The poisonous cherries have blossomed outside my pane.
and with a deadly tilt out my second story window
I can kiss their blushing hearts.
I lean over and out
and smell spring
Rain,
Dirt,
Fever,
Love,
in the air.
I’m another mutt howling in heat
gift me with your treat
another blushing heart with beat.
Cherry blossoms dripping rain
liquid fragrance feast.
I’ll kiss your petals.
Secret meadows
bring me spring fever satisfaction.

The engine's warm now that we're finally off all the main streets,
and sitting in the polished seats of our smooth white metal stallion
we strolled down the slickened scenic highway, silhouetted by the sun beams turned silver
bouncing off the cold bold face of a spherical moon.
The radio licks its numbered teeth back and forth with its spike red tongue
as the knobs are turned to tune and turn up high to hear,
those greats croon
"don't worry babe, we'll be there soon".
My foot falls heavy like a rejected lover when we hit the strait aways
and the wind cant move my whop slick hair on this bright night
can't move it for a **** thing
even with the top down and the whole world spinning against us.
I race to stay within the nights dark complexion
watching out for the only man who can slow me down
pink faced clown lookin to shout "bookim"
"Bookim danno".
My hands wrap white knuckled around the steering wheel
and I chuckle at the frightened look that begins to build up in your gorgeous hazel eyes
when adrenaline filled i swing wide left
to pass the only other car
on this rickety two lane highway.
Back on our side of those magical golden lines
I reach over to settle your shaking thighs
and you grab my arm like it alone could save you.
I picture us
hydroplaning off into a deadly roll through that golden field of wheat
the last thing I would smell would be dirt, dew, fresh spring ground
I smile at the thought
whatever makes you feel better I say
and so you squeeze tighter.
I slip my hand down and off your leg,
up onto the dash
to find and twist the radio ****, blasting out that sweet silky serenade of sleep walking.
I look over and blow a kiss,
but the wind ***** it out the back before it ever reaches your loving lips
and with eyes back on the road I keep on till morning.
Till I can stop with you at sunrise,
and we can rest
and hold hands
and share lips
and tell empty promises, as day breaks on the horizon
and light floods over us
in this stolen drop top caddilac.

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.

It will be on that golden day,
with your still flesh milky, marble, majesty, white
skin streaked , saturated, almost blue with lines and pathways
like the picture perfect chizzlings
of mineral vein riddled
gratuitous Greek gods.
It will be on that golden day,
that i kiss the solemn serenade of your soul goodbye
and shuffling sickly, sadly, sorrowfully away from your festive wake ill finally be ready to make
the meat of my downtrodden face shine full
free from that sickening limitless lull
that finally ends
on that golden day. It will be,
truth, light, love, life, celebration bursting free
from the cold darkened shell it inhabited so many years
like a plant sprouting from the sad seed it called home.
These dreams,
this vision,
i have found my purpose.
Like words slipping wild and violent from pursed lips,
there sounds the only truth.
I wish to see,

That golden day.

It all started with us listening to the rain through an open window
beating heavy on the old wood of the cabin.
Those hours of morning when the sun still hides,
and the air smells like dust,
we were smoking cigarettes ,
and smoking homegrown,
and drinking water ,
and whiskey.

There we shared unmistakable looks
With cracked candles in the corners
And fresh moss under the windows
We pretended to both be tired.
So we could lie down together,
and huddle close,
and save warmth,
like burning coals rapped together in a blanket of ash.

But it had to be more subtle,
more drawn out,
than both of us wanted it to be.
So I reached out a single hand from the opposite side of the bed
to see if it was ok.

You grabbed it,
and pulled yourself closer,
as if you were pulling yourself away from the den of lions,
Daniel in those biblical proportions.
We closed their hungry mouths together.

We stayed wrapped together all night,
the mess of your hair sticking to my face.

It wasn't until the sun came up
that both our heartbeats settled
and my muscles and mind relaxed
and our breathing slowed
and we could slip into a dream
with bodies weak from wanting.

That Soggy Winter Night,
when the rain beat heavy on the old wood of the cabin
and the air smelled like dust,
and candles,
and fresh moss,
and wilted leaves,
and anticipation.

