Oh the dark.
Oh the presence of others,
knowing neither of us is
looking
or judging.
Oh sweet nights wrapped in the
foggy,
bewildered,
utterly abandoned,
sheet of drunkenness.
I long for you.
You being an abstract thing.
Unable to find you.
Even when you exist
souly in my imagination.
You are comfort
in the dark.
You are purity
embodied
and abandoned.
I reach
but my mind races away
wrapped around the flickering light of the T.V..
I'll find you,
the hopeless romantic in me cries out
I'll find you.
Even if I don't know who
or why
you are.

I want you
and you turn away
like the earth itself rotating
to get itself away from the sun.
I know I'm not the source of life on your planet
but
I need you
and you scoff and chuckle.
That scoff, a body flying off a motorcycle
the sound of skin being ripped away
by the hard embrace of the concrete.
I hear it slide to a stop against the telephone pole.
that ******* chuckle,
the sound of all the ribs breaking and stabbing into the heart
but
I know you.
This sick ******* game you play.
Egging me to react
a horse under the whip.
Come on,
buck up,
kick, bite,
raise high your front quarters and strike me down.
I'll only brand you again with shame and horror.
I can see that look on your face
you are guiltless
and amused.
But
I can't now,
I can't repeat this pattern.
You want me to lung at you in rage and lust.
Not this time.
Not hunched over the counter
Not knowing it'll repeat itself in a week.
Hearing my name and obscenities
with that ***** smile on your face.
Not this time.
You only love the worst in me.
You love it when I draw blood,
and break memories,
and scream,
and shatter all the dishes,
that you begged me to keep safe just hours ago.
You get that look
that look cats get beating mice to death.
Amusement.
You get that look
that happy look dogs get when they bring home a dead pigeon for us to eat.
Misunderstanding.
You get that look
that look the devil gets when he hears an infant crying out helpless in sheer terror.
*Satisfaction.

The essential creature comforts
must be abstained from
in this bland
bleak
ball point tapping
room.
Only for long enough
to listen
and leave.
Granted regularly
some brief reprieve.
Fulfilling deadly habits
the streets filled
curbs run rampant
with wickeder habits
than mine.
To solitude
I'll resign.
What words
describe my presence
an inability to
define.

I think of you
the same way
modern society thinks of hygiene.
You are severely undervalued by most
and eternally needed.

Drunkenly walk
and dance
and sing
along the sparkling sewers
of Paris.

Bubbles
glide up lazily through a maze of smooth cubes.
***** and water
liquid platinum.
I'll sweat out devils water when I wake
panting
and thankful.

Only ten words and i still cant use them wisely.

I stagger cold through the halls of my indoctrination.
I do not wish to be seen.
A thousand ******* eye's gawk silent from there checker pattern perches
and my chains and prizes jingle
and attract stares
with each bounding step.
I can no longer stand my hours in this house of heresy.
Loose lipped **** lovers
spill secrets over bile chowder
chuckling about a days delicacies
and social secrets.
Second rate at best,
they all know there lover boy on the Hollister bag
probably takes it in the *** more than the average ***
and still they swoon blind batty eyed at the queens that prance the halls.
I am unamused
Feel abused
giving out my finest hobby to any takers.
I'm being used.
How am i supposed to ******* death sweet and smokey at this rate.
Like some fluff tailed hair
I hustle off with my ticking life in toe
the numbers at my waste spell ruin.
I'm late.
I'm late.
If only I had some red haired queen of hearts
to behead me.
A better fate.

I don't sweat , I bleed.
I don't eat, I feed.
I don't want , I need.
I don't heed, just proceed.
I smoke tree's,
and now white fills my eyes slowly.

It began cumbersomely,
as all things like that do.
They stumbled through the dark of her halls,
and rooms,
and doors,
only to find themselves
engulfed in identical darkness.
Until,
at last,
with a single click,
the brilliance of her face was illuminated.
But the pure passion they found themselves in
wasn't enough alone
to disguise the scenes strangeness.
She looked into his eyes.
She said she wanted it to be dark.
She said she wanted him to speak to her.
Like an angel,
comforting a forsaken soul.
Like the devil,
trying to buy a pure spirit.
Like the wind through the trees,
Whispering seasons,
Whispering Tastes of snow;
Whispering of dying leaves;
Whispering of bright sun and a lack of rain.
She said she wanted to taste his breathe,
close,
a days memories breathed in.
Seconds and centimeters from touching
whispering truths
or lies
or whatever was most wonderful
it didn't matter anymore.
She said she wanted to be immersed;
in only the purest;
and most easily remembered senses.
She said she wanted this to prove as some vigil to innocence when she looked back on it.
As some point of turning or transformation.
As a moment of clarity,
shrouded in an indescribable darkness.
She said she wanted it to start,
and so with another click
they began.

Sometimes
in the dark of the night,
in the abyss of forsaken forests
when tree's take on new meaning
and sensation's in the light of the moon;
you can look up into the sky
and see a million stars
floating ghost like in the heavens.
They sing a lullaby
and bliss into the air.
They sing most beautifully
when they know your not listening.
Humming, swooping low into the night,
whispering dreams,
and nightmares
You lay your head down
in the cold wet embrace
of the grass and the weeds;
and listen to the ground breath,
and hear it,
beating,
growing,
**filled with life.

I want to invent a religion.
It can't be that hard,
seeing that
All religions serve to answer
only four questions:

1) How was the world made.
{possibly when}

2) What is the human purpose ie.
Why are we here ie.
What makes us better than,
and able to **** everything else.

3) What happens when you die.
{preferably a cheery conclusion, also one that disowns other religions or acts}

4) When, how, and why the world will end
{ its comforting to know when and why you'll be ******}

To see the ears perk up
alive with instinct.
The eyes dilate
and glaze red with night vision.
The hindquarters raise and rattle
the tail bobs with anticipation
as the birds chirp,
and hop from limb to limb.
Soon it fades
and he settles again to clean himself.
He's old
and caught enough mice to satisfy his masters.
The birds are safe
for another day.

" *******"
" I'd drop a two dollar **** down dem lips darlin'"
Chuckling, howling laughter
" What did you just say"
" I said I love you"
" No you didn't"
" Yes I did, I said I love you"
" WHAT THE **** DID YOU SAY?"
"I love you"
She still doesn't know
and I still chuckle
whenever I'm alone
and it comes to mind
"I'd drop
a two dollar ****
down dem lips
darlin"

You are here.
You are surrounded,
engulfed,
great leaping majesty.
You are enthralled,
on some polished dance floor,
we,
us ,
it.
You hear your name,
but it isn't your name anymore.
You have no name.
You are it.
You are the crowd.
Saved,
mass hysteria.
You are possessed,
like the hounds of hell themselves,
barking,
snarling,
there are many heads in this slobbering,
sweating,
gyrating,
uncontrollable beast you find yourself in.
Like the first amebas to grow more than one cell
and slunk successful from the primordial ooze
you are the essence of life
and progress.
You are the crowd,
unrestrained,
untainted.
You are complete.
Every one moves as one,
an unchained energy,
unknown.
You want to scream out,
it screams out,
it is unparalleled,
unholy,
a movement,
a merging,
an unconquerable amassing of souls.
Screaming,
teaming,
shouting together,
the very fire that fuels the furnaces of hell.
Moved beyond the mortal,
and alone.
There are certain words
I wish existed
but don't.
There are certain times
when the guttural noises
I can bark out
do not satisfy the world around me
do not satisfy description.
Amazing
Fantastic
Starstruck
Bewildered
Brilliance
G­enius
Infamous
Indescribable.
None of these things come close.
None of these things satisfy,
satiat.
I am made mad by its presence.
What can I do?
How...?
Majesty,
heavens,
spiralling,
and unspoken.
Where do these things come from?
No where near.
No where here.
They are above us
and unforgivable.

The sweet static white noise
of laughter.
Friends chuckling,
mercilessly,
endlessly.
In the background of my existence;
friends.
To have a good friend.
A friend equal to all others;
a wonderful friend,
to connect with them on the deepest of levels;
on levels unparalleled by sober men,
but,
but you disagree with their
may be perspective
with their maybe a plethora of perspectives.
It's something that reaches beyond perspective,
and kinship.
Something that reaches beyond common opinion
and relation,
these vague things friendship is based upon.
It is a belief;
something that defiles logic,
something you hold dear,
that they disagree with,
it is inconsolable.
It seems to be
a perfect friendship.
A social enigma,
but that thing
that one thing
is what holds back
true bonding
and connection
and ultimate potential
for growth.
That's how I feel
when you say
you cant love me back.

Its called public speaking
But I am utterly alone in front of this fake,
fiber board,
paper figgiting,
******* podium.
I can see it in their eyes.
They anticipate my words
as much as I loath them.
Cough,
clear you throat,
your a performer
a great juggler
bleeding in front of a room of razor toothed hecklers.
I'm sure they'll remember your name
they'll burn the ground you've stepped on
to cleanse it of your lingering, godless opinions.
They're waiting fruit in hand
to offer you prizes
or splatter you with disdain
and self serving amusement.
Speak
its now or never
the orators you admire
roll in their graves with laughter.
I'm sorry,
did you mean to be taken seriously?

Cigarette in the Sunday sun
Its cold despite its overbearing presence
the overbearing presence of
planes overhead,
dogs barking,
screaming children loosed from morning service,
grinding steel wheels on a rail road track,
cat calls,
coughing,
laughing,
cussing,
imagined smiling.
The world spins,
tips,
teeters,
and I dance on its edge
songs strangling my lungs.

Everyone knows its a bad part of town,
no one lives there by choice.
Its this place called The Heat
down at the corner of holy gate
and 1-deuce-deuce.
There a girl there,
her real names Lucinda,
they say friends call her luci,
which is short for Lucifer,
and she works in The Heat
which is slick for hell.
They say she's called bass
"cause it look'a like a wide mouth bass
smell 'bout da same"
Nicknames and false alibis.
Luci works the Heat on taco Tuesdays.
They say she'll serve it hot for ten a song.
Fish taco Tuesdays.
They joke that it always smells like tuna anyways
even without fish taco Tuesdays.
They say on a good Friday,
The Heat almost becomes bearable
and every body watches old bass
swinging widemouthed and tasseled
around every pole in the bar.
But I can't bare it,
the kind of sadness in places like this
where they serve up breakfast
and Tuesday specials
for ten dollars a song.

It was as dark and warm
as the womb
when i stepped in from the cold chill
of my cigarette.

Movies and images
flashed on endlessly
in the abyss
of the darkened room.

I knew better than most
that soon sleep
and dreams
would set in refreshing
and familiar
as the face of a mother
to a wounded child.

I could see these patterns
repeated behaviors
forming themselves in the dark
and so I too
lay down my weary head
and my heavy bones
and slipped oil like
into the rough embrace of the sheets
and the unknown
and the loved
and the eternally forgotten world of dreams.

He told me he was leaving,
to be gone for good and no longer tired.
He told me the decision was final
chrystallized
in the floating mush of his brain.
He told me he would leave in the middle of the night
unknown, unseen
like a thief
or an abused lover.
He said he had been thinking of it for a long time now
that finally something had made up his mind.
I asked him.
What.
What could make him want to leave,
want to leave this sleepy fishing village
settled endlessly in a saltwater fog;
a thick constant fog
that burned the lungs
and made cars rust in real motion.
He stopped.
He thought of how to say it
moving his eyes back and forth
as if bouncing the words he would speak between them
contemplating ping pong.
He took in a deep breath
of the briney breeze
and looked up at the cold sky
above my head.
" It happened three days ago
when I woke up in the dark
just a little before the day broke golden and grey
over the village
and as I saw light faint on the horizon
I stepped out onto my porch
with a hot drink steaming in the cold air
and watched the sun break the line of hills
and saw the dew glimmering on the leaves and bushes
and smelled the salty water
evaporate off the broken streets
and heard the first songs
of unseen and unknown birds
and listened to the waves crash in the distance
and tasted the ground that surrounded me
as it filled my nostrils
and as this beautiful scene unfolded before me
this tired foggy damp wonderful scene
that I've seen a thousand times before.
As it all broke open before my eyes
filled with all too familiar memories
I thought to myself
I have to get the **** out of here
I have to leave forever before this place rusts me dead and shut
I have to get the **** out of here
and I will"
Then he stood
and closed the book
that had laid open on his lap this entire endeavor
the pages flapped together in the wind
like the book was a cat disturbed from his khaki covered lap
and he bid me farewell
never making eye contact
or gesturing.
"Maybe I'll see you in another life
or sleepy town"
and he
my grandfather
was gone forever.

You are perfect.
Beyond any comparable specimen
photo shopped and filleted under the surgeons knife
splattered puffy lipped across every magazine
in the dime and nickel drugstore isles.
Like some olden goddess drunken ancients
sent prayer and virgins to.
Like a pop culture piece painting
portraying perfection multicolored
and gleaming.
Like the way the sun breaks into every color of the spectrum
when it hits the clouds just above the shore line
amazing even the coldest of hearts.
Like a piece of water frozen and glimmering
with all the brilliance of the sun itself
turning fields into fiery displays with the morning dew.
Like the first message sent across the nation via telegraph
amazing everyone
and bringing wonder and mystery into the world again
as if darkness and desperation never existed
in the first place.
Like all of these things.
You are perfect,
and I don't know you.
I don't know anything about you.
The sick
the chauvinistic
the sexist
the slum dog
and cannibal
and primitive
the ****** and unforgivable
the pure drive
and urge
in me,
wants to walk up brazenly
chest puffed out to you
to say only three things.
You are perfect.
What is your name?
Will you lay with me?
But I cannot do these things
you know your perfect.
I can tell by the way you walk
the way you brush away looks like dust.
Full of pride brought on by good genes
and disdain for others.
I am a gentleman
and I could never say such things
to a person as self satisfied
and perfect in physicality
as you.

The heady aroma of youth
that nostalgic mixture:
perceived immortality,
mildly tainted innocence
determination
endless drive,
little know how,
and too much energy
and sadness.
With this stench you face the world each day
unafraid
and in pursuit
of some yet unnamed dream

I want to meet you all over again;
like it never happened that way in the first place.
Some alternate time and reality,
where logic didn't apply,
simply because we didn't need its boundaries anymore.
Then maybe
all those words and smoke,
and *** and coke,
could have just stayed choked down
and I wouldn't have to endure
these lonely thing's:
loyalty
and trustworthiness
and camaraderie.
Maybe then
in that place
at that time
something great could have happened,
and it all would have been left there.
Like all those wonderful dreams no one ever remembers having
and all those wonderful feelings and sensations
no one has felt, and so never will fiend for;
but then we wouldn't be here would we?
In this great silver lined grave
we have dug for ourselves
hoping some overlooked imperfection
could let us
just climb our way right back out
into the midst of the crowd
and insecurity,
or awareness.

I wear scars proudly
they form ruby red bracelets
and bubbled ivory emblems
stories as twisted
uninteresting
and sad
as twice smashed
roadkill

Its rare that I hear
the words truly express
things that seem so truly indescribable.
How am I to describe?
How am I to relay such thoughts to men?
It's impossible to imagine the dark from the suns point of view
It would take true pride
and blistering ignorance
to see oneself in such collosal
and lonely shoes.
the first wind chill spells geese in the sky
and the squacking made me think of you
so i took out my old 30 aught 6 and fired away
they said the stuffing was bad
but that the rest was perfect
and i think about the sky blue
but for an instant splattered red during some southern migration
good god himself was once a paradox
I'm sure something that has existed forever must be bored by now
worthless ******* that he is
Does heaven really sound that good?
i want debauchery and drunken laughter
and want my heaven to run red with immortal blood testing the limits of new found power
i want to be able to keep things strait
what am i talking about again?
wait
with who?
do i know you?
can i kiss you?
are you as drunk as i am?
Am i drunk?
no
no I'm not
**** a dog
a family insult by any standard
handed down through generations
of the worthless ******* in my family
******* too
but then again they weren't
do ******* get to go to Cornell?
yes
yes they do
I am lost
or confused
do you have a map?
i need a choreographer
Google maps hasn't made it here yet
that sky is still blue
the geese blood fell to earth
good gravity
cute gravity
why does gravity get its own laws?
spoiled *******.
How does this end?
wouldn't everyone like to know
wouldn't we all like to get our one on one
with some benevolent ****** in the skies
**** him
i would
in my one on one
its a power trip thing for me
I'm not gay
where was i going?
not here.
not ******* god.
I hope gods a woman.
Impossible
a woman couldn't **** things up this bad
unless her period was in proportion to eternity.
Men have drunken periods induced by testosterone flushed brains
We are ruthless, and indolent.
I miss the sun and beaches covered in drunkenness and freedom
I'm missing something
right
reason
who?
******!
Well at least I got that over with.

How exactly does one find themselves in said situation
you didn't say anything about the situation yet
in description,
indisputably
incredible
incredible?
Not in any sense of tradition
Not in any sense that could bring sparkle and innocence to the surface of a child's eyes
Not in any sense immediately apparent to the unobservant man
cut to it *******
Clouds run think in the room
and with ink head to toe
and horns
and swazzies
and clantag black across the chest
and yellowed smokers teeth
golden oils burst hot in desperate lungs.
Relief.
Relief is what they name her
as her remnants drift from grateful mouths
as pale white and soulful as snow in reverse.
What's going on then?
They play a game.
They call it twenty five for missed medicine.
They say if the bell breathes smoke
on calls break the weak,
They hackle happily in a giggling choke.
But I could never participate in these things.
Is it a lack of courage, an overabundance of cowardice?
Its a lack of many things:
lacking history
or will
or wisdom
or faith
or a gut cold and steely enough to handle regurgitation
of my own lungs.
Not many do handle.
As is seen,
when a queen splatters palaces
with spigukums
liquid lowered expectations
only now could they take her seriously.
Do you?
I knew that fate from the start
and that's why I depart
to a cold blue board box
Roll, lick, pack, and light
delight
then again;
Who's to say I didn't enjoy it just as much as they did?

There she was
with lollipop legs
and cream soda curls
as she kissed the crown
of her camel 99
and a cascade of carcinogen smoke
drifted up from cherry red lips
and she looked at me with neon blue eyes
and the liquor on our breathes
spelled both our demise
as we played cat and mouse games
under beaten black and blue skies
When it was all over
and I had tasted those cherry red lips
and felt the alabaster sway
of her marshmallow hips
she said it wasn't very often
you felt highs like this
we both let out a sigh
and then parted with a kiss.

I want to hear you lie to me.
I want to see the sweet syrup of deceit
fall slow and seductive from your quivering lips.
I want to pile these little white lies up on pancakes;
like powdered sugar for a freshly flipped soul.
I want to see your eyes hold firm in deception
chiseling the cold ice of your gaze into cubes
for chilling the sweet drink of my victory.
I love the instant look of
guilt and anticipation;
the bitten bottom lip;
the chest puffed out,
with a breathe of indignation,
for my knowing;
the tear filmed eyes;
the legs rubbing together nervously;
hands run back golden ribbons of hair over perfect ears,
and scratch at angel shoulders
where those wings we lost should still be.
Your adorable when you lie.
Lie.
**Lie me a river.

I only have as
many regrets as I have
committed actions.

Serendipitous
Sirens
******
Seasick
Sailors to
Satiate
Sickly
Sensual
Seconds
Stalked full of
Sexually
Stimulating
Sentences
Second only to
*** itself;
Sad for
Seasick
Scurvy
Sailors
Syphilis will
Soon
Succeed
Sanity.

What do infants dream of?
Do they dream of wombs?
Places dark
and comfortable
and perfect beyond comparison.
Sedating heartbeat above regular
and comforting
like a vascular clock.
Always keeping time;
always breathing life.
Do they dream of mothers *******?
Soft pillows of nurturing flesh.
The source of life on their planet.
Flowing ivory elixir,
from soft rose *******.
Do they dream of us?
Of grotesk giants
that pinch cheeks
and speak in meaningless howls.
Smiling oversized faces
that clean the **** that builds below
where that sweet tube once provided life.
Gnawing white stumps
eating indigestible hunks of flesh,
or plants.
Do they understand love?
Can they dream of pure emotion?
Without the words and representations of it interfering?
I wish to be like this.
I wish to be swaddled,
to have dreams about nothing,
and real.
Dreams as pure and amazed
as a teary eyed infant.