I can't get going.
On this horribly dull day.
I'm depressed.
As always.

And,
There's no hope.
No help.
No sympathy.
No nothing.

Not for me.

Just staring at a wall.
Distractions.
And.
Death.

I can **** the confusion.
And paranoia.
With too many substances.
But, I can't turn it.
Off.

That's not.
Possible.

I can't scream through these.
Collapsing lungs.
And dying ambitions.

I can't muffle the constant barrage.
Of die.
Die, and in this glorious emptiness.
Forget.

Everything.
Existence extinguished in a low gurgle.

My last breath.

Release.

I sighed my last sigh.
With nothing to show.
For all this wasted time.

The still buzz on the screen.

Electricity.

And a passion.
I could never find.

I live among the vile refuse of a left over life.
Everything out of place.
Everything chaotic.
Everything past its expiry date and broken.
A disassembled discordant choir that sings slurs to an angelic host.

The kipple keeps accumulating and I have become one.
With the cigarettes ash and my poorly done tattoos.
NIghts spent in intoxication rambling to myself.
Complex mythologies derived from symbolic associations.
This is reality.
This is divine.
This is the flayed lord, wearing the skin of a sacrifice.


I wallow in the fetid revolting mind that plagues me with.
Existence.
Change and transformation.
Is the ego death of the shaman.
Indoctrinated into taboo spirits.
And ghosts.
Demons.

And.
Are you beautiful?
Well collected and coherent?
Some sort of angel down here in the.
Slums?

Skid row ain't got nothing on me.
As I ferment in the juices of my overbearing ego.
One track mind.
One thought.
One last breath to curse in vain.

I will desecrate the temple.
God gave me.
And become a blasphemy.
Taboo cast out trickster God.
Of a forgotten time.
Rabid coyote.
Biting everything it can.
From an impulse I can't understand.

Spread the virus.
Burn the sacred grounds.
Cover yourself in ash.
And proudly wave the heresy.
In the face of the light.

I wanted perpetual darkness.
I wanted to be a sound in the night.
Fear.
Trembling.

Exegesis.

Waking up has become.
The hardest thing I have to do.
I just feel.
Dead.

Alone is fine.
But, I can't describe the way.
I've been lately.
Other than.

Given up.
And.
A waste of food.

So, I don't eat.
Or try.

Who were you that whisked yourself.
Away from my poor circumstances.
So you didn't have to watch me.
Fall apart.

At least.
I guess.  T
That's what.
You told yourself.

And,
me.

I don't mind.

Everyone is temporary.
A single serving something or other.
That I talked to a while.

But,
Got too involved in the fantasy.
Of what I could be.

I have nothing.
To prove to you.
Nothing to teach.

So waft away like a breeze.
Floatsam hovering in a cyclone.
Disappear into the horizon.
As the darkness envelops a kaleidoscopic sunset..

Sad I wouldn't do what you wanted me to do.

As precise as it was in your head.

This is my ode.
To my disposable.
Nature.

And the comfort.
In giving up.

My addendum to you.

I don't care.
It's overall meaningless and futile.

So.
Whatever.
Just leave me alone.

I'm stuck there in some anonymous dilapidated chicken coup.
Rotten boards and peeling paint.
Vermin taking up residence in some dusty stuffy run down shack.
As the fields of wheat blow in my imagination.
Cause out here there's just tall grass.
And mummified corpses of varmits.
Skulls you're proud to find.
And some city boys getting tired of the spear grass.

And here I am in some nostalgic memory.
Driving tractors with my grandpa.
Playing in combines.
The smell of gasoline.
The wind knocking something against the wall.

I hope this dying memory collapses on me.
So I can forget it was so.
Long ago.

I disappear and hide in cracks.
With the knowledge.
That I always become a memory.
That lasts for a few months.
Somewhere else is so anonymous.
When you don't tell them where it is.
And, I just disappear.
Then you don't know me anymore.
And, you're replaced.
With another random human being.
I find no joy in.
To get bored of.

