poison coursing through my veins,
parting ways in my brain,
separating me from my own mind,
i flock to what’s left and she waits.

i can’t remember where she slipped in,
more so when she slid out,
and how it got to the point now
where my drink is flooding me
with anticipation.

some knowing, unknown in its right,
the idea wasn’t here just a night ago,
but now it won’t leave,
it waits, just as she does.

and once this moves into motion,
the ground will tremble.
with such force, such intensity,
and i will show her the way,
what i mean, how i pursue it myself,
as she does, as we had,
and now cannot.

i’ll show her the dead tissue,
hanging from my shoulders,
how i have to lug it around
and one day, will unload.

completely chaotic in its beauty
and completed only by its sanity
there's got to be a reason we're looking for something here.

we're drawing our own portraits
and painting over our mistakes
with everything we've practiced at any easel.

as it starts back at the last tempo
we contemplate the time signature
and whether or not the time's showing anything at all.

there's too much going on now
and we're getting it all mixed up
with something we're all trying to feel in one form or another.

as we come back down
we see the sun glaring off the window pane
and realize this is where it's meant to have shone; upon our lives.

dreaded hang overs and handouts
made to believe in something else
for the sake of belief in anything
and yet there's nothing here to think;
there's been plenty done in the head,
and it's tiring itself out in here,
so it's got to find a way to get out.

the thing is we don't get out alive
and we're all bound here
in one form or another; we're stuck
as we're sticking ourselves,
poking and prodding for life
that we're all aware is here.

yet, there's this unyielding need
to feel something at one point
as well as at some other,
but nobody's pointed it out to anyone
and we're all blindly aiming ourselves
to destinies we're uncertain of;
but we're all out here living before we start dying.

there's more.
there has to be.
i want more,
but i don't see
why you talk
about life
and the walk,
the knife,
and the key
to really begin seeing.
seems freeing.

I'd tell you every story
and every tale I have
If you'd ever actually
                                     listen.

But I see there's no      hope
in reaching you today.

So I'll just keep you
hanging there, lost,
where I want you,
and this grand scheme stolen from
                                     love.

O transient depth,
how moved am I
that you have moved on,
deeper now than I.

O transparent death,
how human are we
that you take us all,
and leave none behind.

Remember me, as you shall,
and I remember none
for none have reminded me
of what we once were.

                                      Entwined.

fingered in the jailhouse
for something indescribable
something impractical
and you're filling in the holes
that you'd bored out of yourself.

the rains trinkets
leaving the world unheard
leaving the word unsaid
yet leaving nothing but puddles

filling the empty lots
where you'd had filled
where there you'd been thrilled
from the rain; nothing but puddles

falling into drains
down the streets gutters
up the gorges, flooding
and ringing in the puddles

as the fall falls down on me
the rain falls as well
the rain falls to swell
the woodwork you've bored me out of.

you're all gone
or dead
one of the two
maybe caught
in limbo.

it bothered me
for a while
but days passed
and i've found
it hasn't phased

*every emotional problem i'd had with your lingering somewhere in my head.
i just hope you're doing well in whatever it is you're doing anymore.
i don't want any calls, texts, or salutations.  i just want you to know now you're gone,
and that i was there the whole time you were leaving, trying to pull you back in.

sooner or later you'll find out your thoughts are a sin:

                        drugged and lugged through the halls you're living in
                        until you've accepted their embracing concepts
                        and their defacing analysis of your character; you're dead.
                        their pale, fluorescent lights hum in your head
                        and clean out the cobwebs that you've let build up
                        until you've been completely cleansed of your transgressions
                        and until you've figured out life's not about progression.

sooner or later you'll find out you're life's been overanalyzed:

                        created for the sake of boredom and then criticized
                        by yourself, your peers, and the people who you never knew;
                        they'd never known, not even yourself, but you guessed.
                        there was no reason to make an estimate, you're blessed
                        through your admission of self, sanctity, and painful denial
                        of the truths they'd tried to make you disbelieve;
                        now you're ready, you're certain, and soon, you'll be freed.

when asked what i ever mean,
i can never answer honestly;
honestly, i have no idea myself,
but then again, who does?

to mean anything seems redundant;
purpose is given without hesitation
to everything we create, we are.
we're creating our own meanings,

*driven mad by our own motives.

the mechanization of this way to will our minds still fights itself
and we're losing the battle as we rule our lives from out of our minds;
in our souls, and still through the placement of shrines in our halls.
it's filled at the altar with sacrifice after sacrifice,

and today, i think i'm going to sacrifice drinking too much and gaining something to feel.

integrity must've been a four-letter word
seeing how you can only see syllables
as you stole every last bit of sense
that anyone around you ever heard of
just to make some sense of your own
honing the skill set for nothing in life
but the simplicity of generalities
overcompensation for the lack of love
and loving the compensation all give
unknowingly, robbed blind; now blinded
shouting every four letter word
they count for the actual lettering.

