There’s a certain way of looking
And in that way
I can see the Devil’s eyes
Red
Sometimes they go green
And yellow
In the reflection in the uneven water

His mouth salivates
Gushing and uncaring
It’s so disgusting it’s so natural

He tells you:
Why are you trying to live here?


There’s a certain way of not looking
But then the eyes are still there
Disturbing what we have known for so long

There’s eyes that are not eyes
The Devil’s make-up, the Devil’s hungry mouth
The Devil’s unabashed smile, the Devil’s strange love

There’s a certain way of looking and
No one
Will see it like I do
And when I try to say no

The ****** red spots are still there
Like a snake bite
Like that long lost love
Like the meaning of life laughing at you
Telling you to stop it
To give in
To be a man
To be a more-than-you

Those lit-up eyes
Won’t tell you about yourself
But they might help you with sadness
Help you relax with it

There’s a certain way of looking at things
But it doesn’t change them
It’s still the devil and you
Trying to find lovely people
To rip up and eat like symbols

And when you sleep, you need help
A hand, a body or just a something-more

Because you, you are so empty
That’s why the lights are so seductive

I need to care less of course
Of course
I need things made out of more than paper and plastic

There’s a river and a Devil
And your innards
But you won’t stop things from coming inside
Even after you tried to stop rotting

There’s a river that’s part of the devil
The devil that’s part of the river
Trying to keep them outside of you

If you had a more pretty name I would use it
You’d find it splattered all over in my blood your name in blood
You are fleshy like balloons like *** dolls they find in yellow celebrity cars
But I did do did do did do  love you
I don’t care that your head is filled with green pool water
I don’t care that any of Donne’s poetry doesn’t speak of you
I mean any of it. The weird sisters, the witches have done me in.
I want to boil your chick-flicks, your cheap religion, your bad vampire stories
And take the needle to the jugular, filled from the cauldron
If I fed you some of you to you you would say
“I think I’m going to be sick”
I would want to unroll my finger and point it at your face
And scream with my inside-voice
“Ah-HAH!” That’s meaningful. With the casket
you are deep and beautifully empty
We need more of you, I will clone you and rename you a thousand and one times
I want to crawl through the wet streets like you
Unconcerned and perfectly meaningless
Perfectly meaningless
*******, I am becoming, fitting to you and
I am crazy and
I want you to get this
So bad I feel bad, the lady-killer, the ****** unsexed puppeteer’s got nothing on you sugar; you are a plastic pie,
a blackberry one
Your name is always in pink bubble letters in my shrinking head
After I used the needle I will hide it in your bed
And when you bring shining boys from the night
And you don’t put on soothing **** music
It will ***** one of you
I hope you deflate and melt like a witch and scream and scare yourself
But all the magic will already be boring in my veins
And meanwhile I’ll be morphing in a back seat car
And under long trees shaking like unsettled cement in the yellow yellow low low street lights
Becoming that neon sign you want me to be but
You never told me what to be
**** this hurt, I’m getting cut with your miraculous hair, it feels like aluminum cans are slicing me in slow motion
I am a spiral like an orange peel
One time I saw one glued and it looked real but there was no fruit inside.
When I reached inside of you, not bleeding, you moaned and stiffened
I pulled out what you couldn’t reach with your fingers
If I told that story in all its details people would be grossed out
They would puke up each other’s hearts, be embarrassed of course and shove it back down
Some people just can’t hold their hearts
I felt like a doctor who cross-dresses as a ****** lover at night. What ****** man is that?
I come out breaking through the windshield without my monarch *****-wings
I come out with my head full of demonology and Cosmopolitan ***-tricks, babyblue thoughts
And knowledge about hunting
I am ten feet tall, my jaw gets squared
I don’t eat ***** and I sleep well at night.
I don’t trouble your patterns, my hair and eyes are bible-black
And we wake up to fair-weather
When you let me, I wear your skin and inside I have near death experiences
You come three times a night and
we own a color T.V.

