People are utterly filthy.
Rags besmirched black and undertone red in blood, and ****,
and tears, and thrown up alcohol bought cheaper than a
***** on Seventh.
Oh, tell me about it.
I saw a dead person once.
Grime under fingernails and teeth carved in gingivitis--
filth of a body really; but still I cry for this begotten soul
until my own hands grow
disheveled in the hue of
sobbing women.
Women are always sobbing.
My good friend with fishnet tights cries and
cries when the bottle breaks and
glass becomes embedded in those brown
fingertips of hers.
What is worse?
The stench of rotting flesh mixed with Persian White
dripping from a needle three years defective,
or the scent of sobbing women soaked
lily-livered in sweat.
With an honest tongue, politely I exclaim:
I’d rather sit with the flesh of the dead man whose filth is rotting
away with the mist of dawn,
then the crying pupils of thou who breathe in
white wind from the heavens
and exhale clouds coated thick
in a thousand vile songs.

My mother loves me like she loves the
rain when it pours and
pours and
pours.
Like
achy
joints that
curl ‘round their suppor-
-ting bones mercilessly.
And the pebble in her shoe
that makes blistering wounds;
She loves me like she loves my
Lack of Drive.
Determination
Determining how much the woman
loves me
is but a test untaken.
As without the rain
green drys black.
Plants
thirst.
Even if
she only shows
the smallest
Indication

When I press broken fingernails deep inside the
fleshy surface that is an anemic palm,
I am reminded-
I am real.
This is real.
Fourteen years old.
I remember the first time I got high
like it was yesterday,
but I can’t for the life of me
remember who am I.
Close-set eyes like brown almond paste-
(no my eyes are blue.)
Who.
This ****** body stripped of sin
only to mess it up again.
But I'm fine-
Everyone says so.
Fine like the wind in summer
blowing round and round cotton fairies.
And I press broken nails sharp like glass
into frail skin
if only to feel something.
But it never lasts long enough
to count.

Every time the sirens scream,
the blood in my hands grows colder the usual.
My chest aches in such a way I must hold myself
back from clutching it.
I breathe steadily- or as steadily as I can
as to not create a fit of panic.
But it’s terrifying.
One-two-three-
Send a prayer to anyone whose
willing to listen and it goes:
PleasenotnownottodayI’mnotreadydon’ttakethemnot-
Heavy brown eyes and a glinting smile saying hello
in a way that makes me want to cry tears of
Memories- innocent and pure with the wind in your hair.
And the siren continues to wail.

Tall ones are the best.
Don’t cry when they don’t
talk to you- don’t cry when they do.

Read 10 minutes ago

Pretend you're asleep.
I’m asleep I’m asleep I’m-
too tired to see you today, but soon.

Read 6 minutes ago

-I wouldn’t I swear I like you
a lot I would never even think to-
(Tell him- tell him I’m down.)

Seen 20 minutes ago

“Don’t drink the water after schools out;
it’ll make you live forever.”
You smile.
He smiles.

Love is like a dream
where everyone wakes up melancholy;
only lasting a small while.
                                                        I miss your face.

I can’t feel my hands.
They're tingling and,
my feet are sinking
into the carpet.
Red and scratchy carpet that spins over
and over
and over.
But my heart is smiling.
So hard.

Step One
Feel the bare mattress scratch against your thighs
and moan in self-pity ‘cause it hurts like a-
Rub broken knuckle stubs into your temples.
Stretch out one two three toes and pretend not to taste ashes on your tongue.
(Forget to brush the cancer out of your mouth again?)

Step Two
OPEN YOUR  ******* EYES
Oh don't be so ******* self-righteous.
Use scarlet nails to probe Scarlett pupils,
wipe away the morning slime and marijuana high, because
quite frankly, no-one wants to see that.

Step Three
The carpet has another puke stain.
Lovely.

Step Four
Walk around Carpet’s new addition.
Choose to be Superman- leave lights off.
You're not Superman.
Bump in T.V. stand, dressing table, fan.
Jesus Kid. How many more bruises do you want to acquire?
‘Sal right though. They’ll fit in just fine.

Step Five
Bathroom.
Violet fluorescent bulb-ly lights that nobody likes.
Twitchtwitchtwitch.
Come on now- when’s the last time you’ve changed them?
Yellow ****- not surprising.