It all started with us listening to the rain through an open window.
Those hours of morning when the sun still hides,
smoking cigarettes ,
and smoking homegrown,
and drinking water ,
and whiskey,
and sharing unmistakable looks,
that both of us where too eager and scared to put words to.

So we pretended to both be tired.
So we could lie down together,
and huddle close,
and save warmth,
like burning coals rapped together in a blanket of ash.

This was the hesitant placation of our urges.

But it had to be more subtle,
more drawn out,
than both of us wanted it to be.
So I waited until I couldn't stand it anymore
reaching out a single hand from the opposite side of the bed
to see if it was ok.

You grabbed it,
and pulled yourself closer,
as if you were pulling yourself away
from the brink of a deadly mountain’s cliff.

We stayed wrapped together all night,
the mess of your hair sticking to my face
because I stayed wrapped around you.

It wasn't until the sun came up
that both our heartbeats settled
and my muscles and mind relaxed
and our breathing slowed
and we could slip into a dream
with bodies weak from wanting.

"Sometimes I wonder if anything is actually real at all... or if it's just me"
" I mean... I doubt anything is real, and even if it is... I don't think any of it has any purpose."
"Ya? Like its all in our imagination... just a big ****** joke."
" Even if it...the world - reality; does exist; in a physical, permanent, sense, It's still all a matter of perspective on why it - or what it - (it being reality) is to you. It changes from person to person, and if you don't like it: you can change it. Which makes it seem even more like... it isn't real..."
"I just wish there was a purpose... I wish I could find a reason for my life."
"No one ever will, I don't think it's possible. The wish for reason, for a light at the end of the tunnel, is the ultimate weakness of man... but it's also the ultimate strength: it's all gratuitous - it's progress - sadness. The search for purpose is a lesson in futility... taught by hope."
" I think... I think I'm just... just tired"
"It is late"
"No, no not like that, not like physically, like of the way things are going, I'm just ******* tired of life."
"I am too... I think everyone is on some level. At least till you reach denial... or acceptance... or the ability to be oblivious - Life is a week of insomnia in an eternity of dreamless sleep - In the end none if it matters. I think if there is a purpose me and you will never be able to find it, we're only humans: we get tired, we get confused, scared, we misinterpret signs, we're filled with error. If we did find a purpose it'd be filtered through our perception, applicable to no one el-"
"You just passed the only store."
"... Sorry... I was too busy paying attention to you."
"Its ok, I didn't need it anyways. It was just an impulse thing."
"Impulses should be acted on though. You don't have much time for procrastinating, and you have to do it now because you never know when your numbers punched."
"...True..."
I pull up slow to the front of your house
we say goodbye
and god do I want to reach out and grab you
want to hold you - and not let go
lie
and tell you I know the reason
a reason
any reason.
Its an urge that spreads energy through my limbs from a pit in the bottom of my stomach
like it's going to shake me or tear me apart.
I want to kiss you,
but I just drive away slow
and contemplate how utterly useless everything really is.

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.

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.

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's only on days like this that i think about it
it being us and whatever i wished that was.
Past and future coliding into this infinitely sad present.
The window to my left shows only grey, and wet
because its only on cold wet days like this that i think about it
but it always changes , happy, or sad, or indiffrent, it, never seems to improve.
It being us and whatever i should stop wishing that was,
but to stop thinking is harder than it seems, i have to distract myself
and the window to my left shows only grey, and wet.
I seem to be eternally restless now, never able to settle or be satisfied
always changing; happy, sad, indiffrent, never seeming to improve.
I draw pictures, write words, hum songs, punch walls, and blacken my lungs with second rate tar
but i never stop thinking, with as hard as it is to distract myself.
Sure sometimes i can get my mind to other things, happier things, but
I seem to be eternally restless now, never able to be satisfied, or settle on real happyness.
The things i do settle on, are disturbing or violent.
I draw ****** pictures, write sadistic words, hum funeral songs, punch walls, and blacken my soul with second rate filth,
no matter where i turn all i see is sadness, and slowly i think i might be losing hope and sanity.
Sure my mind can sometimes get to other happier things but
they are all fake, to me at least, and i have nothing to be happy about.
I settle the disturbing or violent things i can do
on my guilt, i don't know what was dreams, reality, movies, books
memories of the past and future coliding into this infinitely sad view of the present.