“I accept chaos, I am not sure whether it accepts me”- Bob Dylan

We look for a red mark
Drawn into the center of our world
We wish for very touching and touched
Whispering of orders and sweet nothings
We ask god or purchase a life which
Will have enough heart-beats
We see the line and feel like following
Because things have fallen short
Sometimes you and I,
We want limbs to break-off of tree break-off of birds fall off
Our bodies, then we will fall in
Love with transparency
We are sick and weak with difficulty
With hiding and seeking and finding
The mouse-hole of meaning
We are stuffed to death with the icing
Of the cakes- with the must-be-of
Music- the formulation and onetwothree
Of music
We don’t know **** about music but we love it
We know that all these words and all this knowing is like laying down in the train tracks
We are scared to see god and **** in the same car trunk in the same heartcage
I would fall into the love with you
But that would mean too much
We would take up air that does not belong to us
I would **** myself with you
Shoot you through my brain
*
Maybe, we are born so well
Into this age
That we settle into misunderstanding
I am sorry love
I have been speaking for you
Our eyes don’t see red
But we don’t miss the spectrum
Our ears don’t hear the sirens
But we don’t need that type of hope

We are full on yellow air
Dangerous and territorial
A black flag of our disposition
Stabbed into the sappy Styrofoam Earth
I will be able
I will love you when words
Are as beautiful as poledancers
As drugged up and crystal like you daisy baby
As zipped open like zero-sized jeans.

I close the door
And leave it out there for others to pick apart
(Here I can whip up my own)
solutions
sophistry and calm potions
The sticky left over of
The night are the notes of worried lovers
Worried they are diseased by lust
By bad music
By plastic generations
(Here I don’t rely on words)
but atmosphere, feeling like the blind do
in the *******
The smell of acid-fruits in mists on skins
Flowers boiled down viciously into pheromones
(Here I can bury my face into)
Stop it all from coming into-
My ribs will break, my heart is so strong
It’s a strangler and a bone saw
(Here is the only place I let it run)
not free it cracks splatters on the thin walls
but tame enough it stays
The mixture of the past hours
Have left me
Expanded, cracked and tied tight
By dry touch
By hallucinations of burning
(Here I can leave it out there for the others)
so I can speak plainly
I want to die in your fluids
Thick waters of you
Stepped in so for, should I wade no more.

I want to know
My negations
(as everyone does)
but I can’t
and to deny demons and devils
is to feed them
to negate the life-angels
is always in need of them
(and in want we are)
you know how arrogant you have to be to think you deserve them?
You know how much effort it takes for them to come down?
Do you know how heavy you are?
     ?
     ?     (victims of victims)
             (victims of victims
(victims of victims
(victims of victims)
Everything these days is brighter
And clearer and people bloat in it
Stuffed to death with laughter and
Harmony and the real world
             (where)
There are shadows of/and thin saints
Who dwell in emptiness and blue tears
In drugs and ******* /chemistry
In rented rooms and inhuman anatomy
of/ and mouths covered in duct-tape
(Regard-less)
I want to reach the meaninglessness
Between yes and no which is eye-open and eye-shut
I want to fall
In love with you but that’s a bad wish at a cheap funeral
(we go struggling back and forth on living)

1) Poetry was a lot more poetic before I learned about what poetry was. Not is.
2) Poetry is like a plastic lemon or orange. And you can cut it but not eat it. But you can do anything else you want to it.
3) Poetry is the most beautiful failure there is
4) If poetry is honest then it is always better than what is seen as good poetry. And what is known as good poetry.
5) Poetry does not listen even when you say no. It will make you bleed.
6) The poem is a very hungry grave. A very patient grave. A poem is not poetry.
7) Poetry is not poetic. But it has something to do with fetish-ising the poetic. And ax has something to do with a tree, even without the violence.
8) Poetry lies and doesn’t do anything.

Pressed shirts
And a pretty mouth
Laughing like lace and polite
Mirrors in every inch of every cocktail party
If you feel what im feeling
I can relate to you and know you  (your lizard soul)
Finger nails being bitten while      (calming your)
No one is watching            (core              )
Making a note to send flowers       (your genitals)
to the sick    
Pushing away the dawn-blue thoughts
Of mass agony
A stop sign is a stop sign                                  
Clutching the noisy pills in a brand new purse
Wiping your hand before you meet the love of your life
And then some
                        (When you)
I’m trying to turn off                     (escape the)
all my mirrors                                (funhouse)
I’m stuck in my room                    (mirror)
On purpose                                     (hall )
With my Toys’ R’ Us                     (How)
Chemistry set trying to come up    (long)
With a way to infect the                 (does)
Choreographed planet with             (it take you)
Asperger’s                                        (to accept the new )
                           (distortions?)