I was just made.
Broken.

My voice so soft.
You'll miss it.

Before it stops talking at all.

Gets lost in intoxicated.

They scream at me.
For not being.
What they want.

Filled with apathy.
Self destructing.

Tomorrow.
Coulda been something.
If I wanted to be
there.

Seems like I'm.
Just waiting
for the
world to end.

The horizons are
on fire.
Death coming from
above.
On wings of whispered.
Annihilation.

I'd rather be travelling.
But.
Thinkin of running away somewhere.
Else.
Somwehere safe.
Though,
I never do.

And, I can't escape the.
Shock.
Wave.

I'm just running on empty.
Hopped up on adrenaline.

Avoiding flashes in the distance.
Suns being born.

Me

Though.

I've got
cobwebs in my
mind.
Forgetting how to think.
When wit is all I need.
To sleep.
Or dream.

May this
Terror flee me.
As I'm.
Occupying my time.
With a poor
short term memory.

With
denial.

Punishment for something.
I
never
did.

And I hear the air raid siren.
Bleating in my mind.

Is this love.
In the age of information.

Losing everything
with no power to.
Stop it.

At a certain point.
You get beyond that.
Frustration.
And, enter into.
Resignation.

I just wanted to move back to that.
Emptiness in my childhood.

That vacant stare.

The wind whistling in my ear.
And old addages.
To help me fall
Asleep.

Love tries to ossify people.
Into that rush of chemicals.
And keeping them just like that time.
You looked a little bit too long.
And, it was more than relaxed on your face.
Cause you couldn't control what you were doing.
Or the words coming out.
Of your mouth.

They seem to think.
That they're opinion on what was my real life.
Is actually it.
But, me in my ridiculous bravado.
My hyperbolic stories no one believes.
Am.
Telling.
The truth.

The memories never go away.
Except with.
A large dose.
Of drugs.

I never know what I'm trying to say.
So I wing it.
And, try to write something.

Precise.

Cause,
English is not a good language for poetry.
It sounds so choppy.

So malformed.

Bereft of inspiration.

Borrowed words from passing cultures.

This is narration.
This is the tautology.
Of stating a fact.

Forcing myself to write.
So I don't forget the difference.
Between prose

And.

Poetry.

Tyler says.
My problem has always.
Been my paranoia.

But he neglects the self doubt.
The self hatred.
Or the hallucinations.

And, every day I struggle.
With the will to live.
Especially when it turns out.
I'm not really that unique.

Id hate to be the person.
Who admires.
My imperfections.

Everything.
All the time.
All at once.
And, I make sense.
Out of the tangents.
Writing the narrative that is my life.
And, will you be a footnote in the poorly worded.

Dialogue.

And, will you be a friend to the no one I've become.
An, index to all my poor plot choices and poorly rounded characters.
That pepper my life.
With the mundane.

Mediocre.

She sells sea shells.
In seclude sacred sanctuaries.
And other assoreed.
Temporary Autonomous Zones

The only time I experienced.
Something beautiful.
Something magical.
A moment where I was caught up in some.
External force.
Was when.
I stopped.
Trying to find it.

Philosophers write pretty.
Words.
But, at a certain point.
Those words.
Write.
Their own truth.

I offer this, my life.
As a sacrifice.
To the restless dead.
To the hungry ghosts.
And all lines that end.

The fury of the tornado is fierce.

And, we have such little time.
Let me defy the fates.
May the Gods accept my offering.
Of blood.

As,
The shedding of blood.
Is sacred.

There's tall grass.
Hills with groves.
Cactus and painted rock.
Out there.
With the wind.
And the ghosts of the past.
That wasn't too long ago.

Please God.
Please.
Just give me.

One

Good

Day

One day it will all.
Catch up to me.

An onslaught of.

