Pour me another one of these.
I'm going home with death tonight.
I love the way the strobe light dances off of open bone,
I don't want to be alone anymore.

I looked at him through a haze of Pall Malls
He held me briefly and fiercely in dirt encrusted finger tips.
When he spoke to me it was whiskyed and dry.
I'd writhe in sheets covered in sweat,
marred by too many bodies (only one of which was mine).
But we laughed that hearty laugh that comes from knowing eyes.
We danced with the weight of flesh and bone.
We held no pretense,
and my eyes stung with the knowledge that we were genuinely ****** up.

I'm flesh again.
Ripped out of the heavens.
Snatched up by something turning me from a metaphoric whisper,
to a tree stump.
I enjoyed being ethereal again after so long.
I've been metamorphosed;
repressively manufactured as the recipient of love;
been made 'real' again.
Soon I'll dilute,
wash out,
become irritable and complacent.

The death of the mercurial.

My deepest darkest fears of happiness.

I'm whistling you a tune to waft into.
Some say to walk with the wind on your heels.
I don't do that.
I crash forward with clunky, massive steps
cracking concrete,
shattering asphalt and charging onward like a directionless bull.
If anything, I barrel into you like a semi off a freeway.
You smile and say you never knew what hit you.
You fall backwards.
As I run towards, you cave in.
I'm pressing my lips against you with something akin to force.
(the desperation of the intoxicated)
I burrow into your chest trying to make a place to hide in.
You sigh and fall to pieces;
crumble into dust to lay in.

There is a cold wind that sweeps over this place
and I'm staring dead at you.
If you ignore the fog around our feet and the ominous smell of mildewed death,
you can almost see a point to this little adventure of ours.
I'm about ready to make you an offer to get the **** out of here and go somewhere else a little less, depressing.
But you're staring right at me with that look again;
that look that says you're not all there.
The one that says 'I'm sorry you have called the wrong number'.
To be honest, all I want to do is run,
but all I'm going to do is stare dead at you and pretend that this whole little adventure of ours was worthwhile.

My sister my sister my sister,
turns out she wasn't a doll at all,
once push came to shove.
She'd been beat up and blistered like the rest of us,
just clinging to the mast of certainty found in encasing oneself in plastic,
layers and layers of it.
I don't know how she didn't suffocate but she's still breathing in there, somewhere.
She cracks at the edges,
I try to look in, nosy as I am, and get her out of there
but she doesn't want to get out.
She hates me for trying.
But I miss her I miss her I miss her.

Sometimes I go visit the end of the railroad.
I sit down on the tracks,
drink wine and think back to the time when I had somewhere I had to be,
desperately.
It ends in a wall about seven feet tall that's been newly painted by some hooligan I cherished.
When I first wound up there I didn't know what I was supposed to do.
I tried climbing that wall for a few hours or days,
trying to go further than I needed to be.
But I never did like the destination bit anyway.
So I wandered off and found some new uncharted way to be for a time.
Every now and again I get the urge to reminisce.
I trot on back to the place and remind myself of the bliss
of knowing what the hell I was doing or where I was going.
I tag my name on a corner somewhere,
trudge down the tracks onto the parking lot,
hop in my car and go home.