To revisit a bench,
In the park of nonsense -
Where as children
We felt colour as drugs:

A pool of rain, reflects
Fleeting wings.
As the moss-oak bench,

Ages.

Skyscrapers and mango trees wearing boxer briefs.

The tantalizing wind blows caressing paperclips and mortuary signs—
turning them indigo red for we all know that dead bodies are nothing but dead.

Hymns of love and soliloquies of the unconscious ego—
Id of our time but men of the past be our hero.
Leaving to wonder, if king Nebuchadnezzar was a crack-feign
would Coca Cola still educate penguins on the importance of Lesbian Existence?

For in this war of life, cockroaches are the real winners,
and the taste of excellence is only reserved for fire extinguishers —

so if nuclear clouds persist,
let the fire burn with love and you lay on the bed of oblivion
cuddling the moral that capitalism leads to schizophrenia.

So insure your sanity for free 99, this, with warm regards from yours truly,

                                                               ­              Rhizome of Golgotha.

My soul is ancient.
And it is not mine.
In darkest reaches of my heart I am told I do not own it.
I am impermanent.
I feel interminable.
My soul reaches to those around it,
But finds little kinship.
This soul and I are locked together
Out of time and place,
We are anachronisms.
You have seen us before.

We used to stay up
and watch the sun play peekaboo
with the skyline
and sit in the street
at 4 AM discussing everything
and nothing.
Breaking other peoples showers
in the night
and making love on their mother's
Dining room tables.

Now I resort to ep's and
YouTube videos, just
to remember the sound of your voice
or how your fingers move while you
strum your acoustic and massacre
your drums.

You have made my stomach tense with laughter
and my eyes rain
and you have made me love.

But this will be my last
Poem for you.
My last ode, my last confession.
There will be no more soft sweet syllables
or angry goodbye lines.
There will be no more heartfelt repetition
or cheesy, sing song rhymes.

We have lied
and we have cheated
making Misery moan with pleasure.
We have martyred it,
buried it,
and given the eulogy.

We used to climb to roof tops
and watch the lights dance
across our city.
We used to know each other.

I lie in bed, under cover,
fear rising up through the pores of my skin;
it leaks from my hair.

My door is locked; there are no monsters under my bed.
The only demons here live inside my head,
in muscle, bone, cell memory.

Tall and impenetrable is the brick wall that locks me out, that locks me in.
Sarcasm drips from the corner of my mouth, first laughing, then crying,
my face stuck in a perpetual open mouthed gape of surrendered indecision.

Anger trickles through my toes, almost imperceptible,
a shallow breath slowly exhaled, a child hiding in the dark.

The cool porcelain of disavowed feeling snakes between my fingers,
settles in my palm.

Who protects me from my own rage?

Nowhere left to hide,
smashing dishes under cover.

I’m cat ears on a cold, winter night;
bite a mouse neck
just for the tease
and let her run

away& life leaks slowly perhaps for
years and those
scars will stay
'til the end.

blooded fang, true love of the taste
of wide-eyed horror,
gut screams;
-- insatiable.

a victim caged yearns affection by
the soothing voice
of a beast
in the dark

but mama kept me far from the zoo.
baby eyes, a woman
never feared
                  so.

Not so far away girl
still so impossibly far
why must we wait until sunrise
to fall asleep?

Why is this beauty only conceivable
after the bottle dripdrips empty?
sinking deeper and deeper into saturn's orbit

youthful vibrant fluffed up peacocks
clucking on about research chemicals
and music festivals and last night and 6 days before
about banking and obamacare
and oh, my they're all talking
all at once
talktalktalking about this this this and that
not even asking for audience
soundwaves echo into nothingness
screaming lungs void of substance
fleeting purposes
failed courtships
unheard unimportant words
and oh, my, what a tedious thing
the night has become
but to stay at home alone
would be even more unspeakable.

Outside the party across the street
there is a tree
splayed out overhead and undergound
soaking up carbon growing tall still growing
slightly sad tree breathing in the silence of our sighs
dancing fallen leaves wrapping up the deadspace around us
deadworld space where we two sit under the edge
of revelry and absurdity
laughing, drunk, with the moon and the stars and
for just a second
feeling
slightly less impossible.