I went to the doctor.
She said my obsession with *** was killing me.

How so, I asked,
And thought about yesterday.

The drugs you take to get *****, get high and get hard,
Eventually your artifice
Will burst your boldness, she said

To die of a balloon burst heart,
In the slingshot of ******,
To exit while rocketing into Nietzsche's abyss,
My eyes clenched,
Ten billion endorphins,
An ****** inferno,
This fusion of soul and pleasure,
God's great whisper tickling my ear,
A lover's last kiss,
The tautological tango of two wet tongues,
A soft breast,
An alert ******,
The slick and slippery slide into madness,
All of this as the one memory I will reclaim for all eternity,
How could I not demand that death follow, I said.

To each his own, she said
I would rather die dancing.

Dare any swain escape his youth intact,
Soon after the fringe of courage will discolour into fade,
Until one day the pause,
The morning mirror, the tics and taunts,  
Who is this clumsy old man his story will complain.

His bruise of reputation echoes back as tease,
The ***** and sag of masculine decline,
Is journaled in the bloom of brown blotch on his hands,
The tattered skin, the oaf and clownish frown,
The aberrant fur in ears and nose,
The quitter’s curve now cues to crooked spine,
There is no bath, no rub, nor miracle devine,
From here on in he culls and manages decline.

I promised myself to never write when I was depressed.
And then I realized I would never write again.

So yes, sadness has its flavour, a taste acquired,
Like all the finer things in life,
A bit of bitter often brides us better,
The sweet of things misleads and makes us dull,

So yes,we have arrived to suffer, to ask and persevere,
Our fate is not to believe but to become,
We are God in the making, we are the design.
So little time.

You can't go back  home, to a home that's unknown,
To a cache of hard memory, constant new treachery,
You can't go back home, to a home all alone,
Each morning's new fear, made me disappear.

I can't go back home, it's my no go zone,
No need for revenge, I just can't comprehend,
Why we hated each other, why we all felt so smothered,
Not one day went by, we weren't living a lie.

I won't go back home, my heart marble and stone,
I cannot forget, I age with regret,
Anger, self-hate, for me it's too late,
My bitter divide, still nowhere to hide.

All around I hear voices,
Noise overtakes choices
Am I alive or still dead,
Who's invaded my head,

I can't promise you answers,
Trump spreads like a cancer,
Lies sold by the bold or so I've been told
From hearts oversold,grown old and so cold.

Take chances they say
Kneel down and play pray,
But we know the bomb's coming,
Cause his mouth is still numbing.

When will you vacate and take all your hate,
Or should we castrate this evil lightweight.
I have none, no respect, you gotta be checked
You want everything wrecked, is it all to protect?

Is was a long ride home.

We were sober.
Legal, maybe the best way to describe it.

But a 185 kilometer drive,
The morning after,
On snowy roads
Will test you at the core.

It wasn't the *** with other people.
She'd given a ******* to an eighteen year old,
I'd ended up drunk and flaccid,
With my head between the legs of a lady from New York City,
And *******,
Jesus christ, *******
Were never a point of contention between us.

God has one gift and we'd never been stingy, jealous,
Small minded control freaks or emotional kamikaze suiciders,
Dive bombing the happiness out of each other,
No way.
Nor were we myopic work slaves jacking off to the next tech treat,
Nor were we stingy uptight ***** faces,
Trading in the allusion of human perfection.
No way.
We knew love and we knew life and we knew the power of new.

But to say Jimi Hendrix wasn't the greatest axe player to ever trip.
**** man, that just couldn't stand.
So we listened, the windows shaking,
The seething poison of artistic disagreement,
Like nerve gas, art is serious ****, you feel me?

All Along the Watchtower, Hey Joe, Crosstown, Voodoo Child, Angel...

Some **** just won't stand

You dig?

Emma and Jack
1 A.M.

Emma: “Hey you asleep…?”

Jack:  “…if I say yes… what happens?”

E: “Look, I think we should get a divorce.”

J: “From each other or from reality altogether?”

“Funny. Do you dream anymore?”

“Never. Last time was when Paddy died.”

“Your high school friend. The one who got shot by the cops?”

“Yeah. The night I found out I had a dream that went on for hours.”

“About him?”

“No, yeah, it was all about life after death, there were angels, big rooms, lots of light.”

“What happened again?”

“He robbed a bank. Paddy and a guy named Chris Ranier. They held up a bank, like with shotguns”

“Why? Why would a 17 year old middle class kid rob a bank?”

“His parents were down, not starving, so I don’t know.”

“Where did he die again?”

“At a bus stop. They were waiting for a bus. If the bus had been on time, the cops would never have found them. At least that’s what the cops said.”

“And the Chris kid lived?”

“Yup, took a bullet through the heart but he lived.”

“So our divorce.”

“Why do you want to get divorced again?”

“Research. I want to know how people react.”

“ To what?”

“To you and me. What happens when you tell someone you are divorced?”

“In my case women start to salivate.”

“Women don’t salivate. They plan.”

“They scheme you mean. I thought writers made stuff up.”

“Wrong. Writers discover, we ‘re explorers.”

“You know I’ve got an early morning…”

“Scheme is sexist by the way, just sayin’”

“So is salivate, sleep tight”