You want a woman that will go out of her way to unlock your Door **** with a coat hangar
And not second guess herself
Because she has full faith in what she feels
Cause she doesn't play mind games with herself
And she knows exactly what she wants

It was a suicide.
He had gotten drunk,
too drunk.
He tried going to the bar he worked at,
it was his night off,
but they turned him away.
“You’ve already had too much to drink. Go sleep it off, pal.”
Instead he went home,
put a glock 9mm to his head
And blew his brains out
on his back porch.
His roommate found him.
There was no note,
no answers,
just questions left behind.
A week later was the memorial service.
He was an atheist,
a vocal one at that.
Had a tattoo of a rotting zombie Christ
on his arm.
But his family was devout Lutherans,
so that was the send off he got.
Standing against the wall,
in the small chapel,
the lines were clearly divided.

Seated in the pews were people
dressed in bright, happy colors.
Pastels.
Blues, greens, pinks, yellows, and lavenders.
Those were his blood relatives
and Lutheran members of the family’s church.

Then on the edges and in the back
Stood and sat his other family,
the metal heads, the punks, the ******* kids, and subculture misfits,
Dressed in black,
arms & legs tattoed with ink.

The pastels
spoke in unison, reciting prayers and scripture,
While the kids in black, stood silent
Unmoved by the minister’s words about Christ.
The pastels bowed their heads in prayer, for the poor boy’s soul.

We in black looked around the room,
studying their pinched faces
while they remained blind.
One woman apparently could feel my stare
cause she opened her eyes, and looked right into mine.
Never will forget that look she had,
like she knew something I didn’t.

The minister in the white and green robe kept talking,
saying my friend was in the loving arms of Jesus.
Guess he forgot that suicides got
a one-way ticket straight to hell.
It was typical.
A spiritual buffet,
take what you like,
ignore what you don’t.
But I don’t blame them, not one bit.
What parent wants to imagine
their child burning in that lake of fire,
never to be held in their arms again?
No one.

His mother went up and said a few words,
Some stories,
funny ones from his childhood.
Then his neighbor went up and spoke,
then an old girlfriend from high school.
And then a great silence.
The podium stood empty.
Before I knew it,
my hands were gripping the wooden podium
and my mouth was talking.
Telling the pastels & black shirts kids
about the first time I saw him.
He was in the mosh pit doing spin kicks and backflips
like a five-foot-six, blonde, ninja in Saucony jazz shoes.
And how I never saw him be unkind or mean to anyone,
that he was a GOOD boy.
My eyes began to burn,
I felt my throat tightening.
“Really gonna miss him,” I managed to choke out.
I took my place back against the wall
as the slideshow & music started up.
They were playing The Beatles.
My friend was a Black Sabbath kind of guy.

Outside I saw faces not seen in years,
not since I was a 17-year-old kid.
I saw Matty standing there.
We had just buried another one
of the boys from the crew,
Munster
less that six months earlier.
Poor Munsey.
Now Matty and I were the only ones left.
Went straight up to him and we both latched on,
sobbing & shaking
hugging each other as tight as we could.
“It’s too much, man. It’s too soon. They’re both ******* GONE.”
He was broken and I was worried about him.
Very much so.

Then we all met at a bar,
his bar.
The one he worked at and got turned away from that night.
We told stories
like when everyone was trying to **** this girl
and he wasn’t, but she pulled him into a room
at the end of the night …
picking him over us all.
Or how he could make his ***** do all kinds of tricks,
disappearing and reappearing in his red *******.
“The popper” he called it.
We slammed down shots & brews
burying our little buddy, one glass at a time.
And the last thing …
His parents showed up at the bar
cradling T-shirts on hangars, his clothes.
I saw someone pick up his Blood For Blood shirt.
It had been OUR shirt, we shared it back and forth.
We both loved that band, they sang about “living in exile” like we both did.
“****, that was our shirt,” I said to the table of drunk and grieving friends.
“Well, go get it, man. Go on.”
I went up to the guy holding it.
“Hey man, that shirt means a lot to me, can I …”
Before I could finish, it was in my hands.
The guy gave a generous smile,
“Then you should have it.”
I sat back down at the table of friends,
holding the shirt up to my face.
He lingered in my nose, one last time.
But my little buddy was gone,
a faded T-shirt and a few funny stories
were all that remained.
We all toasted one last shot.
I said,
“to the lost …”
and the table of old friends all repeated,
“To the lost.”
Rest well in your dreamless sleep, pal.
Down the hatch.
Watch it go
With a black tooth grin.

She called me




She called me
a little *****

in which five knuckles
and four spaces
were the only faces
that ever turned a light on for me.
Or off, as a matter of fact.

Write it on a flier, or
tie her up in the back of a limousine,
ask her to give you some sugar
and send you to sleep.

Just don't be weird about it.
And seriously,

pay attention,

you just might


burn something.

I think my voice is changing.

I press four fingers into my forehead
and smoke a cigarette like that one writer
I was too cool to ever read. You know,
they treat you like a ******* drug?
A ******* drug!

Past lovers,
and their coat hangars,
I don't wanna talk to 'em,
I don't wanna touch 'em.

But I do;
it's easy to cut into
those veins once you've
found 'em.


*I'm sorry,
so prone
to wasting time,
I love when my head
spins on an axis
all of its own.