knowing the simple implementation
of all this ****** frustration
into some kind of mechanization
into the institutionalization
of something you'd call psychoanalysis.
i've analyzed
i've criticized
i've materialized
i've realized
that we're all waiting for our final grade.

this idea's haunted me long enough
and this house is creaking louder and louder.
there's enough spirits left in here
that there's never enough silence.
the death's filled our heads with love
and the life's drained us of emotion.
we're turning lifeless and senseless before the masquarades unveiling.

i made you live,
i'd killed you;
i'd been there.
i'd done that,
but you showed no remorse for your own accordance with my accolades.
and yet you've taken my own words against your own for disservice,
distance has been created from the anguished laugh you'd let out for a trembling break of the silence.
and as it broke down, realistically, you'd thought of what you'd learned from me,
and at last, i was used in reference, as in silence i brooded at your demeanor;
it was transparent and openly so; undistinguishable from the rest in its cleft.
this phenomena's gone on far longer than expected, and you've outlived your expectancy.
so, again, i'd killed you.
then i made you live.
and i'd been there;
you'd never done that.

gas in the motorhome
just about ready to roam
where ever the catalogue says
and we fly around all the bends
                                                      heading to some sanctity
                                                       while the craziness takes over for a while.
comfort the pedal
as we meddle
with the ideas of prosperity
in another definition of integrity
                                                      *lost souls searching
                                                      for another reason to not drive us all off the road

you've never heard a thing
it's just a ploy, you say
just to hear what to say
and nobody's been listening.
there's nothing coming out
to make anyone care
that you've let down your hair
and finally had something to say.
but i heard it all
and i can say it wasn't
what i'd expected to hear
because i wasn't near
i heard just the pieces.
that you need to pick up on
and stop putting yourself on
to the constant income
to be put into outcome.
where's it leading you
and why are you going
**that far?

there's never been enough time
for me to ever really think
about the ways they see me
when i tell them about my shrink.
when i tell them about my fears.
when i tell them about my occupation,
my situation,
my predication,
my annihilation,
and my contemplation
of the simplest things left around me.

the devil told me his story
he told it quite well
the devil told me his story
and what it's like in hell
the devil told me his story
and how it's always swell
the devil told me his story
and i found we're all just shells,
waiting to be emptied.

a poem to lou reed*
feeding the animals
everything they want
and never getting
that perfect day,
you left me hangin' on.

while the girls sang,
we found that vivacious
slightness you'd felt
as we began feeling that light,
they blinded us in your mirror.

now we're twisted
waiting for the shine
those boots of leather
to the transformation,
we can't say we're not forsaken.

pain is pointless
and feeding into it
hurts worse than ignoring it
so I guess I can't write
to satiate your desires
in the pains of others
and instead I'll stay alive,
numb to it's existence
and also to my own.

you walked in
then walked out
turned yourself around
and wondered
what to think about.

then thought again
about what to say
as you turned back around
decided to go home
and just walked away.

left me here standing
with my hand in my jeans
pulling at the loose strings
hanging in my pocket
and what this all means.

now i've got the idea
that you're unsure yourself
about what it is we're doing
where we'll end up
and if we'll need any help
deciding what this love is.

just like you
allowing nothing through
the shallow skin
that begins
crawling all over
with what was clover
but now is just weeds
as the thought feeds
on the bubbles in my brain.

is this an aneurysm or just thought processing?

twisted words turn into twisted people
as they run around trying to seem well
and when they're twisting themselves more and more;
and when they unwind, slowly and vapidly,
they all start to hit the floor.

the bottle slid down to the floor so long ago,
but you were the only one who were to ever know
the reason i'd twisted the truth so much into a lie;
the reason i'd twisted what you saw, languidly,
through your twisted eyes.

as we all fell out in our fallout shelters
our twisted lives all, in an instant, began to welter
to the corkscrew sound waves coming out now;
to the corkscrews and corks lying about, sadly,
because we were all gonna die here, someway, somehow.

In a transient state
trance covers my eyes
and I fade off to the distance
where I stare for hours on end
as I'm searching for just one idea
to pull myself out of this meditation
and put myself back to working
on the idea that we're working
on something far, far greater
than just another space here
and we're heading
toward great
things.

you're blind, for the most part
to everything i'd had to say;
you'd done it to yourself,
all this is just another way
to figure out what i'm meaning in every way.

however, you're not stupid,
so you must know a good bit,
about my life, my loves,
and about how i've never given a ****
about how anyone but me has felt some bit.

so why even repent for this;
i'm without sin, i cast the first stone.
you're lost, little girl,
but i promise you, you're not alone
in the world you've created as your own.

you're impossible
you're impractical
you make little sense;
always in offense
to whatever i say
about my day
like it was a personal attack
on something you knew; matter-of-factLY
there was nothing i hid
in what it was i did
when i told you the story
that made you worry
like i had something to hide.
instead of just letting it ride
i'd decided i'd take my chances
and ignore all the glances
to just let you know
that i love you so.

falling
lightly
flight
not quite,
it's still just
falling.

floating
weightless
lightly
through nothing
and still held
on something.

grasping
nothing
tightly
you're falling
deeper now
into life.

though shadowed and followed
through the darkness there's ambience
that follows my shadows.
it tastes of regret, simplicity, and ignorance;
feels like shame, denial, and *****.
shaken from my dreams, i'm alive.
shook to the depths of my soul;
my dreams resonate as they vibrate,
violently across your frequency
and violating my sanctity.

