I sold my soul to the devil and he sold it back to me. I am $35 richer.

you are the gecko i watch
on the wall
and i gladly become a
fly into your mouth to chew
and to swallow
to become you
are the gecko
i watch
on the wall.

its like a well
inside of me
that i want to
draw from you.

a psychedelic manifestation of form;
we leave this place.
we live inside of each other,
lit by the light
of the near death
of everything;
it passes through our bodies.

time is a molecule
which we ride upon;
a play thing for children.

we grow closer
or further
from eternity-
the nature of the soul we share.
-the eight-limbed creature
sews its bodies into;
one breathes out to one breathes in.
swallow each other
back onto the floor,
and *****
our psychedelic
manifestation of form.

i was born
still high
from meditating
the night before.

as you transcend spiritually you must know that you are not learning but you are growing.
Learning implies that you know something, and to know leaves no more room for growth:
to know is a form of apex.

-a seed, knows that it is a seed, and that there is dirt. It knows this because it has not grown.
-a plant, growing from the seed, knows it was a seed. It knows the dirt, it knows the sun, it knows the rain. It knows this because it has not grown into death.
-all you can know is that you are growing, and even that is something that you will one day unknown.

there is no straight line
to this point.

there is no straight line
to this point.

now humans
can take
their skin
and skeleton
and turn them
into a tent
and live in it
in the city.

people are clouds
everything is a cloud
everything is an ambient cloud.

trapped me in a van in my head
i couldnt escape
im still there
screaming
dead.

myself as a child
was a teacher to me now.
i knew then
that everything
is alive.

smooth stones.
round puddles.
no corners at all.

there were spirits,
spirits wanting.
someone to inhabit.
a body to be pregnant withem.

the room was a woman.
smooth dress.
no bra.

give the children something
to eat each other.
they are not a mass of lives,
but a flesh of hunger.
a massive
anorexic fly
en route
to good filth.
a snake
turning its jaw so wide
as to turn itself
inside out
completely.
a congress of monkeys
in a competitive ****.
the sun
swallowing its own soul.
folding darkness drowning.

born in a three piece suit
in a room full of unmade chairs.

hospitals, for many people,
are the dividing line between them and death.
places of worship, for many,
is the dividing line between them and god.
people, are always,the diving line between them and people.

i build little statues of food
for unsuspecting art enthusiasts.
i paint the museums walls
with water and soap paint.
sponge brush.
receive small portrait of
numbers and amounts
autographed by curator.
i trade these for
life sized sculptures
of counterfeit counterfeit money.
i take these and trade them for
little statues of food.
i eat these as a statement.
it is all very conceptual.

there. a percussive mind.
a dream of a bird
fighting its reflection
in the water.
until one finally drowns
and one learns to fly.

the satanimal burns alive
in its skinternal lucifire.
it is a howlingering echollaboration
to a mind-shattering deafnest;
a cracked skulltivatingling cripples
its skeletongue from speaking.
-a fusion of chaoscillating worderivative confusion.

what god spoke
first passed through its mind
but from its heart.
this is where we were born.

i lay my body to sleep.
my heartbeat sounds like its
trying to tiptoe across my pillow.
it must think that im dead
and its trying to leave.

the burned down cafe
on the edge of the town
of the schizophrenic daydream.

customers are characters.
pour themselves into cups.

the liquid

shows the portrait

of the souls.

every day
a small slice of skin
from you
to cloth
the family
of passed out skeletons
smoking and shooting drugs
in your home,
while you stay up all night
drying out
in your closet.

a table of mannequins
enjoying a bowl
of plastic fruit.

with their glass eye,
watching the fake flowers grow.

i walk in the room,
in the fashion of skin,
starving for beauty,
and am reminded
     of why i was
     excommunicated.

my hands now
are the chipped
and broken wings
of the giant moth
i held
when i
was a child.

words
tend to become lost
in poetry.

poetry tends to become
lost in
thought.

thought tends to become
words.

a heart filled
with precious empty stones.

distributed one by one
endlessly.

until it is filled
by none.

it was once
that i was the rain
in drops.

but a puddle
in this world
grows a skin of gasoline.

a rainbow sits
on this body of water
only when
a flame is found
to light the way.

the flame will drown.
the way will die.
to find the light inside.

and the light
it leaves
in broken pieces

scattered,
as i was,
when once it was

that i was the rain
in drops.

a doe does not walk the forest
covered in flames.
its faun does not eat it
from within.
but they drink if they are thirsty.
and the water does not walk
from the shade to the sun.
and the sun
does not burn brighter
than it must.
it only burns until it dies.

suffering is your enemy.
do not mourn your suffering.
love it while it is still here.

i enjoy my author.
he is a good author.
i love my author.
he does not think highly of me.
i can not cope.
i will end it all.
goodbye.

i know
what it is to be
immutable madness.

for this decade of my flesh
pushing through the streets
under the sun to find a place
to sleep in the shade,
my rhythms have been guided
by the mesmerizing code
told to me
by my very own
self appointed hypnotist.

the spider who sleeps deep in my ear
who's dreams drip down my throat
and fill a pool inside of my chest.

but i never knew the tongue in
which a spider speaks.

i know not what i have done.
i woke up in a place lost to the world.

i will poor myself
into a cup
and drink heavily.

i held hell in my hand and fell.
silent and dead
at the end of the penrose stairs.
living among the rats.
promising to pay them back.
giving out ribs, tissue and teeth
when there is a debt to collect.
waking with ***** in my sweat
spilling to the floor
in every corner that was met.
confused that there is no door.

the egg is cooking in my heart.

an amorphic pink humming mist
makes flowers grow
wild and
wilt and
rot.

it hums our head into hemispheres.
a Venus Fly Trap.
a Fly for a mind.

it rains dead pianos
when i try to sleep.
it drives the cicadas
inside them to drink.
i must be possessed,
or so says my shrink.

if i quieted my teeth
the music would have
nowhere to sleep.

naked.
*****.
running through
the streets.

but you cant escape the spirits.

classroom setting the table.

im so lonely
im the only
lonely guy i
know who knows me.

the artist renders itself to sleep.
its ghost sleeps in its skin.
it dreams in madness.

  colors cover the blanket covers you.

hell is where
you cant get high.

wake up, make your bed
and die.

leather being tanned
by a ****** in a shed
somewhere in the south.

satanic verses crawl up the wall.
and my soul leaves my body
for another man.
im found in the room
days later.
she tells me i have three days
to pay the rent
or im out
and she leaves.

my life was pirated by someone
but not me.

this poem is old
and dying.

ill visit it
sometimes.

when a heart is made of ******
you must keep it in a cage
for the dead birds to peck
into the heart of its rage.

counting is a great way to waste time

reading is a great way to escape

writing is a great way to live

living gives you something
to write about.

a madness of zombies
ran through my dream
while i lay there.

there are the many ways
i could try to explain
what a deep dark hole it is..
but the bottom of the this pit
is so far down
you wouldnt be able
to hear me
if i did.

science is the shell
encapsulating the
oddly shaped object
of truth.