Government housing,
shoelace subway station loans leave me barefoot across the hardest asphalt amazon.

Waterfall language blended with high volume.
It's like a bathrobed foreigner near luggage pick-up shouting:
"It's too late to catch the end of the world train".

The clocks fixed to bomb tickings
that run the routine,
Sure to schedule human collateral in between the minutes left trickling behind when breaking speed limits;
2 alternate realities late.
(Half past Valhalla, a block down from Revelations.)

Fortune's told at palm reading's for my corpse that's in the wrong casket,
Cast by astrological accident to substitute in place of a forgotten friendships funeral arranged by bothered bitter *******.

Attack, Attack.
Button-mashing masked mad-hatters.
That was only the beginning to the wrong and the bad,
Fresh records in the back of arrests from a past not silent enough yet.

Bored to death at ceremonies,
Only half-dead.
Necrophiliac moonlight vengeance.
Grave robbing ****** robin hood lost his head,
to bones with needs defined undead,
Chatter-box bones with no speech, not even a sentence.

Running out of flesh,
Where's the after-party at?
Lady lust's licorice and liquor.
Swim, saliva swim quick away from a swollen tongue slobbering atop questionable discrediting concrete bedding.

Cannibalistic women,
A cobblestone late as far as bedrock goes.
Stone age-there's already a hole in my chest, deviant harlots as friendly as each fiendish enemy.

The last thing I'm worried about is sinning,
Bare mental calendars, the time machine is dead again, so the phone's out.
Leave a voicemail for revolutionary surgeons slurping down some drowning organs,
small-talk with full mouths waging bets,
Scrap fed dogs, play fetch.

I'm in love with cemeteries,
So where can I get out of this herse called a cab?
Drop me off the next rooftop,
Native tourist under the influence but above sea level smashed.

New Yorker demography photography;
Beer goggles project a building beautifully swallowed by orange and American debt.
Dollar store flip flops found on the 3rd aisle next to molded bread.
24 stories up I slip off,
Dizzy from endorphins; Such bad luck.
Gravity woke me up on the wrong side of the bed.

Wrapped and trapped in grade-school canvas.
The drawer cargo: one fragile motel bible...missing pages.
My rolling papers shooting blanks.
Bankrupt, blanking out on tasteless wallpaper shades of a sadder sage.
Cranium parking lot reservations, space ranging from heart attacks to a redness on my iris blacked.

Do fractures need artsy autographed casts?
On the inside harder scars represent bite marks wolves left with their teeth after their dinner had been blessed.

I can get some 3-quarters of American rest,
Shake hands with death, and consider snatching a scythe to slaughter house guests.
Lethargic, body separate and apart, ornamental limbs decorate and compliment the  curb's new color coat;
A fresh, wet, white and red.

Illegal answers require psychic invasion,
Personal opinion poses dangerous hobbies.
Thought police outlaw; evasion,
Applauds fourth-dimensional bodies.

If lifespan be as a labyrinth,
And garish men of magicians,
Are blessed with luck and wisdom.
If we bloom as imperialists,
And abandon our traditions,
Then it backfired, teaching us to think independently but listen.

Some advice screams truth aloud.
Too poor, for this is the minority,
Now the scene of this ****** thing is crowned.

Dim lit street lamps; slow dancing silhouettes.
A kingdom falls and it kills the sound.
Where we question lies here and there,
Here, then there, cancer coated lessons-
And long conversation that only wonder of more, hollowing an aged box of danger.

It has only taken every single descendants chances,
and we've trophied our lack of community.
So we've taken up advances, and embraced our anonymity.
More secure in loneliness and his companions,
Because fear is a world built for lost men with a common trait.
Their demeanor cheers:
"Abandoned, Abandoned."

-Traversing dust-riddled attics,
Discovering volumes, the journals of addicts.
We make the vices so dramatic,
Pray sweet no sinner, leaving gods post-traumatic.

Paperback letters,
Another waiting for the weekend.
Another fix, and I'm complacent.
Another deafening regret.
Screaming in my ears,
My pulse excites, vacation.
Animus gone racing.
You can't see it, but I swear it's there,
I don't know what you see in material things.
It doesn't hurt, but it bleeds.

Ghost towns, we,
The apparitions,
have minds so twisted,
It's Cataclysmic commonplace,
And these are some sadistic statistics.

