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.

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.

I once met a man who was crazy.
He worked in a cubicle,
and thought he was perfectly normal.

Then I met a man who was completely sane,
but persisted there be an “in”
added to the beginning of the title.
He paid for therapy once a week.

I swear, they both drove me nuts.

you know when you stand up
after drooling in your coma
of apathy for hours, for days,
and your legs feel like clay?
so numb they might as well
not even be there.
you move at a slow pace
like the tortoise racing
time’s hare.
you wobble and struggle
for balance, for ledges,
for a sense of sensibility.
but all you get is a sudden
shot of tingles as motor skills
are relearned in a matter of
seconds, years, eons.
so useless you are
in these moments of shame.
God forbid there was a fire,
you would be doomed
like the leaves
in the wind;
melted into your sofa
with the ***** hairs
and potato chip crumbs.
an ashy pile of eyes
studying others’ realities
through a plastic box
of wires,
gratified by your
idolized  idleness;
your patriotic
procrastination,
where all your limbs
are forever
asleep.

You tell me you’ll never be
A famous dancer—
—or a supermodel

Nor the century’s next
Glorified *** symbol
Frustrated teenagers
Will never visualize
The curves of your *******
As they ruin your cutout
With their discarded spawn

—Tho’ I am not certain
As to why you would frown
Over such a fact

You tell me you want to be famous
And I ask you why
And you don’t know

I ask you what famous even means
And you shrug, not sure yourself
But you still want it nonetheless
You need it to prove
Something you’ll never understand

Like ice cream
For the ego

I’ll ask the entire globe
And still no one will ever know
Why they have this desire
To be worshipped by all
To have a million arms
Catch you as you fall

But you will never need them
For my grasp is stronger
And my devotion is longer
Perhaps it will last forever
And perhaps longer than that, too

You do not need
To master the world
You do not need
To even be great
At a single thing

You are great enough for me
And I will always be
Your number one fan

Just as long as you continue
To be your own
Human being…

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.

another one died
over the weekend,
this one a black
who dressed like
he was going
places;

he did not go any place,
except the only place
that we all wish
to go,

some day.

they found him
in his house;
he was already gone.

what had happened
was not revealed,
although that did not
prevent others
from playing
detective;

whether they earned
their paycheck
has yet to be
determined.

I hope they don’t
get a dime.

the details may have changed
as the rumors continued
to spread,

but it did not change
the fact
that he was still
dead,

and always would be.

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.

You taught us human beings to sing
over puddles so beautiful,
and showed us lost souls
how to be whole
while the world
fell apart.

You introduced a drug,
purple and chimerical;
intoxicated my way
and saved the stars
before the sun rose.

An escape so rare
and Poetically inclined,
deep in your zone
where even the mosquitoes
hold no annoyance;
you’ve given me the moon
and pointed out
why we love it.

Now I return
the gift of escape
from darkness so bleak;
flip on the switch
so that you will wake.

I swear you just winked
in your hospital bed
up in the moon’s eye,
where Poetry is dreamt,
like you’re having us all on
as you are wont to do
from time to time,
and all those other times
in between.

I return the wink
with the doc’s back
facing toward us
and we try to suppress
our giggles,
lest our cover be blown.

And once we are alone,
I bring out the wheelchair
and bribe our way
to an early checkout.

No one notices
because no one can,
as I push you out the doors
and into the backseat
of our getaway car,
climbing in beside you
and closing the door;
the car tearing off to raise hell,
with Nod behind the wheel,
the Narrator riding shotgun,
Tiny Dancer on the dashboard,
and a little piece of heaven
blaring out the speakers:

we’ve escaped.

Cigarette ashes
spilled on the bible,
while violet lashes
intensified my vitals.

I saw the ashes
fallen from the ember,
such an abysmal symbol
staining thy holy center

with familiar cancer dust,
while unanswered questions rust,
until I can’t believe them,
I can’t believe you,

I can’t believe …

but I do.

Disregard your playing cards,
leave them in the burning fields;
they were fixed from the make,
anyway.

Tear away at your Poetry,
and bury the remains beneath
your weeping willow tree
where the black orchids grow.

