You use your big words
Filling the cathedral of your mouth
And little else
No one's listening

Brass lips making brass sounds
Words of importance
That will take significance tomorrow
If tomorrow ever comes

Filling your brass heart
With words spoken in a tongue you can't quite grasp
Filling the empty with nothings and forevers
It doesn't mean ****

You speak your words
For no one but yourself
Find love in others tomorrow
But tomorrow never came

you promised to pluck the stars from the sky
to place between our hearts
but oh my, you already held galaxies in your fingertips
when your hand touched mine
grasped it tight and we thought of home
among the shining, shimmering embers
i loved you more than all the stars in the sky
oh god
if you ever came back
i would open my heart
and the stars would stream out
and I could love you again

Is it a bird?
Is it a plane?
No! It's the kid with the gender neutral name!
They'll catch bad guys
With a flick of their eyes
But we still don't know
What's between their thighs
Save kittens from trees and babies from homes
But who knows their ***? their chromosomes?
They'll steal your girl
Then steal away
It's the Gender Pretender
who'll save the day

I write in hopes that someone,
Somewhere in time
Has neurons moving
In the pattern of mine.

I am a setting
Retired to
At the end of day
and end of life.
I am an ear drum.
Banged on by irritants,
long stories,
bad jokes.
I am a reservoir
for your seed and your sweat
The pocket for your
primitive exertions.
I may be encompassing
But I am not all.
Scenery is never captured
By written word well,
But the artist has been trying to catch
it's smirk for a thousand years.

we live in a time,
where tradition trumps mind.

where habit defeats virtue,
where old conquers new.

Mankind is looking dire
So it seems I now admire

the quitters most of all.

The ***** addict has change it's face,
but not it's disease.
It is me.
It is your mother.
It is you.
"It is not."
It is.
And it is infinite.
For so long as people
are burdened by the illusion,
so they seek to disperse the fog.
What they seek is not distortion,
but clarity.
What they seek is not fantasy,
but reality.
A new reality
that works for them.
Where they don't work for it.
Where they don't participate
as a rusted cog
spinning in perpetual circles
to power a machine
that lights a projection
of what ought to be,
and what ought not to be
for all the the world to watch
on hamster wheels.
But  the ***** addict knows risk.
That each time could be
the last time.
But this world has only
two types of people.
Participants.
And non-cooperatives.
There is not room for both.
The ***** addict is offered
a consolation package
of pharmaceutical bonbons
but given the same soap opera
each time.
So they fade into the black
I know it is no cure,
because they are not sick.
It is not addiction,
that they seek to fulfill.
It is peace.
And the current reality
does not allow for peace.
And I just wonder to myself,
if maybe
they are not wrong.

Bite your tounge, kid.
Bite it hard and don't be so pathetic.
Yes, I know that you were young once.
I know your mother used to pick you up and kiss your head
And sing you to sleep.

But you're all grown up now.

You don't have the easy excuse of youth anymore.
You can no longer say it's because you're a child.
You're too old, too tired, too worn down.

Sleep is never enough.

Your tears are stupid now.
Tears won't get you anywhere in the Real World, they say.
In the Real World, your mother won't be there to hold your hand.
In the Real World, you're on your own.
But what They don't know
Is that you've been in the Real World all along.
You've known more pain than they think you have.
But obviously, none of that affects you.
Because you're only a kid, and you have it easy.

...Right?

I saw dynamic innocence violated by the cold mundane,
Thoughts and plans and dreams dampened down by normality.
They say that naivety, just like defiance,
Is a bloom which should be touched and killed
With all the haste of an eagle in the russet dawn.

I myself am pure and blissful in my confinement.
I do not know the wonders of the sinful world.
But your own bloom was erased long ago,
In a time that you cannot now recall.
Retain your wonder at all costs.
Lest you leave this world as one of their
Success stories.

I am Heavy-lidded tonight,
Heavy-lidded
and inscrutable in my childhood.

My childhood that was spent hysterical in airing cupboards,
Where I wept unashamedly to the fixed God
And the stained glass, rose-hewn Angels of churches
That reeked of oak and holy water.
Where I sat in the trees, high on life and vanila-blue ice cream
And with knees skinned by the ****** pathways of woods
Or the safe gravels of playgrounds.

Where sunbursted mangoes dripped with musky-sanded chlorine
And the sun-hot metal gates clanged shut in the holiday winds.
Where rocks were thrown by fated children
And paper-cheap candy wrappers filled up plastic trash cans.
Where strange, money-minded housewives gaggled and giggled
With their ******-white teeth
And reflected my mother' s bipolar poverty
In the lenses of their plastic sunglasses.
Where my self-hemmed summer dresses were stained
With green and brown and red finger paint
As the days outside grew warmer
And the inside self grew older,
Colder.

Where I was punished for expression of the self
And confined to the sanatorium
Or the offices of Moloch's servants
On a sun-stippled day in May
Where my scrap-bruised hands
Were bandaged by the words of the Real World
And threatenings of expulsion.
Where I hid behind felted display boards
On a landing somewhere near Neverland,
And lay and listened to the friend-fuelled ramblings of lost boys
Who sat and smoked in dormitories
And hallucinated Peter Pan.
Where I wrote self-indulgent fuckery in toilets
And drew crude artistries on mirrors with lipstick
And contemplated
Amo
Amas
Amat
As I sat and stared at my own disassociated hands.

Where paper aeroplanes flew and were thrown
By hungover kids in threadbare jumpers
With chewed cuffs and prefect badges,
Where holy Evian was poured over my head
After a long last day under a white marquee,
Where I disassembled pencil sharpeners with iron-smelling razor blades
and violated erasers at an exam hall desk in a stormy June.

Where I contemplated death;
Sang hymns in the darkness of my bedroom,
Took a blade to my flesh
Like the soulless piece of meat
That I believed myself to be.
Where I fell in love;
Hurt myself
More than anyone else ever did.
Where I read,
Where I wrote tear stained elegies
To my idols under the earth
And prayed that I
Would last
Just one more day.