Step Six
Wow. You have not gotten any better looking.
The poetically inclined ****** with knotty curls
and a brazen face your mother likes to call
Darling,
is staring from that cracked up mirror
into your pink, anemic eyes.
And man.
Even your ******* reflection wants to jump ship.

Step Seven
Where are your shoes?
Socks?

Step Eight
High school really is Hell, huh?
Keep your head up Kid; or down…
Last night’s hurrah is still evident
in those washed out, glazed eyes rolling
around in your head.
But don’t worry-
you’ve got a small token of the American Dream
in your back pocket!
You didn’t forget did you?!
Ah- Happy Birthday Kid;
enjoy your ******* oxy-
and try to stop shaking.
You look a mother ******* drug addict.

I bet your lips taste like ashes.
Cyanide flavored poison-
sweet like candy floss but
Deadly; burning from the inside,
Passionately.
Hands hot- the back burner of
your sister in law’s cast iron stove.
The flame of desire ravaging
your skin in your past lover’s
Sin.
Press flesh too hard; the best way-
It leaves violet marks of recycled love.
And I’d dream of a future,
while you thought out tonight’s dance.
And I’d listen to the rain
hit each brick wall,
while you turned out the light
and felt nothing at all.

Before-
“Run! Come on their gonna catch us!”
We really messed up this time.
Whose idea was it to smash
the mailboxes? Deface the school
parking lot? Jesus Ch-
“Is that mom’s car?”
JESUS CHR-
“Nevermind.”

After-
“Three for seventy or five for seventy-five. Best deal in town.”
We really messed up this time.
Who forgot the lighter and
and cash? Where’s the hell
are the papers? What the f-
“Are these sugar?”
WHAT THE FU-
“Nevermind.”

Before-
“Shut up! He’s gonna see us!”
We really messed up this time.
Who thought throwing popcorn
at the cute movie theater boy
was a good idea” Oh sh-
“He’s looking over here!”
OH ****-
“Nevermind.”

After-
“***** tastes better straight.”
We really messed up this time.
Who bought Smirnoff? We
wanted UV. Where are the
shot glasses? Son of a-
“I think this stuff is expired…”
SON OF A B-
“Nevermind.”

Before-
“We had a test?!”
I really messed up this time.
When did we even take notes?
I don't remember the what
we even went over. God da-
“Yeah, he said its worth 20% of our grade.”
GOD DAM-
“Nevermind.”

After-
“What is going on?!”
We really messed up this time.
The room smells like substance.
Curtains closed- eyes closed.
Broken orange bottles- Bu-
“He took too many!”
Burn-
“He’s not waking up!”
Burno-
“Call someone!”
BURNOUT.



“Nevermind?”





Before-
“This is the best day of my life.”
We are okay this time.

Public schooling houses dangerous and
the most delicate beings to walk shy
or stomp upon the dirt. Thou whom love
to hate, yet hate to love; teenagers. They
take their pill if good mannered, but hide it
behind false grins, if not, to find later
in a tin box dusted in carcinogens.
The golf boy doesn't hide his pill- never.
Swallowed with a glass of social simi-
-larity, he melts away but likes it.
He feels safe and warmed by the flame of
fake. And then she comes along taking a
psychedelic too many- red eyes of
their own fire. Taste the skin of ana-
-ther on her lips; sweet like cyanide tang.
She takes her own kind of pill named CANTSTOP.
She is named crack ***** by more than a-
-lot of head down murmured voices coated
in curiosity. They're not afraid of
her anymore- he is though. Slightly but
he doesn't say it. **** up- They know it.
Golf boy knows it. Crack ***** knows it. He knows
it. Small town ******- no future- can't even stay
in school long enough to see a paper.
But can play a chord like a rose in the
barrel of steel- a voice of nostog-
-ia. He makes people feel things too deep yet
barely scratches the surface of himself.
He used to hide his pill. Not anymore.
She dreams of running away with a bottle
of pennies. He drinks champagne and dreams black.
She writes melodramatic spells above
her collarbone- he spends the night alone
thinking dark things about a girl who now lacks
a soul- she used to light up. Not now though.
And they all take their pill like good little
kids.

Beautiful
is the auburn fire etched across fall
skyline- spiraling downward with every tantalizing shake
of the wind.
Every angel's breath sending dying wishing weeds
to fly across; under noses; tangled wildly in hair.
And when the pink sun kisses the horizon farewell.
Not with that of passion, but with mismatched lies,
as being soon she finds her way
to next ground far and even farther away.
It is the color of eyes.
Primary shades of astrological star hunted eloquence sewn together
sideways with whitewash prescription pills.
Beautiful is the way
cancer bleeds grey ribbons curled
around winter ravished lips.