Turn back into the fog
to the only home you know;
as opaque as your prefer:
blindness lacking cost.

Abandon the appropriate apparatus;
never to be fit for this dead sea;
it’s all disproportioned,
anyway.

I am the vulture,
the feathered creature,
the afterlife deviant
with an abyssal glow
fading in my aged eyes,
searching for opportunity to rise
as I slice through pessimistic skies.

I am the claws that feast
on those who decompose.
I scavenge all that is left,
the bits no one cared to miss.

I am the devourer
of purgatorial descent,
the digestive system
of a life needlessly spent.
So don’t go asking yourself
where it all went when you’re
building up dust on your favorite shelf.

See, the webs are your mind
and that spider represents time,
and sooner than later it’s gonna die,
but don’t you fear, for I’ll always be here
plunging through the wicked air
ready to scoop up all that remains,
which accounts for a carcass
that isn’t worth a grain
and a family of flies
following you to the grave.

This is you and this is me,
and in the end delusion cries
as it realizes there’s only one destiny;
one final truth for your precious lies,
an honest ending of karma pecking out your eyes.

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.

I assume the worst
out of every occasion.
It is only my nature
to imagine
horrifying reactions
for every action.
Every minute late
is a minute’s worth
of faulty brakes
and stray bullets.

I am not a cynic,
I am merely a writer.
Now I understand
why most of the great
authors of our time
were miserable alcoholics.
Otherwise they would have
blown their brains out
long before they finished
a single story.

I do not ever want a child
to worry over at night,
I do not want to account
for every bruise and scratch.
I can only pray
I never become attached
to my immediate family.
I do not want a lover
to think about
when she’s gone.
It’s impossible to be
together forever,
so let’s not be together
at all.

Fingers crossed,
I will roam alone
until my time is finally
withdrawn.

And with any amount of luck,
it will be before
any of you.

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?]

was much like our first,
my arms reassuring
your every worry,
our lips locked,
welded and padlocked
with the steel
that heaven conceals
at the bottom of a pond
too perfect for those
lacking the Beyond.

My face pressed in your face,
it felt like an embrace
that’d fail to fade,
and years later we
find ourselves in
the same place,
on the last day on earth:
the finale of humanity;

and like our first day together,
we barely acknowledge
there are others around
anyway,

so when the sky comes
crashing down,
we won’t even notice
a difference
in temperature,

with our lips bound
to withstand the sound
of confinement,
and pulverize the lies
of denouement;

and when it is just us left
to waltz over the moon,
you’ll take my hand
and I’ll take yours,
and give those stars
infinite more
encores.

I fell in love
when love was lost;
always the hand
that comforts,
the muse you use
to bathe distress;
and the insects I dissect
to impress the wrinkles sprinkled
along your favorite dress;
forever repressed
are those depressed,
in a coffin shell
nailed
in a satin hell.

Through your
persistent assistance,
we formed an
ethereal resistance
with the stories
that we made,
talked of self-
proclaimed renegades;
fiction more accurate
than the non-;
a panoramic view
from beyond,
just outside
the rising tide
that we love
to criticize
when together,
wielding doubled-
edged blades.

In the chameleon-
esque plains
that we became
one in
our skin, our eyes,
our lies.

Truth was
of no importance,
with invention
a reliance
to our home-
remedied alliance;

the
only
way to
acceptance
being
in[our]sanity.

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.

Oh, mirror, mirror
On thy self-reflecting wall
Honestly, tell me
Who’s the greatest of them all
The answer, of course, is me

in   stores

  now,

also
           in
                 vanilla;

RC Glow.

I don’t like this screen anymore;
can’t grasp words like the past,
definitions or lack thereof.

objectives reveling sonically
with objects of sold bronze.

wired tight
with fire’s might,
as squires fight
over who’s
the better squire,

despite there lacking
a knight, or even a lord.

I don’t know what I like anymore,
maybe it’s aversion,
my preferred adversary,
serving our *******.

there’s something itchy
about this place,
something hitherto
I could not scratch.

now I do,
and it just spreads
the rash,

as usual.

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.

