A dim shade blankets the black scratched breakfast table
Some gloom hangs over the coffeemaker
And death cools down in the oven
As the sinking furnace burns beneath
Blood breaking vessels
Dries on skin like paint
Paint the wall again pale as red becomes you dawn
And the hardwood stained wine wallow wasted winter
Again and again
Slurs, apologizing
for christmas plans

Life is a lot like chess: I guess a lot, keep my head up and pay attention, get lucky sometimes, but always die at the end

Pease excuse my excitement when I say I've met a girl
Whose face is sweet
But not sweet
For to say it is sweet is to say it is bitter
And to say it is bitter is to say it is tasteless
And regardless she is not from here, and does not understand the language
And I could teach her
But I won't
For to teach her is to know her,
Put sounds and noises to a face that is more than sweet,
A story, a sadness, a soul like my own
To destroy the perfect beauty, withheld from the unknown

I am the overworked ceiling fan,
Wishing to drop
I am a hallowed out skull in the factory of know-it-alls,
I am a deciphered code from nearly 67 years ago
I am a pale face in summer, I am of death like the barefoot dancers
I am a foe, and I am better off
I am low in a canyon
I am an unsurprised disaster, and I've already happened

Seagoat,
Let me die in your tugboat,
Burn me in your deep waters.
I hate, and that's all that matters

Your jokes, jump in a frenzy,
Around the giving tree,
We turned into a stump

Is "good luck" to wish it exists,
Or to wish that I did not,
Or that it does,
And I am entitled to your superstition

Seagoat,
Tug me in your tugboat,
Burn me in your deep waters,
I love.
I am the shallow martyr.

I've found myself here again,
On new purposes,
Is it greed in lust to revenge?
The two sorrows married on strict vows
As foes we must preach just,
On the surface only dust,
I gripe the neck of thee, for the giving life should be set free,
In treacherous motion, I stand by my notion
That nothing was never not to be

Some say the news is old-spoken,
Yet fluent to some like the lady unspoken,
The fruits of my labor are bruised and bleeding,
I travel forth at the sidewalk I'm spitting,
Some never pay their dues like the man living in masks,
He finds the story a menial task,
But it's the story not of him,
The one where man themselves cannot win,
A strong sin, misproud, it happens again

Pulsing
Pulsing
All I'm doing is pulsing
A tight grip on loose air
A fickle taste of lips in the midst of a tragic interwoven memory despite their tastelessness and despite their grievance. Destroy them upon where they stand, and not because you want to but because they have to go. The shimmers of electric signals sending to your brain, seeing stars from a fall or dizziness from the spiral staircase which sends you to where you now seem to be. Desolate and a holiday and a slap and a curfew and a nap in the lake of humanity in the woods of lunacy in the dark of what we fail to see.