Bad habits.
Poor diet.
Self destruction.

I'll disappear.
In an instant.

A week.

All that's left.
Of.
What could have been.

I remember tomorrow.
Potential immanent.
The truth.
So far away.
And.
Fragile.
I guess something had to break.
Down inside of me.
And, now.
I'm losing everyday.
To passages.
Written in time.

I wrote you so many poems.
I forgot which ones they were or their name.
Just a bleeding into itself of yesterdays and regrets.

Who knew you'd tell me once not to tell you what to think.
And, I wouldn't.
And, I didn't.

But, me, on myself, on how I behave.
I just fade away faster than usual these days.
When someone abandons me.

Once again I must subvert my own interests.
For the fantasies about myself.
In other people's mind.

So, blame me for my response I guess.
I wouldn't know.
You left without a word.
No need to communicate.
To who you claim to love.

Or I could get angry.
Frustrated.
Passionate.
Something, I guess.

But, I don't.
I never have.

I just leave and move on.

Everything is so.
Elegant.

Everything is so.
Neat.

Harmonious.

I can't be crazy to other people.

If I am.
The beautiful what could be.
Dies.

And, it turns out.

I'm a rabid loner.
Who cant get attached.

I'm a mouldy old country song.
Straining in the din.
Of a poorly lit room.
And the prescience.
Is impending.
An apocalypse.
In the tired warble.
Of an old crusty man.

What happened?

I thought we were going to write our names.
On ancient archaic architecture.
In Europe.
As we squated our way across.
The European Empire.
Looking for that good.
In everyone

We would have.
Made love with the Bohemian Eurotrash.
Like us.
Yearning for an adventure across the territory of that Cold War.
Like a Mutually Assured futile resistance.
Against those individual battles.
We fought.

In DDR uniforms.
Crusty jackets and holy clothes
With rabid Communists.
The bishops of our redemption.
A patched messiah.

We were going to storm the Bastille high on acid.
Make love under the Arch Triumph.
And, scream our victory to the ghosts in the Catacombs.
We  would bomb the old histories in every antediluvian city.
Set fire to our heritage, and laugh.
In that blazing dawn.
In that explosion.

In that could have been.

But,
We never really got passed the lawn.
We passed out on the side walk.
And vomited on our shirt.

What's left.
When you've.
Given up.

What is there to do.
But, wait until.
Your body breaks down.

And ignore.
Your situation.

And now.
The depression sets in.
As the SSRI leaves my body.
And in this muck, this helpless mire.
I feel the constant sensation.
Of wanting to die.

Hoplessness.
Dichotomous thinking.
A general feeling of dis-ease.
Guilt and a desire to punish.
Myself.

Sober?
Why?
So I can sleep all day.
Starve myself.
Self crit with self abuse?
Another psychotic break with reality?

It's not like I painted it all black.
It's more despair.
At the incompetence of my life choices.
It's just a niggling suspicion.
That this too.
Is pointless.

So, I'll recede into my vivid dreams.
Off the pills.
The ones that mock me with all my.
Imperfections.

I've got a list of everything.
I hate about myself.
Maybe an addendum or two.
Of what I like.

Nothing causes this listless wandering in torpor.
It came from out of knowhere.
Left field.
Out of the blue.
When I was 12.
And, nothing.
Makes.
It.
Go.
Away.

I imagine torturing myself.
To express how much I hate myself.
So the outside matches the inside.

This temple so sacred.
I will desecrate it.
I will conform reality.
To how I feel.

Horrible.

It seems that poetry has become.
A place to whine.
With form and rhythm.
Simply a minor concern.
In a sea of mediocre futile teenage angst.
Thousands of poorly written love poems.
And possession.
All of it mandated good.
By your own banality.
And fear that you aren't.
That good.

I awake to light.
Boring itself through my skull.
And,
Baby,
There ain't no us.

There's just me

With a headache.

Reevaluating my life.
Choices.