Sometimes I can't sleep.
Spidery shadows named Regret creep
Around myself, camouflaging with the night.
Nobody whispers sinful dark deeds into my ears;
No voices howl in echoing patterns.
It's just me.
And me alone.
Caught awake in the dead of the night.
It's kind of peculiar that they would call it that-
“The dead of the night”
Because it is actually quite alive.
As am I
For now.
What an interesting thought.
“Black like cigar ashes” thought.
Fornowfornowfornowfor-
Pills can taste like candy if you imagine hard enough.

Sad is a penny word.
A “too vague and distantly grey” word.
It’s edges don't shine.
They are cracked and dusted over
in silk space dust.
Depressed is a dollar word.
“Milk and honey on our throats” word.
It sizzles people's lips
everytime it dances in their mouths.
Everyone is depressed.
While they sit beside their open glass
windows and write tasteless poetry about
Depressed and how they feel it.
How it courses through and through their
juvenile veins.
Everyone is depressed.
But I think maybe I am just sad.
Sad like pain and tears that don’t fall.
Maybe I am Depressed.

I want to inject sweet tangerine sunsets into my veins
and let the warmth fill my body
To spin Saturn's rings around my pinky
and dance hopscotch behind reality
My lungs painted pastel
In cancer and soft robin egg blue
I want to see the colors of psychedelic
Sound waves that crash guitar solos onto beaches
Systematically
Mostly I just want to be happy.

I do not know where I am from.
One-hundred and forty-seven hours of contemplation,
Yet still I am stuck in a strange situation.
Am I from the gold corn stocks
that build a wall around me?
Their weeping silk threads caught around my fingers, and
that strange fresh dirt smell that always lingers
in the depths of my sweater.
Am I from the constellations painted on my cheeks?
Their upsetting color like paint
splattered on a canvas in uneven spirals;
claiming rule over my pale round face.
Am I from John Lennon?
His weeping Guitar and yellow sunshine
shining into me in sweet melodic tunes.
Am I from Atlantic, Iowa?
Home of the trojans and simple
minded people who are yet to accept
Individuality.
Am I from a hateful world where black and white
Is the only thing we ever see?
Where body parts are to pave the path of one's
Destination.
Am I from a nation,
whose officials pledge vacation,
while those in need sit hungry, brazen, on the streets?
Where the only thing they feel is the hate
they’ve been tasting?


No.

I am from drawing patterns on the fogged over
emerald-tinted window glass.
From the shiny grey floor of a retro skate rink.
From the laces of black converse shoes; torn and *****.
I am from laughing as loud as I can
at midnight, 1am, two thirty.
But most of all,
I am from soul.
And from the one hundred classic rock songs we always sung.
I am from youth and aspiration.
I am from smoke curling through my hair.
And I...
I am from the chalk dust,
settled rosy pink in my lungs.

It's euphoric.
The way his fingers trace the straight
metal strings laid tightly over
the sunset wood instrument.
It's almost as tall as him
or maybe it's taller.
I remember the way his eyes would close:
Body slowly, subtlety, swaying.

You looked beautiful.
Extremely beautiful in all of your wild glory
and small-town fame.
I guess it’s sort of strange that
In all honestly,
I hated you.
I still don't fully appreciate your presence.
But watching you from the back rows
Of a high school auditorium,
From your hands coming forth a
Euphoric noise that seemed to coruscate
Atop the bodies sitting stiff in the audience.
Time always slowed down when you
Played.
But not my breath.
You made my breath rigid.

Aesthetic cigarette smoke weaves through and through the air
Sinking into the threads of jean jackets
That already smell like night time chills and rain.
I hate smoking.
But
It looks pretty cool.

My teardrops don't flow from bloodshot eyes
down angry red cheeks
staining yellowed pillowcases
black with sorrow.

Collected in a leaky pen
with rusty metal cap,
they form words on
crumpled notebook paper.

Silent cries
build T’s that don't cross
and from the womb of weeping winds
come forth Y’s that curve at their tail.

bleeding heart, whose
tears dissipate with that of a child's day time fury.
But bleeding scripture,
is quick to injure
as it weeps its words
forever and eternity.