Once upon a time
in a land very close to home
a young girl sat and swayed low
in the old swing
on the street
its twisted rope gnarled and rubbed at her hands as she gripped it
swaying ever higher
higher towards were the tree had swallowed it up
growing all around and into the rope
so that is swung down like a golden necklace,
discolored and thinning
angel incarnate a breathing trinket at its helm
the wind blowing off the dead heat of the setting sun
made her whip her head
and look up into the shelter of the tree
for many years it had stood there
swaying and spreading and thriving
all for its own purpose
but today, it had given the last of its great strength
to the little rope swaying oh so gently
and to the little girl resting oh so peacefully
on that splintered board that snagged and bit at her legs
but the tree had grown weak
and the bugs and vines had leeched its strength long ago
and in the joyful peak of her swaying pivot
she reached level with the dieing branch
and with the last moaning crack of defeat
it was set free from the tortured life it had lived
as she went sailing blissfully ignorant
towards the magenta pink and violet purple streaks
of the sun setting over the hills in the distance,
the end

This Is How To Be Cool:

Step 1:
Hate people.
Hating people is in.
This should build up the sense
of mystery  most
people you now hate will
be attracted to.
Don't enjoy the company of people
you now know why you
hate and ask yourself why you
didn’t do this sooner and why only most things seem the same.

Step 2:
Wear shoes.
Wear shoes as
comfortable as
middle aged men that
don’t please their wives now
that well anymore.


Step 3:
Lose sense of time.
Lock yourself in a garage
with no windows that has 2
TV’s that play different things.
Have limited water. Have friends
that you tell to buy you malt and even still
cheaper *****.
Listen to not stop talk
of the grade of **** in strip clubs at a $ per/for a
tall boy all day happy hour/s.
If you have or had a phone or a clock hide it.
If you have or had a sun dial or set of fingers
set it or them in front or in-between 1 or 2
of the t.v.s
so it or them always tells close to the same
2 times.
Never, not even for a moment, look at them.  






Step 4:
(4a)Watch.
 Watch an old man walk an ugly dog
   with a bag of **** in his hand.
  (4b):Come to 1 or 2 safe conclusions
   about why the man has ****
   in his hand/s.
 (4c):Come to exactly 2 [(4ci) and (4cii)] unsafe conclusions and write  them on the bottoms of separate chairs in an IKEA warehouse store.

(4ci)The man needs   to theoq **** at someone nearby.
 (4cii)The man has  a collection. A stockpiled **** supply.
(4d) Reference and annotate your secret **** propaganda.


Step 5:
Go someplace.
Go someplace  you
do not belong you
will make yourself unknown you
will develop a cult nonfollowing.


Step 6:
Write a poem.
Write a poem using useless metaphors to
end a poem that doesn’t seems to be about
women but  the poem at the end and inside of this first poem is about
one anyways.

Example:
You're a book just closed,
you aren’t done yet,
Your drawing yourself out
Waiting on someone else to return.

You are a sun just
set, you can’t be seen.
All the lights you left behind
have limits in the streets they shine in.

You are a photograph of a photograph
of an unfinished drawing:
a pointlessly layered mystery about
something someone somewhere
has already finished and made
better without you.

You are a woman
the least concrete image with
the least valid explanation.


Step 7:
Lie to your audience and end the
poem in an only slightly less useless
fashion then I told you to previously plan to. This is not about a relationship, this is about being ******* cool. About remaining in a slow waiding motion through yourself the planet like spin of a fire kicking up and consuming the last of the air around it, Nothing will happen to you. You will only make things more clear around you.

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 slow serenade of time.
The subtle spin of the clock’s tireless hands.
In endless cycles
she dances out the destitute rhythm of days.
I'll weave you a web of words
the seconds bouncing on its brittle strands.
This life is tiresome
with rusty claws I'll change my fiction face.
Hung up by rope in the shed
I'll use my bare bone canvas to make something new
someone better.
Those starving tree moored beasts
I'll hide in the rustling leaves, haunches raised for the pounce.
I want to have no perception of time
a man of madness, melancholy, impulse and innocence.
Raise your cups high
toast to everything you ever had.
Toast to life
*I'll drink to never knowing it.