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

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

I cannot wear watches,
for they do not want my time.
My blood is tainted;
poison to their mind.

Long ago, when I walked
my share of sand,
I was smothered
and then punctured
by a villainous needle,
injecting me with
an army’s worth
of iron,
of disease.

Now, as consequence,
I am forever cursed
with the death
of a thousand clocks,
and counting.
With a mere flick
of my marked wrist
I managed to ****
Father Time,
and I did not
look back.

I cannot progress,
nor can I rewind
to a better time.
I do not know
what my future holds,
for I do not have
a future,
and I never will.

My life is destined
to stay
right where it is.
I will not step forward
and I will not
fall backwards.
I will stand in place
without surprise
for as long
as the sun
does rise,
and when it too
no longer
arrives
I will still continue
to live to the fullest
on my mountain
of eternal
intermission.

Someone threw a Molotov cocktail
in the car lot last night;
a flame kissed treetops
and rained glass
upon the street.

A homeless man held his arms out,
eyes closed and mouth open wide,
head tilted back in the ecstasy
of it all, savoring
the raindrops of anarchy.

No one questioned their motives;
no one questioned anything,
anymore;

just went off in search
for a broom.

The next day everything
went back to normal,
and all was good.

There’s a moth in my room
Attracted to the only gleam
Of hope in sight
It has no other plans
Except to stay glued
To divergence

And when I flip the switch
It will once again be lost
In its own backwash
On the prowl
For that one speck
Of light
Off in the distance

Later when I am in bed
Trying to sleep
I will feel its feet
Perched on my neck
Restless wings at rest
Forever blinded by
What it cannot see

Like a string I strum
Like a melody you hum
Like a song sung by eternal wind
A breeze levitating our hair
Two traveling leaves aware
As they float on; entwined
Where it’s always Fall
Yet they never fall
Leaving behind twigs that crawl
In a bright, cement paved trail
Stomped in footsteps prevailed
They continue their journey
A current pushing forward
An infinite gust restored
A beautiful, vibrating cord
That we strum, and we hum
Tunes crafted from our soul
Symphonies orchestrated whole
Notes carried out on our guitar
Carved from the heart
Reminders of how far
These leaves have blown
How high theses wings have flown
Veins which pertain our strength
Arguments never fit to last
Refreshed by our tightened grasp
Returns a yearned relapse
We are they, and they are
Impenetrable leaves
Crumble they do not
A reliable, untieable knot

Limbs stretched, vision ablaze;
home in the dust like a statue
idolized in the center of town
where all of the villagers
have turned to ash
on my behalf.

Leaving me to bathe
in the leftover turmoil
of yesteryear’s quarrel,
refusing to shut my eyes
and allowing their genocide
to penetrate any sanity
craven enough to flee.

Warrior scream in a world
where no one is around to hear,
climaxing until lungs explode,
discharging a cancerous mist
of the forlorn’s plague.

Pleading to the sun,
that ******* sun,
pleading to these spirits
******* with my head,
the ones surrounding me
like a city without tongues,
I can still hear their despair.

Pleading to God,
if He isn’t lost
like the rest;

pleading to whoever
still cares enough
to listen:

*Take me.

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.

there’s come on my sweater
and a knife in my eye;

lid twitches over socket,
fallen out or it will soon;
cancer-infected vision,
come-stained point of view;

ugly and bleached,
rinse and repeat
until it joins trash;
****** laden crash;

it’s all the same,
ply my fingernail back
and feel the pain;

it’ll still be the same;
same smell, same sorrow,

same stain.

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.

You ever see one of those
old guys who spend their days
wandering the town
with the soles of their
never weary shoes?

Their history tends to be a mystery.
Primary family most likely
already buried in a plot
where they’ll be in a few years,
maybe months, or days.
All other relatives
no longer relative.
Left alone with the
sun on their backs,
and the memories
in their minds.
And if they live
in a house,
you’ve never seen it.
Or if they live at all,
you don’t believe it.

And like yesterday
and hopefully tomorrow,
today they’ll walk
and study the alien
replacements
of their youth,
and wonder
what the hell
happened.

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.

There’s a quarter in your pocket,
a place to mourn her lost locket,
the silver heart chain over rusted,
fallen to that sea we once trusted.

