there are two
selves
fighting within me.
one wants
nothing but the
gratification
of anger, destruction
and on and on and on.
the other is so desperate to be liked,
needed, desired
and on and on and on.

i'm a run on sentence dwindling down
into a person
so small and petty
i mean nothing
despite all i have to say.
and what do i have to say anyway
aside from bitterness,
pity, anger
and on and on and on.

i'm trying to learn how to
breathe again
and how to exorcise the
chemicals.
i'm trying to bite back
all the things
that i do wrong.
i'm trying to fit in and to not be
an angry soul
with nothing but a shoulder cracked clean in two.
i'm trying,
breathing, exhaling, slowly disappearing
and on and on and on.

love is saying
you won't get drunk on them tonight
you want to stay sober
coherent
together
but you
just
can't
help yourself

i thought i liked to ****
rough, *****, ******.
but i'm only ever
sad
after.
i'm only ever
wishing that they didn't
leave me
laying there
like a used vessel
that has merely
served its purpose.

i thought i liked to be
empty
but i'm only ever
wanting for someone to come
pour their heart out to me
so that i might
carry a little
something of them.

i thought a lot of things
and now i
can only think of
how incredibly
quiet it is inside my ribcage

i feel like i'm swimming
in a petri dish.
and some gloved hand
has dropped in a dose
of self-loathing
and i'm dissolving,
dissolving,
dissolving
molecule by molecule.

why have you given me this poison?

I thought I tasted
something unique in your mouth.
It was clean and simple and
you smiled as our mouths
went in and out
like the tide.

I had a night that turned to day,
light touching the bedspread through the narrow window
and crawling up to where our heads lay.

And after months
of eclipse
you struck suddenly like a match
flickering into being.

I held you for a night,
but a match smolders
till it touches your fingers,
and mine are singed.

i always thought poetry
happened as life
chaffed you over
and over
until it rubbed holes in
the fiber of you
and almost without even knowing it
you leaked your soul in lines.
i thought experience was beautiful
but its only disenchanting.

i think a cynic is such an ugly thing
and i think myself the ugliest of all.
i'm always wanting
always falling into a trope of misery;
i thought i was better than that,
i thought i was wise.
i can't hide my sensitivity or shiny pinpricks of hurt
catching the light.
i thought poetry dripped like faucet water
like a garden hose.
i suppose i've learned that poetry
is like pulling your worst fears
from your stomach where they thrive in acid dark,
and pushing them out through your mouth.

it's word-poisoning.
it's the ugliest parts,
it's vestigial tenderness
and i'm bruised
yellow black blue
purple red.
i've been living in the
tortured safety of my own head
and poetry is my writing on the wall
scratched into the sides of my skull.
it doesn't matter what i say
because i'll probably
live there till i die
but at least i'll have this graffiti,
this watery poetry sloshing like
brine in a jar.
what an ugly cynic i've become.

whatever you are
is whatever you see.
whatever is your pleasure
your ecstasy
in this whatever generation.

it's equal parts beauty and degradation
driving this sulking generation
to the consummation of image, of physical perfection.
our bodies are up for approval and thorough inspection.

whatever chemicals work the best
whatever gets you drunkest.
whatever gets you hot, hard,
don't forget
to live life to the fullest
but only if you're worthy,
only if you've passed the test.

if only you could rise up from your room
or start a revolution through the phone
plug in, go quiet and
surrounded
you are alone.

this is our whatever generation,
**** your thought and your soul
and your hope:
that is the initiation.
blame society
and forget,
that it is our creation.
so join the fold and strive to reach
that spiritual elevation
of a perfect smile, body, hair
because variation
is god's greatest failure.

this is my whatever generation,
the caste system of beauty
where screens light the path to liberation.
all sins are forgiven,
save ugliness,
that is our only stipulation.
so do whatever, feel whatever,
and whatever can be yours.
aren't you lucky to live
in a generations like ours?