soon I will be covered in flowers
they will grow from my scars
and bring infinite beauty
to all that is ugly about me
and I will live forever
in a skin of petals

I know someone who finds solace in ballet shoes
                A boy who strums his secrets to guitar strings
Someone that spends his waking moments with glazed red eyes
             As if facing this world cold turkey
                       Isn’t even an option.

For boys whose fingertips shake
                Like the burning end of a cigarette
And girls whose smiles resemble
Car crashes waiting to happen
A cacophony of shattered noises
             And those of us who feel guilty for the
                     mere act
                           Inhaling air
                        And exhaling poison
So we spend lifetimes holding our breaths

   Until we burn our lungs out trying
            To warm our hearts
            With something other than the fire
           That burns out in a smoky haze

Until our eyes become rivers,
flowing oceans
That cry out a thousand melted glaciers

Our tongues speak ruined languages
We read everything backwards
Curse in Latin
Make oaths in Russian
So whatever we say sounds beautiful.

So that our hands wont have to learn permanence,
affection
consolation.

There once was fellow
Of whom I was rather fond,
But there was such an idiosyncrasy,
That he cheerfully donned.
It was adding this boy was drawn to,
But not just numbers,
Such as two plus two,
But syllables, like bill·a·bles.

His lips would murmur
As mine would speak,
But I'd stand attentive,
Tongue in cheek.
Every syllable I would say
Would be counted
In every single way.
"Could I have a glass of water?"
"That one was eight"
"Come on," I said
"You're ruining our date."

I grew weary of having
To deal with
The incessant word adding;
And so I decided the thing to do,
Was to take it up
With my obnoxious beau.  
"What is it with the counting and computing of all my confab
It's neither dashing nor is it longer dazzling
In fact, It has turned to be rather drab."
His face contorted to the most cruel of expressions,
As his mouth went to conference one of its many confessions:
"You know babe,
Well first order is first,
That was thirty-six,
And nervously dispersed.
And secondly I must say,
When it comes to alliteration,
You tend to get a bit carried away."
"That's preposterous!" I plustered, providently provoked,
I do not choose clusters of complementary chords,
To do so would make me choke!"
As these words left my mouth as I spoke,
My beloved's face grew rather amused,
And my face flushed a fluorescent fuchsia,
When I realized his reckoned ruse.  

And so it may seem that the other
May be wrapped up in some insidious blunder,
Yet please do consider,
That you yourself can be guilty of some other habit,
In which you do plunder.

Dreams dance under the glare of the sun’s moodiness
Blood vanishes from the veins of once dead men
Medals of tarnish float along a river of bedridden nightmares
Soft drinks pierce the heart ache of an ancient lover

Coffee mugs litter the world’s tainted breath
Cake mix splatters the wall of any old soul’s happy day
Laundry baskets of forbidden desires clutter my mind
Australian needs rise up and revolt against the will

Steadfast now, the winds have changed and blow upon
new dreams from the shorelines of an imagination.
Hindrances break even with the mob, blowing jobs in the faces
of masked gods under none.

From what does the truth set you free?
And what sets you free from love?
Cerulean dreams dart like angels to the ball
Woe to the marching band stuck at the disco

Tripping on bumps in the sidewalks as if the flaws
were meant to convey the illusion of perfection.
Bumping into dreams while on day trips to a place legendary
among the star screamers of yesterday.

Played with market chiefs in the fishy dreams of villains
Heroes rise from the ashes of who they wish they could really be
Hunger penetrates the enigma in which livestock consume the diet
of better days and healthier people.

Strangers.
Blanket thieves.
Snuggling with the poverty of heart stricken saps who ****
the life out of the tear duct orifice between theses beautiful lashes of grace.

Come with me,
let’s escape to a world of ours.
My imagination has room for
Two.

there is an old man who is dying inside me
he lies by a pale ocean
his eyes are and mouth mouth crawls with
ladybugs Spring is there
her lips are full of chafe and brightness hangs
about a flower less
petals each into the wind next to a pale ocean
where there is an
old man who inside of me is dying

ever pressing freedom with
words to follow suit;
simple utensil awaiting its full potential
as strokes find spacings dissevering letters,
leaving fractured symbols intangible.
my blood be shed to fill some well,
to be drawn within a reservoir
and found scrawled in repetition
     blue rose, blue rose, blue rose
and free we are from complexities,
to laze along the banks of Lotus fields
and feast, and quaff, and lull ‘fore
remorse stings at return across Oceans.
as Urania casts colors upon
a sky of fading Sun, awaiting to show
Her mass brilliance of stars. each, a soul
lending guidance since time-beginning –

- - - abrupt ending

my eyes ache at the end of a day
and i find myself counting hours –
hours slept, hours awake, but
no memory of the expanse remains,
other than the hours, and hours, and days.
and i smoke another cigarette, smoke
another cigarette, and my eyes
glaze over with a seven-yard stare.
i can see onward for days,
i have been outward for days,
and yet hours, the hours, the days
resemble piecemeal beige walls that
echo my arguments back upon me.
and they close in – but not in that crazy way –
as the carpet buckles under enclosing movement,
and a door’s been left open leading
out to the consumption of souls.
or so the walls have foretold.