Now that you've decided to start this year like every other day of it.
You've realized treating every year like a dead line's
a good way of procrastinating your own existence.
A deadlines the point in time at which something becomes meaningless.
Catching yourself on fire,
you realized this is a decent hobby for those with skin.

Imagine you'd said, if they made houses out of skin,
I though of you.

Not one for metaphors
I'm relying on you to literally be a deadline.

This bed gave birth to you.
You're a nightmare,
This bed's the side of my face I'm fine with not coming out of for weeks.

7 days later is a week
not that anyone's counting
but I've won.

If you'd like, we'll do literally nothing forever
and just how long till I get to become that void I'm staring at?
Soon, you'll say,
or maybe you won't, either way I'm ready to believe you.

Right now you're happy about lying about being happier alone.
Soon you'll be alone, happy about lying about being happier.

Asking what you'd do with three wishes you said
"her" twice, pointing at only one person, said
"die" once, explaining how to fit the worlds ******* supply into a single room.

After reading three books by Kafka
you realized knowing what Kafkaesque means is overrated.

You once smiled at the sun like it was proud of your teeth.
Now your mouths mostly full of rain,
and you really are proud of your teeth.

My hearts beating like its blowing at a small ember in your hands.

I'm the kind who answers "What time is it?"
by turning into a clock
You're the kind to answer " It's all a construct"
before peeling yourself in public like a cold grape.

Soon we'll both perfect being bowls
full of what couldn't be scraped off us.
For now that blank book I wrote " Notes On Futility"
should be enough to sustain you.
I only hope its looking at the blank pages
that turns you blind
not the way you lick your fingers to turn them.

A falasy, I'm ready for anything.
A fact, niether are you.
A song, drag a small corpse, across your lawn
there'll be neighbors, cutting grass
and a sprinkler'll hit you, and your, cold handful.
An ice cream truck plays, and it's, warm out.
Somewhere some child cries, that hes, missed out.
His parents promise, to take him, to the store.

A Concept, me in the dirt
the warmth of the sun radiates through the loose earth
I smell only beautiful things.
A rock scratches just where I want it to
and nothing really moves.
There is no longer a need for music.

I am off again.
Off to enjoy the dead livings
of old civilization.
If you wish
you will find me in the woods
up to my neck in mud and sweat:
smiling.
I will pan for gold
at the banks of untouched river runs
and the bottom of gushing waterfalls.
I will hunt
beautiful beasts
with black coats and empty bellies from a winters sleep.
I'll sit huddled around fire
that dances in an iron bellied stove
warming my hands and drying my rain soaked feet.
I have no wish to leave this kind of life.
I will return with heart uplifted by accomplishment
and my hands covered in scars.
I will have made my mark on the land
the hawks circling above for the creatures smoked out by the fire in my lungs.

Pendulum hours spring slow forward
seasons swaying trigger festivals
and the dancing banners
on windy streets
spell sales
for slack jawed jugglers
eager to pedal wears to the weary
under the growing sun of a dieing season.
I am a beast in the cage of these streets
one way bars holding back barbarism.
My snarling is better suited for the trees
my guttural bark out car doors at street performers
better suited for stick beaten drum circles
spinning madly under the moon.
I lap from the sewer grates like a lost dog
too proud to die their like my hero
on a post above
to me
the raven quoth, what a bore.
Only men behind electric glass have seen me
on drunken nights
I confess my heart
and dance away my soul(s)
before their iron eye.
In this city I do not sleep
my heart glides to grassy groves
when my eyes close
to lock out the bright and unending
street lights that are suspending
my cowards heart above the darkness i still fear.
I am a child
take me to where the wild things are.

Turn signals of cars looking about
to turn to here but don’t
blink at about similar pace
to a heart doesn’t leave
any metaphor worthwhile though the
fact melted ice cream on the counter
next to food served to people I don’t
know reminds me of the first time
I masturbated successfully does though.
Me touching something that goes into you
about the opposite I want both
closeness and indifference a balance hard
to maintain as kindness and the pace
needed to get things served so
kindness isn’t needed like
by archetypal male figures who can
slap a person they love to mean it.
Saying I love you doesn’t mean I believe
it under different circumstances I don’t
mean I’m lying either. Either it’s really
that difficult to explain or it’s just
difficult in all either way here
I’m still having difficulties
with the way your lips open or
when we’re talking how I’m
hoping they’ll be licked for
decent or my own reasons.

