happiness is a lie
and its pursuit, a gross waste of time

there is nothing but strife
in life, a bending & breaking of will

or for some, resolve is strengthened
but it all leads to the same end

the only true freedom
the only true happiness is
the separation of oneself
from the damnation that
is mere mortality

pain is the constant

suffering is the center of
the universe, the thing
that keeps the cosmos together

it is our instinct to think
there is relief,
that there has to be and end
to grief, self-loathing, lacerations
and deep wounding

but we are subject to an impartial pain
in the end that's all we've ever had

our name and the thing that killed us
slowly, quickly or otherwise

at this pont there is only one
salvation, one true complete separation

maybe it
will be
the one
thing I
finally
can do
correctly

sleep never comes
when you want it to

neither does

a voice
a touch

and the bottle is never enough
when your lungs are filled up

inhibition cuts
desire short
and money keeps you
locked inside

but yearning
loneliness
& wide eyed
hopefulness

keep you up at night

The photographic chamber of the eye
records bare painted walls, while an electric light
lays the chromium nerves of plumbing raw;
such poverty assaults the ego; caught
naked in the merely actual room,
the stranger in the lavatory mirror
puts on a public grin, repeats our name
but scrupulously reflects the usual terror.

Just how guilty are we when the ceiling
reveals no cracks that can be decoded? when washbowl
maintains it has no more holy calling
than physical ablution, and the towel
dryly disclaims that fierce troll faces lurk
in its explicit folds? or when the window,
blind with steam, will not admit the dark
which shrouds our prospects in ambiguous shadow?

Twenty years ago, the familiar tub
bred an ample batch of omens; but now
water faucets spawn no danger; each crab
and octopus -- scrabbling just beyond the view,
waiting for some accidental break
in ritual, to strike -- is definitely gone;
the authentic sea denies them and will pluck
fantastic flesh down to the honest bone.

We take the plunge; under water our limbs
waver, faintly green, shuddering away
from the genuine color of skin; can our dreams
ever blur the intransigent lines which draw
the shape that shuts us in? absolute fact
intrudes even when the revolted eye
is closed; the tub exists behind our back;
its glittering surfaces are blank and true.

Yet always the ridiculous **** flanks urge
the fabrication of some cloth to cover
such starkness; accuracy must not stalk at large:
each day demands we create our whole world over,
disguising the constant horror in a coat
of many-colored fictions; we mask our past
in the green of Eden, pretend future's shining fruit
can sprout from the navel of this present waste.
In this particular tub, two knees jut up
like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise
on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap
navigates the tidal slosh of seas
breaking on legendary beaches; in faith
we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail
among sacred islands of the mad till death
shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.

never in my life,
Or in the span of the last few weeks

have I ever,
and yes I could go even further

felt so starved,
really I mean starved, vexed hunger

for some sort of notion,
reminder of a working heart and lungs

a feeling of substance,
something I search for fruitlessly

in a world that works,
in its subtle enigmatic ways

to alienate,
or provide an artificial basis for it

but that is so very beautiful,
and I think I really mean that

I want it and I want it now
I want the world at my throat
I want women and all
Other embodiments
Of all things beautiful
at either side of me

Adoring eyes, widened and excited
scanning in disbelief
waiting for the dream to end
because a dream so pure and good
will never last
and it doesn't and it won't
because it doesn't exist
to begin with

but a thought so pretty
forever forcing itself into existence

I want my dream to begin

I want these things to be my end