*i heard your voice,
i spoke through your lips.
i saw your hair,
i tasted your hips,
and before i knew it,
i'd smelt my death.

if you've got the interest
well then i've got the investment,
granted, it's only time
but that's enough, isn't it?

we place so much value in seconds
as minutes pass us by hourly,
but we never find value where it belongs;
throughout life it's moments,
for you it's momentary, but endless for the rest.

if you've got the right idea
i've got the right way to shape it,
as it's got to be something more,
something material and meaningful.

otherwise, they'll never see it
in the light it deserves,
darkened due to size, it's variance
cannot go unnoticed for too much longer;
we know where it should shine.

through the windows of another idea
and into the depths of the idealism they've formed
around the whole sanctity that's building
and filling in the cracks of the pane you smashed.

with a whiskey bottle out of rage,
broken glass fell in an instant and all has fallen
we're filling in the space it's left
with tape and hopes to keep the chill out.

out of the room and into another
just to breathe for a little while without a dream
in mind; we're dying for a change to fall
upon our laps and down through our veins.

emptied of all your belongings
and now filled with ideas of what it'd be like
with another who'd filled your shoes
just as quickly as they'd been emptied; full.

i remember the words
                                                you said to me when i thought i couldn't hear
                                                                                            that i'll never forget

                      but now, you're lost in something
                    that neither of us can really control
    and it's tearing the very fabric of who we were into pieces
                                                                                             so try to remember
                                                                   all the things you'd ever said to me
                                                     and how they have no meaning to you now
                                                                                      and soon
                                              how they'll hold no weight as you hold nothing
                                                 but the disgusting things you've taken pride in

nowhere's where this belongs.  and we're heading somewhere, so leave it behind.

I sleep in your dreams
And awaken in my own.
My own nightmares
Shrill, silent and symbolic,
Now your passage of time.

i feed her my words
like you'd feed someone sick
the pills as their ailment

i feed her my love
like you'd feed a baby bird
its life frail and in lament

the mother's dead
the baby's chirping
the birds all say
that this is working

i feed her my ideas
like you'd feed a toddler
with spoon in hand; shakingly

i feed her my death
like you'd feed the poor
standing on corners, begging; incessantly

this is working
i believe it now
i see it working
but can't see how

i feed her life,
as you'd feed me.
i feed her knowledge,
and set her free.

but the uncertainty still rests in your eyes.
restlessness crawls through your mind,
and you're still saying to yourself, "i've got to try."

it's happened too quickly,
and you're still holding on to everything.
as you're holding on sickly,
you're looking for just about anything

to break your heart again.

it's pretty faces like yours
that keep me from dying
by my own devices
as i devise a way out of this place.

it's pretty faces like yours
that save me from myself
by your smile
as i smelled the burning sulfur.

it's pretty faces like yours
that help me want this
by fire, i cleanse
as i clean up the mess you'd left me in.

i'd been pushed in line
with the rest
standing ground
wasn't a test
it was the norm
and proved
hold on,
the line's moved.

it's not only the disease in my mind
that's been left so far behind
by the mass time you've spent
in your self regret
and mutilation of the facts
and aimless, allegorical attacks
based off of your life's lies;
how they've been goodbyes
and never hellos.
or good mornings.
or any salutation, noticeably
cold and distraught collectively
for the sickness that you've left behind.

there's something in the middle of this
i'm not so clairvoyant to see it
but it's scaring me and thrilling me
and it's causing me too much ****
that i'm starting to lose the touch;
the numbing of my finger tips
is only from the callouses from playing
and they linger, although now
i hardly play.  i only sing.  not well.

it frees my head, let's me feel
less dead; alive in five, i say.
not jive, less to survive for
as we're sure this is where it stays
before the ending, we're entranced;
caught in another ring of life
straining to see the light in the tunnel
as we funnel all the information
to our brains.  to be insane.  to be a frame...


for that picture

who am i anyway?
a man behind a name that isn't mine,
an idea behind a movement;
pushing time.
a heartless devil
cutting crime
that he sees every man doing to his neighbor.

what am i?
anyway there's an answer
in here, out there,
somewhere in adequate form.
waiting for its clairvoyance
and its shelter
to be shattered and broken like the man i see behind all that i am.