Gazing toward Utopia
she danced the night before the mildewed morning
with glassy eyes dazed
half-sleeping with folded arms
she gazed out toward tomorrow

All time is sterilized,
all projects, all properties, under surveillance.
The queer has been coded,
its skeleton's in print.
Lust of sheep, quenched,
minds of insects, diseased,
the weird all shamble in place.

But they cannot enter this space,
where my ebony spider waits,
and they cannot measure my eyes,
they cannot find my serpentine dreams
that slither, shedding skins upon this wasteland's soil.

We never were a revolution,
we were simply idiots with the wind,
psychosis of the witch,
death of the gods,
we are where Pisces pours its sweet poison,
where Aries gives way to the flesh,
dropping us where the maggots fall,
where the maggots get it on...

And they cannot put me to sleep,
nor can they lie to me,
and they cannot measure my eyes,
they cannot show me where beauty lies,
my heart's pathway...

She was blue at the bedside ragged and warm
as sirens signaled savage red and yellow far away;
'I love you,' she whispered.

Tuesday's solemn droning sent a cool breeze over the hills,
and coughing sludge at breakfast,
and no one was home...

except for her,
with eyes like war-torn rivers flooding rooms dressed in shadows,
and her mind lit like a film rolling silent in the darkened house.

She was pale curled up in a chair
and started to doze psychosis war-torn sweet
as Death a sharpened mystique graced her thigh and cheek.

And beauty's embalmment played in her head,
and like schizophrenic spilling milk,
she woke.

The sky was beyond and untouchable,
as Tuesday's solemn droning sent cold upon the streets
and the lips of children were made chapped.

Blissful through primal, damp pines, she wandered,
her youth like a pollenous flower dumbly bloomed
with petals seated deranged by the ravaging of the bee,
in trusty shoes she roamed the spiders and the leaves,
in light blue jeans she found a trail leading who knows where,
away from her mother's house, no longer home.

And rain and mist settled on the town,
an early morning storm passing by,
and the trees didn't care by the murderer's house,
as his garden happily bloomed,
he still lay asleep beside agony
dreaming a tub full of centipedes.

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?

we didn't have a choice.
with a primal scream,
we entered this dimension,
this labyrinth.
with the sun,
our heads are aligned,
cadaver bright and loud.
on this earth,
our steps are callous
and meaningless.
in this calm chaos,
we wander,
we feel.
as worms writhe,
we devour,
we thrive.
we didn't have a choice.

Alienation, seed of anarchy
sprouts within the slave's skull,
enraging the soul with its enslavement.

Desire, wicked sister of Insanity,
lunatic and lovely plucks us like petals
with a lover's claws.

And we all wander post-war awkward
dragging battered angels behind our backs,
bidding farewell, thirsting, to rivers and oceans we go.

And we all lay, deicidal,
as flesh eliminates the omnipotence of God,
raw and weary as a dragon sleeping in a field.

And we all fall...
iridescent, our blood blossoms in the streets,
as a deluge recedes with the promise of flowers.

The summer's nightfall, apocalypse in the mind,
insect-swarmed street lights illuminate the past
and cigarette settles spine,
and there was the sun setting on a corpse in a field,
and there was the pale moon nowhere in the distance.

I'm not here, either.

I remember imaginary friends,
their whispers and caresses in the bed,
but they never told me why they were there,
and I can't remember when or how they went away,
and there went mercy, roadkill between my wheels.

The word of God was in its guts.

Here are muses made of primal nights,
there was gentle fear,
there was stirring in my lap,
and her eyes like oceans in the dark,
there was that scent, there was insomnia.

May the sun cease to rise.

Here is the horizon
where city-scapes and seeds of madness sprout,
as ancient as the wind, they sprout,
as ancient as the trees sway,
the soul is never ready.

The soul is never ready.

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

The lonely demon's name is Source,
who grips behind my eyes and stops my search.

The lonely demon says,
'Watch them as they reenact the weddings of the dead,
and as they wonder if they've altered fate.'

The lowly spider's name is Symbol,
and its creeping legs will suffer in the era when it crawls.

The lonely demon says,
'Night is delirium of the soul,
and morning's the blooming of our limbs.'

The rebel is a hollow husk
dreaming in the spider's web, and no one knows his name.

The lonely demon says,
'Though forever he desires,
a hollowed rebel is never filled.'

If I morphed into a gruesome thing tonight,
I would move you lovely in my sight,
and change the way you see, forever.

If my heart was black and head too spotted,
I would burn this ******* town down
and love its blazing beauty in the sky.

If I was the last man on earth,
my mind would leap from out of my skull
and the world would be my dreamland, and earth, never again.

If I was a billion light years, I would be,
but not you nor they believed in me,
so now I must make myself real.

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.

the sun,
      it beats down on the grass,
discontented and desolate,
      godless,
I pass with a nod

the cells,
      they spill out on the floor
with fury and desire,
      fullness,
it spills out on the floor

color,
       it reacts to the soul
radiant and lobotomizing,
       mind,
it beats down on the floor

and the sunset lasts forever.

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.

Lying lazily in the venus chamber rose-tinted and arabian damp,
the rifle rests nearby, and twilight the color of corpses glows in the blinds.

Beyond, chimeras velvet mechanical gnaw and bud,
spilling out babes crazed and crucifixion stained.

And I know I was spilled with them,
with my back scarred with phantoms of missing wings.

But just like my seeds are boiling in her tatooed altar,
my plot is defining itself.

With my lungs rendered sore by the milky smoke exhaled
and lingering like ghosts of melancholy, the chamber fades to black.

Then my skull begins turning with the planet's core,
and into the alien forest I go, hunting for another kiss.

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.

Forgotten by your drunken seat
as stupid as a nation falls
and all that's left for us is the sky
and the night's stillness is all that's between us -
                                                   a drunken stupor
                                                   in our lonely shoes

And there were star-eyed demons smashed with our bottles, tonight
and there were bright-eyed memories of our bodies, tonight.

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

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