What is the damage?
The telephone whispers, almost dead.
Another crippling harlot,
Internal bleeding,
And a few scars left.
A question lingers in the atmosphere.
Will I die like this?

The grass is green, and you can hide in your lies,
But know there's not much luck on the other side

Now?
I don't ******* care,
I don't...care.
Because all I consist of is a lost cause,
A lost cause with burdens to bear.

All of this conversation piece casts,
Yet I plant enlarging gardens.
Mother warns and Father mourns;
You'll reap what you sew, and finish what you've started.

Household horror story,
moaning and groaning and talks of hell.
Award-winning wintered heart
Burned the millionth ironic degree colder.


All-american, classical religion; a cult's worried storybook.
Gears grinding within a machine fit to sell.
The saint stays sinning while I rust nigh twin decades,.
Along the way,
Cemetery silence and  vesper's nine raised my entity centuries older.

Salt-water sea folds offer flooring,
Riverbed full-house cathedral; blasphemy.
I stand and mimic a missionary, touring.
Nostalgia.
This all reminds me of home, though now it's not we who sit in
permanent pews snoring.


Forgive my old identity and it's abuse of me.
Forgive me and my use of we,
That I don't seem dull for my mind's eye's sight strayed... For a few thoughts.

Retrospect depicts life lived selfishly in leisure.
Mocking, spitting in the kindest face still surrendering, and...
I'm lost and content, drowning in thought again.


Thought...
An infinite, sacred journal.
A closet, save a doorknob, because no key is needed inside the bedroom's housing our souls.
Where god's children fellowship among the angels.
Or those like us fall for demonic hypnosis, with no need to say farewell.

Thought.

A trap, a gravesite, a laboratory.
A map of your life, or the origin of our own self-inflicted boring.

Our thoughts are forever ours, under any circumstance.
Even those of us that greet the sun on a grim crossway sidewalk, shaking with violence,
Internal, external,
Cold and wet.

To compliment the poetic beaten bones,
holding in place sentences scribbled across worn cardboard that whimpers...
That whimpers something so human.
To regular passerby's this is meaningless and mediocre.
To the youth, a sick humor for spoiled wannabe's and jokers.

Personally, and with whole heart my pen exposes sorrow, empty of any patience left on a fabled morning for that imagined intersection, or that city.
I saw humanity in broken cursive ink,
Cursing under sighs I saw what connects it all in my eyes.

It will seem radical, and hollow in meaning but I feel there exists substance behind this being's...
Expression.
I say there is depth.
I spoke the universe in my interpretation of the cardboard sermon that read,
"I don't want your pity, I want your pennies".

Consider with I, 'thoughts', again.
I consider, that if anyone were to remember the phrase connecting both, with distaste or sympathy.

No war hero, no slave to addiction;
The most ancient ideas of enemies, but neither side fate favored on what's given.
Be witness to our ignorance,
Where one another we could give our petty...nothings.
To save a life, or many.
To save our world.

We submit no rag the value of one single rich,
Gift no population with hope to survive and forgive.

Millionaire beggars scatter 'round plenty,
And their wealth will stay fictional,
But don't you agree their thoughts have stayed many.
Their pockets are empty, save their thoughts, which are infinite, and continue.
Endlessly.

I thought I was on my way home but who's to say I got the right directions;
Curious and afraid so I dissect myself like an insect,
Parts of me scattered across this city like windshield manslaughter at an intersection.
The sky wept with harsh cry and pained screech; the clouds evaded.
I could use more shade for ***** deals in shady places,
Dark corners and alley way sections where the shadows burst and cross the line to devour my body and run the worst parts of my mind.
Where did I go wrong? How am I not dead?
How did a silhouette become so mislead?

There's no salvaging anything. I rebuilt and in the end everything returned to being burned.
I'm alive in the furnace though my ashes have surfaced.
Or really I am dead and what you see is something darker has my body and with it always comes it's purpose.
Could it be I've been gone for a long time?

Why say sorry, when it's a waste of breathe,
Don't try to change the path, it's a waste of step,
My past always defeats me, an attribute that I regret.
We make the best with what we get.
We make the best with what we get.

What is it called when we go bad?
Not expired, because we're not dead.
But we're rotten to the core.
Should I write and play the chord,
or should I I leave and cut the cord