They say time heals wounds. I’m still waiting for the time that hearing your voice won’t make me feel like there’s an elephant in my throat. I’m still waiting for the time that seeing your face won’t make my heart scream for you, ripping its own seams in the process. I’m still waiting for the time when passing you by won’t make me weak at the knees, won’t make my spine shiver and my lungs suffocate.

They say time heals wounds. How will my wounds heal when the knife is still in my back, when the bullets are still in my chest? How will my wounds heal when whenever I remember to live, your memory pours salt on my cuts? How will my wounds heal when you haven’t even returned what’s left of my heart yet?

They say time heals wounds. Does that mean that I won’t see your face whenever I close my eyes? Does that mean that I won’t find you in every song I listen to? Does that mean I’ll stop hugging myself to sleep at night, feeling homesick for you? Does that mean I’ll be able to love again? and how will I ever love again, when I often find my soul wandering in the places our love was born, searching for you?

You used me
took what you needed
caused me so much pain
and left me here wounded
I've lost so many people
to the sword in your hand
did you ever care at all
or is this all what you planned
the sense of your presence
makes my head pound
and my heart always sinks
when you make any sound
after all that I've done
and sacrificed for you
can you do me one favor
and plan my funeral

Grrrrr aaaaann aagh aaaaahh naah,
Aaaang n' aghhh ahh grrrr aaaagh naaah,
Grrrrrr aaagh aan naaaaang aaggh!

tempestuous heartache
   & sundried tears
exhaled whispers
   & combustible caresses

unilateral monogamy
   & bipolar love
singular sensations
   & conjoined sensuality

degrading hopelessness
   & elevated vulnerability
decelerated time
   & soaring spirituality

I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can **** me!"

the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.

while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.

well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.

beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.