I’ve had all my affections poured out over pink skirts as well as pale eyes.
It’s easy to find that pogo sticks and pacifiers
can’t get a childhood
off the ground; where she stood smiling.
Over coats and undercuts are all to cover something.
Replace your teeth with gold
and when they don’t feel
like yours anymore
Then you’ll know.
Your tongue is bronze now.
Plaster’s coming off like a shuffle board land slide
All around this cage they keep us dogs
In, When we bite; its because there isn’t any tongue clicking
Or word bashing left to do.
The sun has found me,
I see it through
slotted bars, and the clouds
are in just as much hell as I am.
I see them with belly full to eyes full of wine.
I’ve been too long in burning this bridge.
It’s the buckets full ,
waiting to quench tinder.
It’s that I’ve drunken everything,
Flammable for miles.
Lock jaw and bite.
Bite down on the trusses.
Bite down and curse god.
He’ll understand all
Your tongues, and spastic fingers.
She says that I puke passion,
that these trees don’t grow in vain,
that fruit is god awful imagery,
And that I have to train every limb
so they can beat the stop signs with their falling pines.

There was speed
in the way the rose hips aged on your alabaster canvas.
Nothing falls gracefully.
Life passes in waves and ripples
the lulls of it trapped in pockets of wrinkled flesh.
When smoke colors your finger tips
like turmeric.
Whose lungs would be better to seep the blood
it took to build our youth.
I said if you let him deal in front
of me I'd **** him.
It took more then broken bones to keep you out of the tar
and feathers.
Those needles I broke just turned to coal
stains on tin foil, crumpled
it was the only thing
above ground when you were through.

Good dogs,
always panting towards the sun.
The lapping tongues that break;
the mirror of the lake.
The picture of your face,
rolling and broken on its surface,
like I always knew you were.

Here, over the crisp of morning grass.
Here, under the silk of morning skies.
Here, in-between the thighs of time swaying.
Here, we find the dawn, or tomorrow,
now, wrapped together,
in the sweet must of old wool
and fresh sweat rubbing together.
Now like the gap between the second hand settling,
as brief as hummingbird wing beats,
it all rises in front of us,
awake in the warmth of the sun.

Good dogs,
always panting towards the break.
The lapping tongues at dawn;
the mirror of  lake.
The shaken picture of your face,
smiling and open on its surface,
like I always knew you were.

You ever wake up in the middle of the night real thirsty, and so you go downstairs, or across the house, or whatever, to get somethin' to drink. When you get there you know you don't want water, cause water's got no flavor, but you don't have any juice, and its too late f'r tea or coffee. And you **** sure ain't got any of that bitchmade caffeine free herbal **** either, so you're just left with water, so you drink it even if you don't wantu. Then you start feelin' real upset and dissatisfied what with the fact that you just had to drink water, but then you start to feel bad about feeling bad about "only" havin' water, what on account of all them little starvin' children and whatnot, so you decide to drink a whole nother glass just out of spite towards the little ******* who made you feel that way, determined as hell be grateful as **** this time, but it still don't work. Don't work at all. So you just go upstairs, or across the hall, or the house or whatever, all bloated from like forty ounces of lukewarm tap water and you just lay down all bloated and dissatisfied and sad and questioning the meaning of your terribly mediocre existence. Then you start to feel really down, and questioning like the meaning of things that don't need to be questioned and all. 'En by the time it's gettin' round to like 5 in the morning you realize none of this would have happened if you at least had juice. Hell even koolaid, but it's to late now and you're still all bloated and sad and you just fall asleep cursin' juice and all the ******' different kinds of fruit that make it, and made you feel this way, what on account of the transitive property. Ya well, what I'm trying to say here is, **** fruit, its the reason I'm so Go'**** unhappy.

May be I love you.

Or maybe I just love the idea,
Of pressing hard into you,
On cold nights,
When the room’s dark,
and all you can see,
is our panting and labored breathe.
The stink of sweat and clenched fists.

Or maybe I just love the idea,
of drunken mistakes,
on unmade beds,
when whole worlds on fire,
and all you can smell,
is the sweet pitch and sap of smoldering clothes .
The stink of sweat and clenched fists above it all.

Or maybe I just love the idea,
of old age spent alone,
on creaky porches,
when all my senses have faded,
and I can’t love anymore of this world.
Is the end always found alone, in places like this?
The stink of sweat and clenched fists above it all, fighting to the end.

Or maybe all of these things,
but then again,
maybe I love you.

I feel so **** lonely sometimes.
Not that anyone can fix it for me,
but it’s always there it seems,
in the background, telling me,

that not anyone can fix it for me.
Those hands reaching for fever
in the background, telling me,
it’ll be okay, don’t worry, not now.

Those fevered hands. Reaching for
Those lies that say things to me like,
“it’ll be okay, don’t worry. Not now.”
Sick sentimentality wraps around

those lies that say things to me like-
Oh hell, I know it’s me talking all along
around sick sentimentality. Wraps,
smother, swim, I’d drown in your arms.

I know it’s me talking all along, Oh hell,
what could be so wrong with me when i
swim, smother, drown, in your arms. I’d
be sick to want anything other than,

what could be so wrong with me. When i
think about the best kind of days; I’m
sick to want anything other than, we.
At least I can know now for sure that

days like this one will pass, days where
I feel so **** lonely sometimes.
I’m sick of sadness, those crisp voices
in the background, telling me.

“It’s all *******."
She mouthed
cocking a drunken head and lighting a broken cigarette.

                                up,
                 ­         up,  
I looked her up,        
and down again.      

"Between just us
us friends
it'll be fine
just fine in the-"

"I know."
As she looked away
she showed me soft grace
a wrinkled nose and tired eyes
posture of those patron saints.

I poured out two gins
taking both
she smiled.
Both gone
She saved
not a single, sip.

"You're beautiful"
I mumbled
and
she smirked.

Made upward movement
taking a lucky
she brought fire
up to the tip.

Lips pursed together
tongue pushing spit out
toward and around the dirt
at my fumbling feet.

When we were done,
the smoke clinging
to those auburn curls.
She lay back arching.
Those fluttered eyes,
drove my aching muscles,
reaching for her open smile,
as, with slippery digits
I played our sighs together.

Petting
heavy
heavy as the world sitting
on my worried head.
Watch it crack under pressure
The gory puddle of my expressions
in her lap.