the sink runs mud, a clarity I won't understate.
the splatering, sputtering on the porcelain, sloshing, guttural pain.
on a canvas the paint is truth, on the wall it is deceit.

the bed is a springboard for great ideas.
the romances that die, the 8 hour shifts of bottled eternity.
I am haunted by this sentiment daily.

on the windy beach, the ears and hair, a flag flapping.
cool, dark, the moon like Juliet's eyes.
over the grand ocean of unknown language.

i reach over and grab the gun.
i will go out with a bang while Eve is away.
then sunrise sets still forever

the sleeper in the valley is haunting me,
what I should do I haven't.
I'm a junkyard full of false starts.

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the ***** streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,"

:Bought a book of Ginsberg:
:Thought it quite lonely:
:Found out socrates was a *******:

I fell asleep and was dreaming the subconscious dream,
The theorem was proven and I could breathe again.

I awoke to sirens,
nymphs,
and Orpheus standing over me.

I am a small bit of nothing, a Wes Anderson caricature,
a pre-printed, pre-made, pre-packaged archetype.

I bought guitar strings from a lovely woman,
I want everyone to hear me.
Hear me play Pitseleh.

I am quiet now,
I am soft and everyone hears me.
I don't want to say anything,
I want you to look at me and know.
I want you to see my eyes and know I am infinite.

I wake up again and I am sweating,
it was the night terror, the one I have

I was surrounded by intellectuals,
the poets and artists of our generation,
all second rate ******* doing it for the applause and their mommys, same **** that was always done, since ******* Homer, since ******* Shakespeare, since ******* Ruddy Rimbaud.

I keep shaking,

Something is coming after me and I know it.

Maybe it's all the women I looked at wrongly,
one's from the ***** pictures big brother sold me,

Maybe it's all the sucrose and caffeine i've been inserting.

Maybe it's the nothings that i forgot to do, and others did instead.

I am a ******.

I never ****** no one.

******* is stupid.

I am one of the ugliest men alive.

When the saint ended us I saw infinity.

Everything was you, in you, by you, for you, the ******* hours and hours of thought, the stupid lengthy and complicated memories where you were christmas and we were meeting the ocean, all pointless and lost to oblivion and I lost it right then and there in front of you, I sobbed and wanted to **** myself. Then you gave me a *******.

Your passing was a gift to me,
Wrapped in colors I couldn't see.

And after every page I let fall out,
Everything looked better.

The eyes see beyond beyond now,
Past the words,
Past the symbol.

Then enters the thirst,
An evening,
A cold light,
The empty everything,

And a Sterile drama,
A paradise,
Smoke n' mirrors,
Caves n' shadows,
And a new outlook.

Maybe I wasn't born in the right era,
Maybe I wasn't born in the right world.

Maybe I'm the kind of person that shoots up schools,
Maybe I'm the kind of person that would **** a child.

Maybe I'm the type that kills themselves,
Maybe I just want attention.

But what the **** would I do once I had it?
Shout the golden rule?
Tell a nice story?
Give praise to God?

I mean, I've had a relatively nice life,
so I don't know what the hell I have
to complain about.

"Things have gotten really out of hand since the flaw,"
"in a room without a floor you will always be falling."

I feel dumb.
It's like there's an amusement park behind me,
but I can't turn around.

I feel ugly.
I'm afraid to look in the mirror,
because it might look back.

Plunge,
Plunge deep.
Feel the layers of soapy creek-beds,
Cross sections of the torrent,

Seep,
Watch the silent film,
As the sky divides into fantasy,
Light intended for your child-like eyes.

Fall,
Into a graceful autumn,
Where the corn smells and the wind picks up,
Where day-break questions existence.

Sink,
The expanse is waiting,
She sits in a blue velvet chair holding her head,
Counting the ticks 'till midnight on her golden clock.

Trust me,
And dive.
For I am vast and empty,
And far from shallow.