Salt the slug, fault the plug
For not stopping the gap
Where fears fall through;
caused by sipping the sap
Which beers, tall, brew.

Swish the malt, wish tumult
Of hot dripping bees wax
would clog green ears.
Locks for puzzling keys wracks
and bogs clean gears.

**** machine, spill unseen
From eyes wishing to bleed
out drunk sound blurs.
Fear flies hissing their creed
to flunk round sirs.

These bristles I stroke,
Rest whistles below,
Test my will; I choke.
Seize my pill, pillow.

Drink tincture I brewed,
Herb censure resumes.
Think is leached, I mused.
Curb is reached, refused.

Wake: writing, I feel
Pain biting receiver.
Stake my claim, I reel,
Slain fighting believer.

Illusion by day, delusion by night.
Seclusion by day, solution by night.

Beginning to sing, some eyes upon the floor,
their voices do bring long lies to my front door,
lies that I never left far enough behind
to lose them from my mind.

Never have I left those stages of early life,
the times bereft of phage and surly strife,
yet feelings of disorder always envelope
my musings. I'm older but can't grow up.

Singing and dressing for you is what I know,
and it's depressing when I can't let go
of the memories I'll never live again,
so I sort and file desire in a bin.

In waste basket of a room I exist,
such a tragic jacket does persist
to tie my arms at my waist.
My life is such a waste.

It's all my fault.
I can't accept fate.
Bits I'll certainly plate,
but subsist on the malt.
Drowning in insanity,
Reeling in reality,
I break down every evening,
and leak out weary screaming.

Old is my soul, oh still not full.
Raw is my heart, right at its start.
Sharp is my mind, yet it is blind
To the beauty of my body.

Keen are my eyes; seen many lies.
Canine, my nose, at sniffing prose,
Which hands do write, when thought takes flight.
On ground my ears find fears I hear.

World outside, where I reside
is too immense, to make its sense
sit well with time. To sit and rhyme,
I do resign, will do just fine
To fill the time.

identical identities bashfully bash themselves together,
like lunatics dancing round stairs, straining forever
forward towards twinkling stars staring them down
and burning black holes in their souls.

Light lasts longer than life leaking through cracks
towards the cellar door, a door in the floor
leading below where stars turn their backs
and halos alone allow honesty its roar.

Gregariously bellowing delirious dramatizations
at weary walls erected erroneously in isolation
causes angels to tread towards stairs alone,
up to where light once shone.

Wood.
Metal.
A flower petal.
Power settles,
for nothing less
than to always press
to the point of stress
fractures, where it relishes
in the pain, and embellishes
its grandiosity, builds trellises
over rivers of fire
over hills of barbed wire,
where flowers do quote
metal's eternal gloat
over wood's rickety boat
which burns in the river
and births but a sliver
to the man upon its bow
while metal does plow
along much further
and flowers do wither
but grow soon again
where wood is burnin'
and grows all too slow
to counter river's flow.
Metal a tool,
eternal fool,
denying the flower,
a taste so sour,
Tree is fuel,
fire so cruel.

Pace has become languid,
Face, in shame, become hid.
Case the same, hang the kid.
Race to fame rang fetid.

Forever is, moreover,
a river which quivers
before morality,
sore from reality.

Caught in the current,
kid ought be sub-servant,
call kin to cure of him
indecision so grim.

In pride he shall confide,
pry free will from inside
himself. No plea bargain
for wealth to flee from sin.

The gavel hammers down,
judgment of putrid town,
jutting like cur's pimple,
from skin, fur, so supple.