mis demonios parecen a cicatrices
con el sabor del suicidio
and they watch
they wait
from the dark corners
the creases
of my mind
and they laugh
as I drown
in this stale air
they step on my chest
crushing my brittle ribcage
caving in my empty lungs
they laugh
as I drown
in this salty ocean
one small drop at a time
as my skin tightens
my cheeks stained grey
my eyes bloodshot
blinded
they laugh
as I drown
in giving up
giving in
to the biggest demon of them all
the beautiful sister of depression
anxiety*

mis demonios parecen a cicatrices
con el sabor del suicidio
and they run back into the shadows
chased by a box of kleenex
and her scratchy sweater
leaving my face raw
but finally
dry

night and day
is an abused expression
but you abuse me
so it's okay for me to tell you
that that's exactly what you are
your day is bright, sunny
100 degrees
too hot, too bright
and I never have enough sunscreen
but your night
well
it's beautiful
gentle rain against my dry skin
a chorus of thunder in the distance
followed by an honest flash
of lightning
I wish I could say
that these glorious July midnights
were worth peeling the flesh off my arms
after your hideous noons
or that watching the stars in the sky
were worth the burns
the cancer
as your fiery sun ravages my body
but I can't
because nights aren't meant to be enjoyed
when we live for the day
and I'm tired of waiting
for the clock to strike twelve
only to watch you turn the hours back
before my eyes
I used to have it in me
to appreciate the blue of the skies
but all your days bring me now
is summertime sadness

somewhere i am sleeping i can hear
the wind across
the span of my ear a flower
is bending in it is bent
bending in the wind
it is white
its petals are
its body is
thin it's green
it's yielding very
nicely

somewhere i am sleeping i can hear

Maybe I'm the peace missing
      From your broken mind
Where your demons dominate your compulsions
     Wait 'til you get a load of mine

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread