This coat is still fresh.
It hasn't dried completely yet
and it smudges and swirls under the pressure of prodding fingers
yet to be believed
or understood.
I would have liked to see you when you were first made
standing cold
and untainted,
but no one keeps that kind of innocence for long.
You've been painted over so many times
so many coats.
Some of them are delicate
an airbrush of experience
barely noticeable if you go chipping away with too much enthusiasm.
Others are thick,
heavy,
dark and muddled,
confused,
they stain down deep
thrown on all at once
a slop drunk family letting buckets fly unlidded.
I can tell about those
the ones that didn't dry smooth
and formed misshapen globs of character,
and regret,
that bump and scrape, against the outside world
against its professional counter parts.
That's what makes you whole
that's what I admire.
When I look close
and run my fingers over your painting of personality
the bits that are constantly bending
and moving
the way they peel
and crack
and let me see
all those lost layers you've painted over to keep a secret.
I don't want to wash this abused collage away.
I want to spread and muddle it all together,
and use your hues
your pallet of pity and perfection
to help paint over those secret parts of me
that I don't want to be found either.

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.

The question if the felt or the feeling hand feels more
is the only worth asking.
As if to say if you asked if lately I’ve felt more open
or hot as the eggs I eat in the mornings where I think
about the things above I write about
I’d say if I were to taste you it’d be by the gallon by a cup
at a time to time to that song you’ve always said
you’ve liked candle light writing by it’s
what’s made all the good men go mad.
It’s dancing’s what’s not getting laid on prom night.
Candle’s light or otherwise kills what’s a lack of
it, is it now made suicide or just loneliness,
is it now mean loneliness or just vaticide
now eyes not opening for the first time.
Bordering on morose now we look for
other words: this is where I live.
Deader words: there was once where I lived.

The goal’s in words to make things ****
even houselights like being you as temptation.

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

In
indecsicive
instances
I
instantly
interprept
irregular
inflama­tions as
illmatic
interpretations of
irregular
isolations
irresistable to
introverted
infadels.

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.

If I wake up,
I make sure I
write
down my dreams I
write in perfect detail
and my not dreams I
write in perfect detial
too. A dream life is as valid as
a waking one is as valid as
an undreamed life too
every non-second
         every dream-second
                 every now-second
is life matter in every listed nonexistent perfect detail:
polar bears,
a bug eating me from the inside out,
a blue mustard bleached rotted bone,
a sword made of cotton
that grows legs and calls itself summer wear,
and all the things
that aren't those things
either too.

I listen to the pitter patter of pumping blood
like summer rain on a satin roof
my ear set to the perfect patch of flesh
made by your white v neck.
I can smell your twenty dollar perfume
warmed up and almost ran through its fragrance.
I'm flattered
you put it on just for me.
That K-mart bottle will be forever linked with you.
I let my breathe show the path of least resistance
as it follows the flow up your chest.
I don't want to draw blood
being a vampire is overrated by pop culture
and my teeth sketch lightly
dull skates on a frozen pond.
We both taste like whiskey.
I'll take you poured over two rocks
with a dash of coke.

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.

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.

In the wee hours of the New Year
with an empty bottle and lucky strike in my hand
hollow and clinking like funeral bells
signalling with little remorse the death of another year.
I look up at the dark night sky
and Orion's bullet hole belt buckled tight
and sighing out smoke,
I think of you.

With drowsy steps I drag drunken feet
into the cold indoors.
I shut out the lights
that illuminate the glass eyes of my apartment;
and hobbling slowly up creaky steps
holding the heavy weight of my lonely heart in my throat
I think of you.

I bump weakly into the hollow plywood door
of my hollow white room
and ******* from the rags of a days memories
I slip naked into the cold sheets of a burnt beat old mattress
and my thoughts are naked
and my souls gentle skin rubs naked against the threadbare sheets
and my prides moon bleached carcass lies naked as it always does
and my mind is cold and naked
reaching for something warm,
something comforting.
and
I think of you.

I shake myself to sleep on the lonely pool of springs
flexing, kicking
demons, energy
from my restless body.
Sleep wraps me in its velvet womb
silent and peaceful.
I think of you.

Dreams materialize from the pit of sleep
making me relive past pleasantries
obligations from other lives.
I am unsatisfied in imagination.
Feeling for something real
something worth remembering
something I can use in the darkness
I Think of you.

I'm sure the sun will rise
I'm sure I'll wake with a start
From some unremembered dream
I'm sure the cold will grab me
I'm sure it will lick sickly at my tired bones
I'm sure things will get better.
I'm sure I'll fill in the hole of a heart with black cement.
I'm sure my soul is sitting warm as a coal under an ash blanket of confusion.
But for now,
I think of you

What subtle and suggestive words I wish I could speak to your sublime beauty.
If a picture itself is worth a thousand poetic words
and life itself is a collection of unending, unaiming, uncaptured pictures
then what sweet words could be said to you with these lips
with this pen
that wouldn't be better expressed in action,
reaction,
interaction,
interwinement,
*******,
well of course;
I am a coward
and I say nothing to you
and I linger on in null contemplation
of the slippy words I would weave
as they stay sadly swimming in my clouded mind.

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.

Lethargic
Lobotomised
Listeners
Literally
Lactate
Loathing for the
Listless
Lingering
Lowlife
Lyricist.
              How
                   do
                     you
                         like
                             the
                                 ludicrous
                                             limerick?

I sit
and smoke
and read
and write
huddled in wool
and adorned
with shiny trinkets
my appearance
makes men tell themselves
lies about me.
Deceptive
                in
           description.

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.

Drinking you away is the most effective
and painful
way I can find.
The liqueur
that's supposed to make my lips loose
only looses lips on me.
I ******* hate myself.
Since when?
Since I can remember.
Since I passed past
that last bastion of childhood innocence.
And  then introspection
and truth set in
and I really looked at myself
and examined my skills
and my attributes
and I found my self disgusted.
She says she thinks I'll find a perfect someone, someday.
Some say.
Something.
Similar.
Everyday.
Every ******* time.
I've tried harder to be a good person than any one I know.
I'd gladly throw myself in front of a bus for any of these unknown acquaintances.
Sacrifice is the only way to please them
only way to be worthwhile.
Maybe I only hang around scumbags.
Maybe I should find something better to do.
Maybe I should go live in a cave and howl at the moon and cut myself performing ancient ceremonies with flint worked obsidian stones.
Maybe I've lost it.
Maybe I never had it in the first place.
Maybe it doesn't matter.
Maybe only leaves me guessing.
Irrelevant of situation or circumstance;
I can still look deep inside;
past others opinions,
past the world outside,
past my influences,
past insults,
and compliments.
I can look for the deepest truth I know;
the only one to remain constant
and it will look me in the face
and say
your a worthless *******
finish it already *****.

Rollin with this one,
ya ya ya ya ya yikes bro.
I gotta go out of here.
Dont think about it,
fires burnin somewhere
I think
I dont know
but
where did that **** go?
Rolling numbers
40 of us
who was that?
I dont even know.
I heard shots fire and saw flashes.
Woop Woop
Dip
Woop Woop
DipDIpDIP
weeeoooopp
bumpcrackbumpbumpsnapslapcrash
I­ was somewhere in the bushes when it ended
panting out hurried fire water breath.

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 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.

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.

In the fog of mornings
and twice closed eyes
my dreams spelled you.
All the pain of reality
had been lifted from your face
your smile shone like diamonds
in that quick to disappear dream.
At least here you're happy
those narrow moments
where the world can't touch you
of course
neither can I.

Windows cracked open to morning light,
scrubbed clean by black boiled beans
mixed with milky white.
Stretch and wish something else
something better had happened
touch?
Feet fumble.
Back yells complaints.
The sun illuminates clouds
of lung pushed smoke.
It's cold.
Damp.
Light steams the dew on the grass
the green ground boiling ***.
Boiling ***.
Heat.
Hot.
Your body.
Lips hips fingertips.(New found tricks?)
Naughty.
I shake desire away from my mind
and suppress sensuality
with determination
or denial.
Your steps startle heart beats.
Eyes dart in avoidance.
Image of you wrapped in sheets.
I offer up smokes,
tokes,
jokes,
false hopes.
I have nothing I can count on,
but my addictions.
Walk, stumble, sigh,
body bathed with afflictions.
I stack wood,
by a hungry stove.
Fast food into a fattened black steel belly.
I made you breakfast,
but you ignore me.
Eyes speak cold truth.
You care too much
to feel like that
for me.

Slowly she raised her tired eyes
and began to tally for me
my innumerable inadequacies.
I leaned back tired and shaken
ready to ******* bitter medicine.
There is no sadder statement said about me than the truth,
independence and self reliance present themselves as virtues
but i have come to realize they are the only things
that have led me to be as proud
and as lonely
as i truly am.
Is this all my fault?
Is it in fault,
that i wish i had followed sheep like and blissful
into the norm that breeds satisfaction
or at least some numb equivalent?
For all of you
I will smile,
Wave,
Glisten,
Grimace,
Weep,
and bare wide my yellowed teeth.
Because the bliss that we call freedom,
is just the most subconscious part of obedience.

Go as Follows:
1-Gentlemen never touch money.
2-Never run unless your being chased.
3-Lies are often more helpful, and always more entertaining, than the truth.
4-Never Lie unless your joking, never tell the truth unless you trust the person.
5-Nothing is for sure except taxes, death, and trouble.
6-Everything is absurd.
7-Be prepared to enjoy life.
8-Don't procrastinate, death never does.
9-Laugh when you can. Smile regardless.
10-Only frown when you need to.

She asked me how I was doing.
She had a look to her, a sincere and open look, a look that invited honesty and expressed compassion.
It painted her face with invitation.
But it didn't just sit thick and flat like paint does.
It didn't just hang itself dull and useless around her head like a dollar store party banner.
It beamed out.
It reached a comforting hand.
It spoke, and so like a fool I told her the truth.

I told her that I was thinking about the universe.
That I was thinking about my significance as a human in its whole scheme.
My importance on this little rock.
This little rock floating as lonely and forsaken as it does around that star we named the sun.

I said I was thinking about how lonely and forsaken I felt.
Just me,
and how could a single person feel like this.
Swimming in an icy pool of his own thoughts.
Maybe these where the only things isolating me from all of my fellow men;
wrapping me in a blanket of isolation;
a blanket as thick and unforgiving as a strait jacket.
A shield.
A shield surgically attached to me,
and the weight of it's breaking me,
if I cut it away it would **** me.
The open wound bleeding out thoughts and emotions
into a ruby pool filled with letter and symbols
misspelled words and distorted swirling grease slick memories
an alphabet soup of insanity.
Maybe this is why I am alone.

I said I was thinking about love;
about who I could share it with;
about why it's important;
about why I don't feel it;
about why it makes me cry,
just as much as it makes me laugh.

I said I think about fantastic nights of true splendor;
about road ways paved with gold;
about endlessly open and kind people;
about everyone i ever cared for being with me:
Happy.
Laughing.
Like they describe the heaven I don't believe in.

I said I think about god.
About a sad man in the clouds who looks down on us in our darkest hours and seems to do nothing.

I said I think about evil,
or Satan,
or sin,
or abominations.
All of the things that seem to show up just when I feel safe to shake me and tell me to run;
run away from my comfort;
run away from my happiness;
run away from the truths I thought I found.
All of the things that shake me and tell me not to trust:
not to believe,
not to give in.

I said I think about other people.
How beautiful and serene some of them seem to me.
How some of them seem just like I am.
How I wish there was something I could do to make them feel better.
How I could sacrifice.
How I could bring them to a better place than I find myself.
How I could make myself useful, or decent.
If not in anyone else's opinion at least in my own.
How I could have an effect,
at least on this tiny rock spinning jut as alone and scared as I am
around a sun destined to destroy me.

I said I think about ending it all,
or starting over.
Becoming a different person:
a different face,
a different voice,
a different name,
a different body,
in a different place,
with different clothes,
knowing different people.
Knowing people who know nothing of who I really am.

I said I think of how I describe myself
and how its irrelevant to who I actually am.

I said I think about sadness:
and anger,
and chaos,
and i cant keep it strait anymore.

Once I was done spilling these things.
Once I had peeled back my shield and bled out for her.
She looked at me with those open loving eyes,
and without wasting a moment,
or displaying hesitance;
She Said:

"I know just how you feel"

Now that it's past the time
that all reasonable people go to sleep,
I warm my engine
and roll alone through sick slickened city streets.
Roads rise up in strips
there polished black backs reflect up a red ribbon of road
beaming down from the two electric eyes,
telling me where to head to next.
With concentration my eyes pick shadows from the dark
and i slide past them
breaking there delicate images
with the water that whips off my balding wheels.
The radio blares stupidly
because he's a ladies man
because they aren't going to take it
because he has 99 problems
because Jesus loves you
because...
There is no reason for this.
For burning fossil fuels
as i rip through the frigid night.
No reason,
for singing the tune
to the words i don't know.
No reason,
for speeding up
and letting go.
No reason,
to let myself spin at last
screeching,
screaming,
and finally smiling,
through that final crossroad.
They will find me,
broken and content,
blood pooling and painting,
a polished portrait of my shortened and hurried life.

" *******"
" 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"

Swaying drunk in a friendly kitchen,
I look
and see
a pretty
white
plastic handled
pearing knife.
I reach and grab
and cut
accidental slice
of a left palm.
Nothing
felt
a coincidence?
of drunkenness
and
shock?
or
a repeatable
pattern.
7 & 7
sits down on the
stoop
so i can test
my hypothesis.
I punch in at the edge
and feel the skin pop
like a warm water balloon
thicker
oozing like pancake syrup
nostalgia
the sharp steel
drags across
unrestrained
by the remaining flesh.
It's always easiest
to peel an orange
once you
stab
through
the
rind.
I've heard it described
as ******
or exhilarating
but I'm cold
and numb.
So I thin myself
with 7 & 7
to help it leak down
to my cigarette tip
and stain
my pretty
white
plastic
pearing knife.

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.

You’re less subtle than susceptible
to the sun rising
to hands softer than mine.
The smoke colors your fingertips
tarnished turmeric gold with
life passing through them
in waves and ripples
like Warsaw’s children
playing on the wharf.

That foam splashes up behind a sun
the rose hips on your hips, an alabaster canvas.
Nothing falls gracefully.

Brake,
break,
grab, slide, ball
like an infant safe in your ******* womb.
Cars around growl poised in packs on round haunches.
I hear finesse in relation to broken teeth,
rats in relation to style.
Like writing,
your name
on an outstretched rubber band
watch yourself shrink
and fly away every time
I see you let go.

Your teeth like drywall looks
when you’re eyes’ve gone red.
I want you like a child’s first attempt
at perfume
too much alcohol
and pulling blush from a warm rose.

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

romeo is bleeding but not so as you'd notice
he's over on 18hh street as usual
lookin' so hard
against the hood of his car
and puttin' out a cigarette in his hand
and for all the pachucos at the pumps
at romeros paint and body
they all seein' how far they can spit
well it was just another night
but how they're huddled in the brake lights
of a 58 belair
and listenin' to how romeo killed a sherrif his knife

and they all jump when they hear the sirens
but romeo just laughs
and says all the racket in the world
ain't never gonna save that coppers ***
he'll never see another summertime
for gunnin' down my brother
and leavin' him like a dog beneath a car without his knife

and romeo says hey man gimme a cigarette
and they all reach for their pack
and frankie lights it for him
and pats him on the back
and throws bottle at a milk truck
and as it breaks he grabs his nuts
and they all know they could be just like romeo
if they only had the guts

but romeo is bleeding
but nobody can tell
and he sings along with the radio with a bullet in his chest
and he combs back his fenders and they all agree its clear
that every thing is cool now that romeos here
but romeo is bleeding and he winces now and then
and he leans against the car doors
and feels the blood in his shoes
and someones crying in the phone booth at the 5 points by the store
romeo starts his engine and wipes the blood off the door
and he brodys through the signal
with the radio full blast
leavin' the boys there hikin' up there chinos
and they all try to stand like romeo
beneath the moon cut like a sickle
and they're talkin' now in spanish about there hero

but romeo is bleeding
as he gives the man his ticket
and he climbs to the balcony at the movies
and he'll die without a wimper
like every heros dream
just like an angel with a bullet
and cagney on the screen

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.

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

Its very rarely I get to see nights like this.
Eyes clouded with skyline.
white,
cream,
white,
burnt,
         white,
                  cream
the lights in the distance go.
Some speck of green hides in their pattern.
It's not its fault.
Just like it isn't the stars fault they've died.
I can only see there souls from here,
or now,
as it may be.
The branches reach up to cloud its blackened border.
Brittle vines reaching finger like,
grasping at the hovering skyline.
I forgive you.
Forgive existence;
but who am I.
A drunken juggler on the brink of the cities concrete shore;
contemplating the soaring skyline sparkling in the distance.

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?