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.

How soon words become their sounds saying themselves,
a muffled echo of a canyon packed
full with abandoned spaces.
I intend to fall over
you like the best part of a disaster,
like the thousands of things I have,
will have said to you,
only two will have been true.

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.

Wandering words of wisdom
curl eagerly
around the smoke stack songs of southern savages.
Whispered wordlessly through the generations
my gut boils with ******* bravery.
The sounds of ancient ruins
those panted grunts of trance bound elders
are what they have named me.
I've plucked my eyes from their plush pillows.
The lies they slept in kept them slow and useless.
They will wander in the dark
open with anticipation
free of the blinding roads of gold
you had set so slyly as traps for them.

When not unlike wet fish your mouth opens almost to speak,
wet horses drag my tongue from my throat like a long coffin.
I want you for the reverend for the wake for my last words,
to say something like
" His tongue touched his words often but seldom sexually."
I want you to want to have you want into my teeth
like new knives new points in balloons' mouths.
Like new balloons' new mouths on knives points
this's the first of the last of our first times together.

All my dreams are made of ice
tinted with gold by your memory.
Like ice
they turn to puddles
with the rising sun melting the moon in the morning minutes

Despite my best efforts,
still i fail.
Despite careful planning,
despite long hours of contemplation,
despite endless nights awake in the heat of an inner debate,
despite all loss of faith and abandonment of previous principles
just to try to find some new way.
Still i am lost, and can not be redeemed.
My mind bashes itself to pieces on these questions,
and not only does the answer evade me
but the question itself
becomes fuzzy and unclear
a static saturated radio flying away
in the cab of a filthy car
Driven no doubt by some saggy eyed *******
a smoker who eats out alot
wrappers and ash stuck to grease stains
cover the interior.
Wait.
What am i trying to find out?
Why does it matter?
Who cares?
Do i?
Who am i?
Still, grasping blindly in the dark of human knowledge,
in the tainted waters of my own memory,
I can find nothing.
Nothing for myself.
Nothing for anyone else,
no purpose,
no inspiration.
Loss,
loss and desperation.
I spit in the face of your compensations
offered up like tasteless party favours
for my incompetence.
Pity, plead, or beg
these are not the actions I engage in.
I am too stupid,
too proud.
I wish only to be left alone
only to be untouched
twitching and broken
in the toxic and shard filled mental pool
of my own making.

The scraggley mountains in the distance
look like soft sleeping boddies
made round and soft
covered and swaddled
in an icy blanket of aproaching fog.

An emerald and ruby star hangs in the distance
reminicent of some **** covered nativity scene
with mules kicking
and a woman screaming
and piles of hay rotting into the shape of beds
and a fool man welcoming an immaculate carpenter
and a woman smug in deciet
as she pushes out into a pile of muddy grain
and rat ****.

A sheet of rain falls sidesways in the distance
storm front drawing a visible line in the sky
the rain sounds like a waterfall
eating away at the concrete slowly over time
with icy crystal gums
as soft and deadly
as a sleeping bear
or a politicians words.

These things form the viege memories of a season.
Along with wood stoves,
the sticky smell of pitch,
hearty soup,
old musty books,
warm muddy boots,
and hot strong drinks.
Warming pioson to the core.
Winter sickness in the town where rain makes a grey christmas.
Every.
*******.
Year.

I do not understand you,
your wants,
needs,
aspirations,
or fears.
I suppose you want me to give you everything;
but with an air of resentment;
as if you owe me something.
I suppose you want me to tell you a million entertaining and amazing stories,
but leave out just enough,
to maintain some unreal and foolish air of mystery.
I suppose you want me to come and save you,
to be there for you at every beck and call
but let you do things yourself to maintain independence
or dignity.
I may never call out to you for myself,
or express loneliness,
to avoid being needy,
or obsessive,
and yet my rugged independence is:
foolish,
childlike,
******* stubborn.
The consistent contradiction that surrounds me
leaves me speculating about you.
About your reasons.
More than i speculate on the origin of the stars;
more than i speculate on the meaning in life;
more than i speculate on the existence of god.
More than these things,
you leave me depraved,
and wanting more.