In comes the pale man with his stale plan,
his hand like a ghost deceived on the coast;
he has his guitar and you know he’s come far
to spend those coins protected within your *****.

Gladly take your silver linings,
along with all your other findings,
at the bottom of a red purse in your grip.

All a part of the lead curse in your lips.

Like magnets,
we were drawn
in our fragments,
while complex ***
held our best intents,

even if you lost your belief,
despite me being a thief.

The man was me;
a pity you couldn’t see,
although I think you could,
and if not I wish you would.

The powder on my fingers
from the times I lingered
watching your chest move
in your dream groove.

I had to smile
in spite of myself,
all the while spent
and lacking discontent,
as I prowled out the door
and pawned multicolored spawn.

You, my dear, a surrealist;
me, I’m afraid, a realist;
you saw wonder clouds
while I slipped under crowds.

Your quarter fell in the machine
and I dialed a familiar routine,
while you sat by the phone
and continued to be alone.

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!

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.

I used to fantasize
about moving into
a small studio
apartment
in the city,
working odd jobs
to pay the rent
and support my
imaginary
alcoholism,
while writing
my fiction
and watching
the strangers
be strange.

I still do
sometimes.

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.

sinking in
an ocean of …
of everything

dark
gray, pixilated smudge
cigarette burns
on the movie screen

130 beats per minute
banging with fists
fists clenched
grasping
gasping

for
anything
other
than
this

but it’s
too
far
away

and I’m …
who the
hell knows

not here

and
maybe never
again.

As I rode through the wilderness,
split in half by a manmade trail,
I strolled along my own cognitive road,
where I have wondered to wander
more than enough, truth be told.

I visualized what I’d come across
just around the corner; perhaps
a **** in progress, where I’d
put an end to such a misery.
I would be what they called

             “a hero”

and not the fleeing coward
I often felt like.

But empathy killed the damsel,
so I erased her distress,
and replaced this scene
with an act less extreme.

A man with the features
of a cheap stereotype
faded into the picture,
masked in black; he demanded
for the contents of my pockets—

—to which I, of course, refused,
smiling at a chapter
I’ve more than once abused.

A scream of relief pushed
surrounding crows into disarray
as another villain’s rusty blade
punctured my addicted flesh,
leaving behind a scar
for whenever I can’t think
of anything interesting to say.

My mind is full of potential lunatics
resembling a house of bricks
structured by insanity.

But where do I belong?

In the kitchen—
—or across the street?

I was at a musical festival in Chicago
when I witnessed true beauty
in a portable toilet.

All around we were having fun,
sweating, bleeding, dancing,
doing what humans are meant to do
and not what we think
we’re meant to do,
but following what our instincts
tell us to do,
and that is
the natural response,
the correct response,
the human response.

In that toilet in Chicago
I saw beauty at its finest,
and that was a ***
of one dollar bills
drowning in a pool
of ****.

We were above money,
above commercial jingles,
above the tyranny
                      that
                    is
           social
    order.
We were above the clouds
and more so, we were above
ourselves
and everything
the rest of the world stood for.

We did not need possessions
to possess us,
nor did we need
a clean bowl
to *****.

And standing there
in the center of
Humanity’s soul
I took my turn
and ******
on Washington’s face.

Hands twirled in wild hair
Eyes caught in reassuring clouds

Blinking in unison
Bodies sinking in surrounding grass
Sensations wished to last

Two in one
Never done
Moving as a single being
Harmonic lips begin to sing
The lovers' song
To which we belong

A perfect trinity
Of confessional infinity
Whispers into your ear
And echoes back towards me

Peace is here
Conquering any fear




of


falling


Arms            wide               open

Bound in our radiant hue
Forever catching you

Echoes bouncing and spiraling
Aspiring to conspire incessant inspiring
Conceived during connected reveries
For every ounce used to gain our desire
Revealing bliss as we venture higher
A level which can only progress
Living in our own astral awareness

Heart beating at a supersonic pace
A yearned triplet with symphonic grace
As the echoes reverberate through our core
And the two halves beg,

beg

for more...