This is a place
The girl with that face
playing her ace
fell on her face

broke every bone
feels all alone

drinking it in
feeling like sin.

I remember skin today
it aches, and dans. my feathers sway
the car won't stay in the right lane,
I broke every window pane.

The pain is more of subtle blue
It makes me feel all full of rue
What, that makes me think of you?

She sits alone with bread like rye
Feels so bad but just can't cry
Why did her spirit have to die?
Because it's time to say goodbye.

I've never been someone anyone would understand. I think differently. I act differently. I believe differently. I'm different, to lay it all out there.

I can be a very nice person, that doesn't mean I am very often. I have to try. My behavior depends on my encounters. I should probably be more level, but where's the honesty in that? Level people don't rise and fall. I'm waiting to rise again.

I'd rather have a conversation with my dog or someone I'll never meet, than with someone that knows me. Pre-conceptions are funny that way. I suppose I perceive people perceive me inaccurately. They do, actually. But I do it too, except one would think I might know myself by now. With strangers (and dogs), there are no pre-conceptions. Or at least, those thoughts are hazy and not defined. I hate being defined. Maybe that's why I haven't figured myself out just yet, it's for the best. I feel more free this way.

I'm not free. I've never been free. There were times when I was held under someone's thumb, someone who didn't even have the right kind of grip. Then there are those times when obligation held me tight, I couldn't escape it. I still can't. Even without all of these forced bindings, I'm simply bound to tie myself to something or someone. I can't seem to help it. I need to be needed. But I want to be let go. I'm sure I'd feel differently if that were to actually happen though. There I go again, not knowing…

I don't believe in marriage, but if I did…I'd marry a handsome blueberry farmer. We'd grow blueberries and grow old, all at the same time. He'd play the harmonica on the front porch while we sipped on sweet tea and watched the sun go down every evening. The dogs would love to hear him play, and they'd sing along…you know how dogs do. The kids would think us odd and wonder why we never get bored, sitting on the same porch together. And we'd think the kids are funny. Because let's face it, young people get weirder all the time.

I have my doubts about time. It seems it always runs out. Maybe I get a late start. Maybe I ***** around too much. Maybe it's that way for everyone. I don't know. I guess I shouldn't waste my time worrying about it.

I don't trust things. I trust words though. That may sound odd, in that someone has to say them. More than likely, I won't trust that person. Words are honest, the thoughts behind them may not be. That is to be debated in the moments or even after the fact, I suppose. I guess I trust the written word more so, to be specific. Words are for always, even if the "say"ers are not.

I don't talk about myself very much, really. I converse with people…and dogs. I elaborate upon what I mean, and sometimes I share stories. But I'd rather talk about you. I'm not sure why I do that. But I just discovered it about myself. I like discovering things about myself. The one thing I've known for a long time is I am honest. That's one thing I pride myself on. I won't lie to myself or anyone else, not anyone that matters anyway. And if I choose to tell you something, more than likely you matter. So, trust me. I need you to.

Darling,

                                                                       our truth that we inhabit under
                                                                       its crystalised sky is
                                                                       masochistic
                                                                       undenying, tameless
                                                                       thriling  

                                                                      
                                                                      Shattering above us.



Don't*
                                                                       be afraid
                                                                       of the eyes that
                                                                       stare at us
                                                                       through fields
                                                                       - flowers of cruelty

  
                                                                     For tonight,

                                                                      
                                                                      I will take your
                                                                      mind
                                                                      tongue
                                                                      flesh
                                                                                                                



                                                                                                                                    all.


you
                                                                        are an octave without lines
                                                                        Synchronicity
                                                                        A treble-clef tattooed upon the skin of my
                                                                        heart
                                                                        Notes like bloodcells in my veins
                                                                                                                    
                        
                                                                                                                    I can never play you.  











lie                                      
                                                                           yourself inside
                                                                     and breathe inside
                                                                            what I am
                                                                            what I will become

                                                                                               neverending


                                                                          
           &n

Everybody goes through those times in life when you feel like nothing is going your way, and everytime you feel you take one step forward you're actually taking two steps back. I lost focus for a split second, I've always stumbled and fallen but always managed to pick myself back up no matter how painful the news, how hurt I was.

maybe he left his wedding ring in your **** by accident


that night when you told me
you wanted me to *******
wearing his sordid black suit but  
it was about four sizes too big and his
heart was four rooms too small.

i forget that the anthropoid chassis
possessed no ****** limitations.  

and yet you were there,
wailing out cherries and
casuistry and swollen
macabre in absinthian
vinegar,  wearing the dress
that i hate.

you have weak wrists,  
you bruise by blue tuesdays.


--


maybe i left my gun in your **** by accident

that night when you told me
only love and explosives
got you off. i of course, went
for the least dangerous.

you forget that the anthropoid intellect
possessed no sadistic co-existence.

i'm just an ulcer when i am
inside you.  you scratch me raw
and you make me
take off that face
that you hate.  

my poetry lingers tight-lipped in taciturnity,  
keeping you wet on your deathbed.

must i long for
the scarlet rain
that
did not phlebotomise,

did not secrete
from  
codeine clouds,
    
                                                                        if  the milk would be spilt.


must i conceive ignus fatuus
colourcasts from the television
inside a mouth
that caterwauls
faces of static and pollen
and Klaus Nomi masks  

as if i were lobotomised
eating flowers fingered out of
the flesh of the brain

                                                                         carnations would not exist.


i do not want to believe
the promise
of  lovers were
merely  yous' and



eyes'.
no such world is eyeless.
or any less without eyes.

                                                                            become my chalk and bones.

i want to believe
humanity
is a defined mass
of bathypelagic insects

sleeping in chrysalids
longing to be
broken.

                                                                             break me.



i want to understand
there is an euxine ocean



beyond my bathtub.

She has a little heart.
But it's her's...
Her heart, it may be little
but if feels things bigger than you and I.

She has a little heart.
That's what the doctors say.
Her heart, that it's little...

It doesn't belong to you.
Her heart, please don't break it.
It's not your's,
but she wants you to take it.

Just please, please
please don't break it.

She has a little heart.
But it's her's...
Her heart, it may be little
but it feels things bigger than you and I.

*Please don't break it