can there be no shampoos? no cakes?
no ales?
do you understand my
disdain for my own

self? i am alone in a room right now
it is a small room
on the eleventh floor
of a mediocre apartment
in a mediocre part of
the greater toronto area

i can hear bad music 

coming from the room 
above the one i
am currently in
i think it is some sort of dubstep
like, bon iver or something

it is the kind of music that
wins 17 daytime emmy awards
and a ******* from a
dead president of the artist's
choice (a lavish ceremony)

like a dairy queen in
late september, 
i weep creamy tears
that taste like creamy
frowny-faces

i weep creamy tears
over a non-existent
lover who is right now
dancing to bon iver ft. drake
whilst punching me in the face

my non-existent lover is
also a stalwart lover
and i resent that quality

i resent my non-existent lover's
stalwart twitter account, 
too because
it reminds me of myself

Ascend,
***** angel,
Ascend-
Life lived amongst 
the people of the streets;
This is no place for you
Soliloquise lost and abused,
your pain becomes their muse.

Ascend,
***** angel,
Ascend-
Leave this place behind,
Your dove has been shot
And eaten;
Delicate wings 
Have been ruffled 
With tufts of dispair
Intertwined.

Ascend,
***** angel,
Ascend-
Your purity has not
Been lost, set aloft-
Exclaim,
Go back and tell him
We're not all the same

Quite funny how words
arranged in a careful way
can become a sword.

Swimming **** in the river,
a forgotten art since childhood;
he and she redeemed it,
during their love's fervour,
tasting fire.

Fire and water, they played with,
after every dive, her gleaming lips,
met his sun blazed pair,
a subdued thunder
exquisitely shook their bodies
uncontrollably for moments
right from the deepest root.

Giddy with pleasure,
her eyes tightly remained closed,
but lips drank sun
from his lips avidly
without stop.

She felt her body taut,
like guitar strings,
ready to sing.

What he thought was this:
my girl is a red hibiscus flower,
that would bloom, fold by fold,
when tantalizing fingers of desire,
caress the buds,
gently first and then passion's currents
sow goosebumps all over.

She is a vine,
that gets him entangled,
her hands emits sparks.
Flames on her lips,
seek downward path,
and lights the unmitigated
embers of *****.

I'm wondering how passionate
and quite truly immaculate
the rhythm has to be,
for me to see
how every single note
brings a rattle to my bones,
and shakes the fringes of my soul
until I fin'ly lose control,
but then I know,
and every second as it grows,
I start to show
the very essence of the mold,
until my heart decides to blow,
and then I'm left
with all the pieces
of a smiling
abode;
the sonic waves that were composed;
the very rhythm and it's home.

From behind the hatch,
he could hear the groans
and moans
and screams
and cries
of all his former brides.
The wind whistled
through their throats
across bones
and rotting meat
that sounded much like
bare feet being dragged across tile.
But he was safe on the other side of the glass.
In the mausoleum, he could read in peace.
The undead books beckoning
a man burnt from the inside out
to unhinge their fettered spines
and **** ancient dust into his lungs.
But no male authors had left a page in this grave.
Austin to Alcott in the north.
Wilder to Wollstonecraft in the south.
The likeness of Hera sat on the hearth,
beside some red roses.
He had bought them for his funeral.
And against the east wall,
a shadow hung like Fall in December
cried every night at five.
All he had to do was lift her veil
to light the sky again.
She held the key in her mouth
but he wouldn't know.
Instead of leaving his home
with her hand in his
and exchanging pocket change
for a ticket to the west,
he licked his thumb
and turned the page
to find the remains
of a lizard.
He drank the ocean of his eyes that night
and wished again, like he always did
he had kissed someone at five.
But tonight was unlike any before.
He mumbled nursery rhymes as he paced the floor.
And while sleep hid from him behind the moon,
his True Love left the womb to join the others outside.

Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to sleep in a bed with no sheets in the corner of an empty airline hanger.
 
 
Eating ***** is oblivion to millions,
regardless of politics.
 
 
I don't cry when I watch the evening news.
 
 
Pictures from my 4th birthday party,
when I turned 3,
make me cry...
 
 
...for 1 spermatozoa.
 
 
When my co-creators' closed eyelids told me my grandfather had finally passed,
I remembered that I forgot how to make Mac & Cheese.
 
 
Time runs on batteries.
 
 
But when machines grow to match us,
they will one day pass a law against the consumption of sentient planets.
 
 
Still,
some will do it anyway.
 
 
And even if they have televisions in space,
I still won't cry.
 
 
Because we are all machines.

Oh, golden glare of night, be still my art.
Without nightmares, I pray upon the moon.
The lamplight breathes new life into my heart.
Beware of She. No lover is immune.