied by you and me,
and an ever gentle breeze
soothing our decree.

Words so soft,
spoken like raindrops
making love to a puddle;
majestic discretion revealed
to the only two willing souls
savoring the sky.

Nineteen hours away,
you still manage to sink
into my welcomed chest
as our synched eyes caress
a harvest moon at its finest,

the royal glow ascertaining
a profound truth heavier than
the radiant Venus hanging below
on its translucent string,
swinging with the stars,
swinging in our arms,
in our hearts;
evermore.

Phone call notification;
monotone robot
delivering its message:

your book is now available to pick up;
report to the library at once,
lest your order be returned,
come alone, but bring your phone,
never fear, I’ll meet you there,
as along as the machines inside
continue to ride,
so will we.

A chance of escape
via a rare break
in a wall trapping us all
in our own separate rooms,
offering opportunity
away from private tombs,
and to each other,
to which there is no better.

Once given word of flight
I rush through mountains
just in time to arrive at your side
through the front doors
of our utopic pharmacy
in which we’re prescribed
spiritual medication
to relieve distress caused by
perpetual determination,
the pavilion where we practice
mental meditation,
forever joined
by reciprocal warmth
and whispered kisses.

Frantic fingers traveling
at the pace of haste as we taste
all that we can in the given span
we’re allowed for the moment:

the present escape formula
we’ve used and abused
will only last temporarily,
but it is enough to keep blood
flowing through our veins,
just the cathartic saunter
required to remain sane.

I can’t decide whether
I love you more than I hate you
or if I hate you more than I love you.

I don’t know if I should kiss
your sweet salted lips,
or strangle away frustration;

with a simple stroke of my hand
I can deliver you to bliss,
or deliver you to the clouds.

I can make or break
this entire glacier
in just a few words,
melt away our sorrow,
or freeze our guilt.

Now if only I could
make or break my mind,
then I could finally put an end
to this fatigued suicide.

there is a man,
was never much for plans,
just wants to fight and ****
and drink and cuss
and one day he believes
he’ll sneak downtown
on this bus
he’s been watching
for quite a while,
and he’ll happily go
wherever it goes
just as long as no one knows
his name, he thinks
he’ll finally be sane.

*

brain relinquished
of all thought,
save for the liquor
he bought
at every truck stop
they stopped at
as the bus filled up
on gas
and the passengers
filled up on candy,
and they didn’t
ask questions,
they did not
judge him,
they left him
completely alone,
and he was perfectly happy
to be going nowhere
as long as it wasn’t
the same nowhere
as before,
and the man,
he couldn’t ask for more,
no, he could not
ask for more,
he did not want any
more.

Fingers caressing delicate piano keys
along the softness of your spine,
arm wrapping around what is mine
and pulling you closer to what is yours.

Your head resting against my chest,
eyelids heavy with utmost content
as outside waves rebel on the shore.

I kiss the top of your tired head,
wild hair tickling my lips
as we trace sleepy circles along warm skin.

The night comes to a rest
and we are too exhausted to protest,
caught in the peaceful silhouette
of a moon yawning its melody.

Our embrace intensifies
as two fated raindrops saturate
into the same leaf.

Maybe we’re all better off dead,
I ponder, as the thoughts replay
again and again throughout my head.

And when your ponderings can’t focus
long enough to match with the last,
you have to wonder if perhaps
you’re already completely ******.

****** of thought,
****** of fresh ideas,
****** of it all.

So **** it all.

— the motto of a thousand deluded slugs,
bugs lathered in slime; thoroughly spattered
with imbalanced chemicals of an imagined time,
                                    
                      ­             and I couldn’t agree more.

Head pounding
at the insensible drum roll
of the closing in
overwhelming mass
of dull hysterics;
the ever present drone …
                      I can hear it …
                                 I can’t bear it …

destroying me from the inside out
                     until I
            implode
                                      a sickness
infecting all pure stars reflecting
across a lake
contaminated
by a thick oil
lucidly pleasing the spoiled,

and      I’m         thrown
          right in the
              center
sinking
            at
                a­ slow
                          melancholic pace,

like quicksand you’ll never understand,
a liquid so intolerably bland,
I’ll be relieved when my lungs finally
                                                         ­    collapse
to this long awaited lapse
of closure.

Do not try to grab my hand.
I wouldn’t even know what to do
with dry land if I had it.
Let me dissolve with the fallen;
I’m already deeper in
than I am out, anyway.

My interest has long since faded.
Can’t relocate purpose for the Word,
for I am ever bored, and you can feel
rest assured there is nothing more.

No ingenious plan for escape.
No story-arch that hasn’t already been repeated.
No conclusion that I can’t predict.
No two-faced intentions that won’t contradict
all the reasons I used to enjoy those creative seasons,

and I can feel the decomposing treason
chilling my heart to its core,
like a rancid breeze stirred just for me.

Left with no purpose, no drive;
on the inside, I’m not even alive.

In the mirror of my spirals,
hazel perceptions translate
candid reflections of flesh
once mistaken for wood,
carvings of a surrendered soul,
a spirit left less than whole,
of when depression gladly paid
its miserable ******* toll.

Dark jagged lines imprinted
across skin once pure,
stigmas of the past
reminding me that storms
can always be darker,

but you know, they can
always be clearer, too.

Medicinal steel awaits
the shadows of history,
eager for my touch,
for the thrill of the slice;
distraction through mutilation:
humanity’s haunted vice,

wherein I am not looking
to ease the pain,
but to intensify,
to charge an overload
on my overworked brain.

Reflecting reflections reflected,
I reflect on the repercussions
of thoughts lost too deep
within its own mind.

Lightning flashes,
only it’s not from the sky,
it’s from the hands
that break your fall,
the hands you use to crawl;
I saw them in your grip,
cellular migraines
surrounding me in the pit,
flashing out of control
like a industrial seizure on a roll,
standing perfectly still,
row after mindless row
like a haven of brain-sizzled zombies
recording priceless moments
to enjoy at a later time,
contaminated by a screen
pixelating a musical dream,
and that’s exactly how I felt
in the center of the attraction,
cord after lyric after cord
ruined by modern distraction,
and despite the following talent
being the pretty reckless,
it was still pretty obvious
we’d remain being
the pretty restful.