i havent used my brain in a while.
but i still wear a frown upsidedown.

the stairway to heaven
is paved with nothing

I woke up this mornin
I swear I died
Well I died this mornin
My eyes opened up wide
And I saw God
And I saw that none of us are perfect.
....
As loud as a church bell I heard it
Everybody in this life is wrong.
...
Well stay up out my business you God
I known that since the day I was born
...
And ever since that day
I been beaten down and worn
On the day that I die
There'll be no me left to mourn
...
Between the trees those leaves
Walkin with the wind
Don't talk about those trees no more

I woke up this mornin
I swear I died
Well I died this mornin
My eyes opened up wide
And I saw God
And I saw that none of us are perfect.
....
You get away from me you God
Yer hangin around is makin me nervous

As loud as a church bell I heard it
Everyone in this life is wrong.
There's nothin good
There no purpose.
...
Well stay up out my business you God
I known that since the day I was born
...
And ever since that day
I been beaten down and worn
Yer in a strange Land you God
Yer tongue is strange and foreign.
...
Between the trees
the leaves walkin with the wind
Don't talk about those trees no more

now imagine dying

when the sun comes out of
her sheathe
shes an ICY *****.

but she wears it so good.

her bones grow worms in the dirt
in the cadillac of caskets
shes choking in her coffin
he tells her to take off her shirt
naked is her task
skinned alive is his offer
he swears on her grave it wont hurt
and he says once hes done with her
well, then, nothing can stop her
he tares the leather from her face
a place from where leather is torn
he tares and tares
she tears and tears
until the worms are born.

we didnt talk for hours,
though we did talk about time;
we talked for our own happiness.

i want everyone to be the medium.
everyone: the peace-bringer.
beings of light, its all the same light.
beings of love.
caught in a steady stream.
no one leads the way.
every living creature
is the prime example
of the perfect specimen.
to graze the edge of
beings of love
leaves lines etched
long and low
into the soul.
and the soul is
all we've ever had
and all that we have left.
speak and listen through the distance
to close in on learnings of love.
we may never be nearer to perfect
as we are when we are near.

I sleep in a garage.
ten giant tricycles
standing on their backs
sleep next to me.
my bathroom is at sears.
or McDonalds.
or winn-dixie.
male prostitutes post shop
on the street corners
around here
"******* ****
for money
for crack"
as one such fellow
put it to a cop.
there's a blender
and a microwave
and plenty of bottles of ***.

Descend the staircase into madness and look out through opaque porthole windows which shield you from the sea of nothing, ebbing at your shell, while you climb the rungs for a way to escape from the hollow ringing of the skeleton in which you you're dying and gasping for water;
A fish swims in your lung and is left to drown and suffer and rot and eventually be eaten by the ***** which are your soul.

a walking asian ***-doll walked into my night.
she didn't see the the stains on me
but i saw the stains on her.

black bird armada
sends me signals
their constellation is a code.
the living hierogram
digests the moments of peace
they pass through.

the night is in its egg

god got old
and i got wise.

everything dies.

love stays young
it gets you high.

its in your lung.

empire is a word and i will build one with them one day.

a dead bird flies inside of my skull
and pecks out my eyes from behind
but itll never escape
no matter how hard it tries

that poor bird is losing its mind.


it cant sleep
(it carves what it babels on its walls)
it cant sleep
(it sings spells it learned in Hell)
it cant sleep
(so it perches and
resonates in its chamber)
it cant die (and now neither can i)

I'm a mystery..
..what am I?

the bums like my bike.
i tell them it was 50 bucks,
they say "woww"
and "the brakes are nice,.
the left one, not the right one"
i say "you know that guy
over there?"
they say "spider?"
i say "yea, spider, he used to be
my roommate"
they say "yea i know spider,
hes my brother, i got lotsa brothers"

its pointless to talk to them
when theyre drunk.
unless youre drunker.
listening to them is like
breathing in their farts
their automobile exhaust
their skin particles
celebrating their
weddings
promotions
birthdays
which celebrate
their sloppy
lives
minds
speeches
quips
haircuts
shirts
success
inconsi­deration
debt to
society
humanity
love
life
everything
except
for
them.

a ghost child haunts my body.

possessing a dead man.

singing through
skeleton-beak
and
hollow eye-sockets
he floats
on
bone-wings

circling death

and i watch.

the field around me wilts
the crust in the corners
of the spectators mouths
turn to stone
and break.

flesh leaves bone
all that is left is
decorating the past.

