my veil stares out the window
whenever it can see
months it has hung
it is pinned purposely uneven
our conversation goes rather well
"the gusts of wind!"
we see eye to eye

Is there a ghost inside my soul?
Or two or three all black as coal?
The devil's play things exist so well!
Example one: white zinfandel.
Intoxication confrontation!
Demon spell molestation.
Inside my cranium's example two.
Swollen membrane with evil hue.
Why spurt these words on this page
while I'm trapped inside the Devil's cage?
I'll look back and all I'll see
Is a broken sort of sympathy.
Exit my thoughts through a blank pupil
and my sight will flicker as I try to sit still.
**** the forefront of my mind.
Its just a mask for those who won't find
the truth behind the words I say.
Passive agressive flux of cabernet.

cracking codes
within my bones
my tendencies
my brain disowns
I'll never sleep
I'll never cry
just stare and weep
until the day is nigh

there's something about how a clock-tick
of one milli-second
can send chills down my spine.
suddenly its another day lived
and how to some people this is the ultimate
blessing from the almighty
or maybe a dreadful curse sent from below.
tell me why there is this systematic
completion of 24-hours
or how no one feels older on their birthday.
no difference in time can sway me
except the darkness that begins to fill my
window as the sun goes down
ripping the light from my iris
and the good from my heart.

you’re getting personal
my eyes are tired
and the light’s always on.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
a hog-tied looking wrinkled hag
has been staring through my window
each morning I wake up twice.
she reminds me of the hog-tied minded
child of divided fences
and sticks and bees
when I stared into her eye
through my shielded blanket.
don’t you know of phantom feelings?
and now that mottled
pale woman has thrashed right through
putting five people aloof
yet sitting on my chest.
you’re able bodied.
scare her away.

the sprawled hedges
with a barber-shop trim
have a lot to say
still they are quiet
except for a stomatal chatter
leaf to sun

i'm in an abyss
a hopeless sea
my tiny vines have escaped me
they reach to strangle
they reach to be
their reaches fail colossally
weeping grapes surpass their will
and release a stream that overfills
it kills the natives
it kills their foes
their drowning bearings decompose
the matter fills the deepened gorge
the water slowly is absorbed
i struggle to refrain my sick remains
from losing what i must sustain

His head expelled rancid muck
onto the river bank moss
while I stood there peeking
behind buildings wondering
if the sun has risen.
I’m cursing the wind yet again
but this time its coupled
with sheer rocks that work
to extract blood from my
yellow calluses.
Downstream the fluids combine.
The ripples oxygenate them and
work them like arthropods
billowing towards their first meaning.
With him still face down
I wallow over his body.
Picture his last twitch.
Ponder neurons and
relations to souls.
We’ve only developed thus
far and I want to be
sure this relies solely
on an impacted min
instead of mystical authority.
I don’t want to be invaded.

******* crack rocks
blubbering baby
friends with guns
what's this lately
lack of response
suddenly favoring
fear of own self
psychedelic scenery
combining danger
in sanctioned blades
kindly handed to
in earthly glades

why is the afternoon my lull
and the nighttime my charge
my pillow my shroud
my dearest near cloud
although my nightlight might ****
my morning time push
I thrive as a ghoul, or
a cunning young fish
I swim through the road
a film on my eyes
every new person I flee
each lake I indulge
I dive from the plants
and skirt up the screes
drink up my value
as it gladly will flee
the noise is my shadow
I wish it would stay
but when I look back
it's already gray

Do seedling leaflets oogle
at the leaves to be
or do the sigh since
its growing closer to death
Can they join the distasteful
wind to implant elsewhere
removing their root too
soon to grow into the aching
cohorts unrecognizable from each other
quaking and turning yellow
for it is autumn and the
Mother soon will die
the sick witted flies cackle at the thought
they are destined to one short day
relieved at the lack of decision
they whisper to the leaflets
"**** the life from this world
as quick as you can
your time's being wasted
the more that you plan"

Stop making my nose water
I am already feeble
I talk to you expecting response
O great life nothing
You overlook me without realization
selfishly expecting me to cut you slack that
others oblige literally as I once did
I flee half-heartedly
my scythe too dull
A lively current has entered me
A bramble sided stream
teaching me fluidity and unworthiness
and that reaching to the thorny stems
may be a test of my strength
All the drawn blood
markers to restep my past
All the fresh wounds
trials to test O great life nothing's silent passings

if inanimate objects had eyes
they'd see us tell 1,000 lies.
and in those lies they could tell
which of us would go to hell
and those of which that went to hell
were not the ones to live and tell
what its like inside the Devil's spell
because once inside the Devil's spell
you'll be dragged deep and well under
in the depths of flame and wrath
and die amongst the wicked thunder.

In the absence of light
taken from the trees
I revel at an iris
of hominidal means.
It has some hair and a nose,
both darkened and sullen,
and a mouthful of woe, anger
and rebellion.
Across the crabgrass field is a cow
who turns the other way,
retreats to the shed,
while the face is snuffed by the dark
then is dead.

level the weight upon my shoulders
it seems the left's askew.
pluck the demon from my skin
commence remission of my sin.

imagined spiral staircase climbs up my peripherals
alike to a shadow that darkens as I look away
its metal its wooden and stranger rises
poised to see me
I'm excitable and naive
maintaining focus on a stack of books eyes crossed
stranger ascended and turns with an open mouth
and I redirect eyes uncrossed to
a mere painting and cement wall
with no staircase and no stranger
yet hope and disbelief