You know what I think is sad
I used to miss the way you would curse
I missed every lie you said,
even though your lying was the worst

The tapes in your bag said it all;
the discs you spun said 'whatevs'
or 'I'm deep and loving'
I betcha you thought people heard The Smiths
and didn't think you were bluffing.

Your poetry was garbage, too --
I don't blame you for scrapping your work.
You lied about cutting your legs,
the pain under your pale skin,
you exhausted every quirk,
and wished for more within.

I betcha you're sitting somewhere
twenty-something and super-bored.
Probably still choking on your cigarettes
against your matress board,
criticizing people thinking differently
I hope one day you read a book
and ask who would publish me

You're probably the words
stuck in some other's throat;
resenting you and the
****** Mountain Goats.
I never liked to criticize
the way you looked,
but your teeth are the
second most crooked
thing about you

The roaming rebels smoke their pipe-dreams
by the eroding wall.
Their pockets are as empty as their hearts
and they know it, and know
that you know it.

Her hairspray is a mist around her
beige-caked face --
and she swears she used to look good.
She swears that things used to matter;
that words once made sense;
that her boys won't forever stand by that wall;
that her boys won't forever stand still,
swept by the grains of time.

And you, in your desired attire,
in your calculated speak,
will never know that they know you don't know.
And you, well-adjusted and forever fluent in their inability to be temporary --
in their heartless self-awarness, with no ambition --
will sigh with sympathy
unneeded for the ******.

Chipped, cherry toned toes, pressing
across the cheap, linoleum flooring,
She's wearing nothing but an
over-sized sweater from a college
she's never, ever been.

And her hands hit her hips,
her grin leaves **** those
smoky-stained calcium cuties,
wrapped by chapped pythons.
In which, you have to admit
that 90's bob bouncing is
as killer as cancer.

Coffee table eyes, glancing,
gliding between every take,
she lifts the bottom of that
balled-up, decade-old sweater,
revealing a tuft of brunette hair;
a place where you can touch her;
where you can escape and stop
lying to yourself, you nihilistic nothing.

II.

Breathing the cold, in the murky-dark,
she, laying on a decadent country,
huddled in my authoritarian arms,
we stared at stars, streaking across,
waiting to escape like them, instead of
relating to those already dead beacons.

What to buy, Who to be
This is a harmless harmony
First comes love, then comes trust;
A defenseless memory in the dust
And what could I, so ever in motion,
could contribute to this ocean
that I call Earth and you call Here --
my eyes are a farmhouse portrait,
far and near.

With and without, give my E! take
Sometimes I feel like this hunger
is my and your mistake.
Withering windows give view to past,
give mention to something through
alliterative glass.
What could it be, When could it throw
my life and your life in a redundant television show,
where the laughter is canned, the love staged,
the buying and dying of products we have caged
ourselves in, in bulk, ourselves in a religion of none.

Time to blister with imagery, A delicate, bouncing light
traveling across a sea, moving towards me, moving
towards you, across the darkly shimmer of a reflector
blue, and the denim drugs and t-shirt ***,
the Fat Elvis rock in your lap, Nationalistic paranoia:
the red, white, and blue on your hat, fading, fading
among the shards of air, warm and vibrant,
Terror-Freedom clarity spittle-lip cat bath,
and my laces around the neck of the sound that skips
lids and rids of hipster brains and howling barks
from trees and boys with new noise, killer and robust
in the teenage, young adult, serial defenseless dust.

In a valley down by the danger,
surrounded by silver-naked-trees,
there is trust and there is dust
on plaid blanket, pressed by knees.

Where the orange orb floats through darkness
as midnight and finite as deathly intentions,
they surrender, known pretenders,
**** and pink, among green-glassed drinks,
living as common competition, in a silicon city;
living as voices-of-a-generation, in the pretty gritty.

I gave my car insurance
but myself none
Living in a bed sprung by money
and covered with a loaded gun
If you want to ****
then ask to be mine
We can be smoke breathers,
tossing our leftovers in
eachother's freezers.

I've got America's chewing gum
stuck to my vintage tread.
Viva la sell me myself
before I'm dead.
But my hair is knock-off foaming cream,
and you have to ignore it in my
wanna-go-far movie star dream.

My nails are splintered with dirt
from twisting the skirt
of my reflection
and I feel so deranged
because my whole life is staged
and I don't have enough
money to watch it.

Chainsmoking menthols,
creating clouds on parade.
Living in the dark;
frenching hurt that I've made.
There's a sadness in my comfort
and a comfort in my sadness.
***, fame, ******* down
commercialized madness.

I don't dream of pornstars
as much as I dream of clothes.
Videogames to escape it all,
carbon monoxide through my nose.
Too good for this and that;
entitlement at an all-time high.
Doing television to help me live,
or maybe to help me die.

Spotify for the masses
beating in my brain.
Youtube and pornhub
to make me feel the same
as the lost I compare to myself
and the celebs I want to be.
I want to be on edge, rich, validated;
I want to live in a fractured harmony.