The wooden chair,

is painted before me.

they fight crime.
or they would.

shes always at home,
trying on different capes
in the mirror
seeing if they look good.

and hes always out of breath
when he gets to the
scene of the crime
after running the whole way
because he cant afford
to fix the car
or even take the bus
cuz she wont get a job
cuz she spends
all his money
and all her time
on those *******
******* capes.

there is a dungeon
inside a room
in your house.
or in your car.
out in the city where you eat.
a comfortable place because
there they know your face
and you dont have to be
anybody.

they have t.v.'s there
that think for you
while you watch them
from your dungeon door.
and you think
your dungeon
brings you peace.
so you decorate it
and call it your home
and live there
until you've used
all of its air.
it is cursed by
the inhabitant
who built it
around their self.
a place for quiet
turned hostile
because eventually
the truth shines in through
the wear in the walls
and sends you
screaming into the sun.

apt's 1-9 all hang.
lives destroyed by a crashing plane.
a carousel.

lets all do some synthetic drugs.
then give eachother
some synthetic hugs.
then get real violent.

the clothes wear filth.

the man wears cancer.

they wear so thin.

the language they use to connect
starts changing.
everyone who engages is a threat.
to make eye-contact is to ******.
laughter is empty with ulterior motives.
what they seem to be is unfathomable.
a strange, violent species.

my spine curves
& my fingers thin
as i retreat
from their
false lights
& spiritual prisons,
into a dark
calm place
where the sound of
dripping water
fills me with
near death peace
as i sit until
i become stone.

**** poems.
they give too much birth.

-i feel better.
like a person.
i think.

-you think?

-i could feel like
an octopus.
or octopi could
feel like people.

a chariot made from
the bones of the horse
who pulls it.

built from the bones
of the horse who pulls it

and the skin
of the human
it holds.

bartram viscarpratoria.
meldienn te le'an
de aas arfrentenmia.

frey ah deranmos.

tor toranmiasenkredermonoto kri.

chass ta lasanma toro.

toro toro.

shas ve ter
toro toro.

really funny door-frames.

a girl rides by on a bicycle.
the sun is stuck in her hair.
a piece of it falls
and shatters in the road.

the spiders crawl out of my mouth
and over my skin
and into my ****
and back out of my mouth
to sing again.

dismantle my mandible bone
blood and stone
concrete leaks from my cheeks
when i speak

the clouds come down
off their cloud

im able to bathe
in electricity
and how

it communicates

the senses appear
and disappear
in many
places

i am left
to understand
what it is to be
a basic condition
encapsulated
by color
ozone and
light

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

theyre not ded yet, but theyre still screaming.
and i cant see them. or mourn for them.
but i can hear them.
and when im laying in a park, ded, exhausted of my blood and ****** functions,
then, i will finally be able to make love to their tiny souls.

they live inside the walls.
their bodies folded
and collapsed in dresser drawers.
the demon possessed.
with an affinity for red.
driving in red mercedes.
drinking coca-cola.
they want you.
they watch you
and they wait.

I hang around all the leftover pieces of trash
And I don't see good really
In none of em
But I see a little piece of me
In all of em

You got a color TV a VCR and a VHS of none other than Groundhog Day... your kid died that night and your wife lost you in the process fighting your cathodes as your life and your gumption drool out of your skin and into the chair that you're sitting in... as you watch and wonder of all the different days that you could have had if you had bought the movie the night before... you sit there watching nothing every night through eyes that belong to no one

my address is 14 S.E. 10 st. apt A.
ft.lauderdale Fl. 33316.
phone# is 561-222-1019.
i will be here most of the day.

you have nice hands

....theres blood in this.'
mike sed looking in his coffee, drinking from its cup.
'no theres not.'
sed chelsea.
she was scared for him. his questionable hed.
'the clouds are nice.'
he couldnt see them behind the huge peices of rotting meat floating in the sky.
'their a weird color..like an old bruise.'
she sed.. and he knew that she knew.
our ded cat smiled to death.

you know how to read in english.
you know how to feel in human.
and you are still alive.

we are the same person
and i agree

said we

"in prison,..what you think
is what you are."
he was two weeks out of a 13 year sleepover. He told this to me
in my dream.
a year later i think of it.

i now know the one true place
a person is imprisoned.

life is just
this foreign object
which i
must

insert
into my ****

in order
to find any pleasure
in it.

her hand
cooks
on top of mine.

steals the warmth
from the room.

a shivering fire
begs for a meal
so we give it.