Let there be no dawn
And I’ll think until the end

Let there be no doubt
My thoughts will never win

Let the dead bury their dead
And I’ll be stunned by their might

Let The Sum of things be even
And I’ll be haunted by the sight

To believe is to know you can smash
anything written in stone.

As death's ethereal paws will likely tear me from t-shirt and jeans,
so will my pen's emptied vessel fall an artificial corpse somewhere out in time & space.

So now that I've gotten my 'meditations on mortality' out of the way,
I can get over myself,
and get on with what's most important above all things:

                                                        ­            making something out of nothing

& nothing's exactly as you think it is,
exactly the beast that renders ego stupidity,
stupidity artistry,
that means exactly what it says,
& what else is there to say?

                                                           ­          a lot

evermore this pen runs out of ink,
the coughing patient's last regurgitation,
knowing well its ancient blood's heritage for generations,
& still I am not finished...

                                                    ­                 i o u one day, girl

He had a most profound hairdo after blowing out his brains,
his rose-head thoughtless, raw,  red, dreams sent out to space.

It was a frenzied brain,
of memories of flesh and fury,
of gorgeous colors of the past,
some of happiness,
some of horror,
of somber comforts that would'nt last,
for the good of the man
who blew his brains out
in a van.

You shouldn't know me and I shouldn't let you,
my burden's cigarette reminds me all the time,
my burden wasting time to dress myself,
my burden stuffing my face,
my burden to simply show myself,
my burden to know,
my burden to know perhaps too much,
my burden to love,
my burden to hate,
my burden to wake,
only to ask myself again and again,
why do I even bother?

not of the distance behind us,
not of this day anymore,
the streets rumble and squeal,
echoing in the cemetery silhouettes,
our feet crunching through the mulch
as our hands inch closer and closer
and our urges grow more devious
farther from the city we get,
to some beyond they don't know exists,
as night falls, we're not of this time anymore,
seeking the remains of Luna French,
to whom Death came like a grinning buffoon,
her body spread everywhere, they said,
a tale we would never know to be true or not,
as the night latched our limbs together
and into each other we went,
not of this world anymore.

these thoughts sit next to me, soaking in formaldehyde,
as dawn shines blue through the curtains,
illuminating the jar.

these dreams drain in morbid fibers,
shrinking in a vase, glowing weird orange
in the morning blaze.

this dragon's eyes are insane orbs,
its belly is sliced, leaking, quenching
my thirst.

this dissonance
is played on my spinal cord
by a sickly muse.

this nowhere opens my expanse.