there ain’t no ground for me to play on

and there ain’t no music to play,

anyway,

just another day

another life

another scythe

ringing in the distant fields

and that little thing you thought so fine

she was just some cheap cherry wine

and I thought myself fine sauvignon

though I did fail French a few times

but at least I didn’t get left in the distant field

to be harvested by the farmer

to be sold at the market

to be broken apart and maimed beyond measure.

those lips eating though,

they sure feel nice against ya,

they sure do someone justice when

they’re kissing all over

and massaging your broken body

but there’s no music down in the gullet

there ain’t no sound

but the deep and soulful murmurings

of the stomach,

the intestine,

the **** that will birth me once more

and again I’ll be in the water

and mix with the ocean

and become the rain and

rise

oh la la la la la la la la

rise

I’ll rise above it all

and rain down your body and my body

and all these broken, mutilated grain-bodies

and pour it all down on you

and the fields

and that little thing you left

lying in the middle of seas of wheat

she’s screaming to the sky

roaring to the rain that falls

telling me all she knew

all she loved

none about you

all of it runs

all of it resounds

making music on the ground

and singing all in the air

'Like' this though
you don't actually
"like" what you see before your eyes,
much too clear and
much too crystal
far too sharp
far too cutting.
the scent of blood
as it scrapes into your flesh
intoxicates you in its iron enriched headiness,
'how ironic,'
truly
'how ******* ironic'
as it all goes hazy
and you numbly click
'Like' on a screen
made up of tiny little images
of tiny little people
feeling just as big of emotions as you.
'Like' this poem if you've ever been betrayed by yourself.

the bird lay helplessly on the soft cement,
its eye sockets were empty
and its feathers were torn up.
dreaming a little dream
that consisted of empty space,
the contents of its mind
both literal and figurative.
the rot had set on swiftly,
the skin was putrid smelling,
the pustules were brimming
with the **** of death made swelling.
framed on the ground by
ants crawling all around its flesh,
they slid in and out
they played within the body's ruins.
the bones were now made of rope,
the feathers petrified,
the bird lay so still,
dreaming a sleep about a sky full of nothing
speckled red and brown and green and blue and
somehow reminding me of myself
in relation to you
and you
and you
and all of you
to all of me
to every last ****** bit of you,
I give you a dead, departed, decaying corpse
who will never fly again.
I will never fly again.
I will never fly again.
just let me lay and rot upon the cement,
*I will never fly again.

you place me on your shelf
right next to all the rest,
a commodity priced according
to which and whom are best.
you shove me to the back
so others may not see
the person who would sit
and reclaim you piece by piece.
I am a bitterness unwavered by the winds
I am an ice storm unstoppable in its onslaught
I am a tornado festering on the countryside
You are a man made up of
turned shoulders and lowered eyes,
a man who would much rather store things
than to see them in use.
Your fingers may peruse
the cylinders of my being,
it may be graced by
the loveliness of your cold touch.
However it is fleeting,
and I grow cold from disuse.
I am the item on your shelf
I am the mirror casually ignored
I am the gramophone screaming its discordant hymn
I am the void rearing its sickening maw,
waiting and watching for my prey
to wander helplessly into my gaping esophagus
I am the bat wing, leathery and clinging
to the cartilage of the world.
I am the item on the shelf,
high above the world,
looking down onto the ants
who scurry and shimmy to try to ascend.
They will not ascend
because God didn't make ants in order to fly.

she held me close and cooed and preened me
and held me safe from the night
from the large and troubling world
that my tiny brain could not comprehend.
those ancient hands
had seen many decades,
the raging waters sought the
liverspotted skin like a flame
seeks a moth to burn
by shining so **** bright.
She gave me dinosaurs
and quarters and
nickels and dimes,
she told me stories
and memories and
the dusty images of long abandoned time.
I sat and sat and listened and sat and
retreated into the shelter of
those far too weathered hands.
though the world was
largely storm clouds
and the incessant shouting of the thunder,
she held me closer,
covered me in her mass and
held me quickly against the oncoming storm of time.
those ancient
weathered hands

I don't like this skin of vulnerability,
to show my softened underbelly
and to take off the masks of all my lies.
I don't like to let people get so close,
to reveal my inner temple to them
and to show them the chants of my priests.
I am a person
who hides within riddles
metaphors
puns and jokes,
I am a person
who would rather be a bad joke book
than be a real person,
full of every emotion
and even allowed to cry a little, sometimes.
Maybe
sometimes it doesn't have to be the downpour of rain
or a temple constructed in my veins
or the man who pounds me until pain
or the city lost in spires of smoke and bane
sometimes it can just be the tears
of a 19 year old thing
sick and heavy hearted and
so very, very confused
and
so very, very in need of warmth

So sweet and so unsteady,
the aroma was so heady,
our backs sticky
and
sweaty.
It's all very stupid, shallow and trite.
I don't want to write another *** poem.
I want to start a ******* fight.