Je danse au milieu des miracles
Mille soleils peints sur le sol
Mille amis Mille yeux ou monocles
M'illuminent de leurs regards
Pleurs du pétrole sur la route
Sang perdu depuis les hangars

Je saute ainsi d'un jour à l'autre
Rond polychrome et plus joli
Qu'un paillasson de tir ou l'âtre
Quand la flamme est couleur du vent
Vie ô paisible automobile
Et le joyeux péril de courir au devant

Je brûlerai du feu des phares.

No aeroplanes should leave the capital,
incoming traffic should be diverted into hangars
loaded with soldiers of no recognisable denomination.

All passengers must surrender to security checks
at Gate 3, where security personnel will stamp
your passport for onward movement to selected
hotels on outskirts of city. Journalists are not allowed
to take pictures of cats and dogs without clearance from
Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Men in un-uniform should not disclose their barrack
locations. If any passenger sticks a flower in your rifle
pull the trigger!

Foreign guests posing as tourists may be allowed
into city centre where the riots rage. They make take
pictures of selected zones where tyres burn and
firewood has, at last, come out of homes into the street,
to protest against the snow and icy conditions.

No citizen should have duck roast for a week
the president has just gone duck shooting and assures
everyone there will be enough left for everybody
for the coming festive season.

Real peace will be over in a week
and everything will be normal again.
The firewood may go home and all the cats
dogs may return to the barracks. An announcement
will be made when journalists , may, at last
photograph people at war!
( pssst, with their neighbours)

Over the past week and a half or so,
I've had a recurring dream.
Now, I have no prophetic powers
so I spend quite a bit of time contemplating
the meaning.
Essentially, it is a collection of every
nightmare, darkness, fear that I have ever had.

The dream starts with me sitting in an auditorium
with everyone I have ever known.
I am called to the stage,
then each of my so called friends proceeds to
publicly pelt me with every imaginable
instrument of torture that my flesh has known.
Time does not seem to follow the same rules
in this pseudo-reality
what feels like days translates to minutes,
takes an hour to equate to a lifetime.

After hobbling away from that chaos,
I search for a place to hide,
only to find verbal assaults and derogatory onslaughts
coming from twisted, distorted faces,
of shadowed figures.
Yet they seem
familiar.
Something about them just feels like I know these sources
of festering pain, exactly like when you get a cold sore
and can't stop tonguing it. You know its there,
but you make sure, because there is a small glimmer of hope,
that the next time you check, it'll be gone.
It never is. That sore clings like a parasite.

Finally, I am able to escape these creatures,
reaching a small, little town, shrouded in fog.
Sewage drains overflowing with blood,
mutilated corpses as commonplace as garden gnomes,
unnerving screams off in the distance.
Battered and broken, I will my body to overcome
following one of these shrieks into a dark alley.
I am unable to make out her face,
but this woman is cornered by three feral monsters,
without eyes, sharp, pointed claws, bodies stained red with blood
of their past victims.
Picking up a lead pipe,
I unleash primal brutality I never thought I was capable of,
obliterating the clawed creatures.
Finally letting down my guard, I turn to the woman
who shoots me, in the forehead, with a revolver.

My body is recovered, and a funeral is held.
Four people show up.
The preacher, my mom, dad, and sister.
After a very fire and brimstone sort of sermon
focusing on all the immoral deemed decisions
I have made throughout my life,
each member of my family gives their own "eulogy".
However, as opposed to high praise,
they each articulate how their quality of life
would significantly improve,
without me in it.
Sister saying how she can get all the attention,
mom saying how uplifting it will be to not have me
as a financial, emotional, and overall bothersome burden.
Dad says he can put all the belts, coat hangars, wrenches, bats away.
There is no one left for him to punish, to "put them in their place."
They light my casket on fire, cackling in euphoric laughter.

Then I wake up, if I'm lucky. I don't always make it to the end.

Another sleepless night.
As the hours tick by,
days seem to blur together.
The concept of time, lost
a seemingly unrecognized importance.
A constant order, now shrouded.
Lacking focus, distinctions hard to identify.
Clarity is a wonderful thing,
with value tends to be misrepresented.

Taking into account all the extra hours I have,
Reflection and self-evaluation tend to fuel
all my extra thoughts.
Nights like this tend to be the worst, at least during the day
there is sunlight to dispel the inner shadows.
These thoughts, more painful than any physical abuse
I have ever experienced.
For my psychological prison tortures me more
than those forsaken tools of punishment.

Coat hangars, wire, studded leather,
the list goes on and on and on and on,
long-lasting impacts, not initially seen.
While the scars on my body have healed,
the injuries of the spirit remain fresh.
Damaged so badly, dreams are gone.
All that remains is hurt. Those
nightmares so vivid, so painful, so...
real.

As things run into each other,
the nightmares fuse with reality.
These distractions limit my interactions,
for sometimes,
comprehension disappears.
Letting things happen and not making decisions
serves as an escape.
For my brain is busy
trying to distinguish what is and isn't real.

Expressing myself has never been a forte,
for how do I explain the hallucinations,
the manifested fears, the projected demons
that originate from within?
So I deflect.
I run away.
I pretend to be okay.
I try to remain steady
amidst a raging typhoon of anxiety, regret, and fear.

Nothing but a forlorn pain
Phantoms of art
Snake charmers
Larva tamers
“Free Me from the sun”

Helicopter steed
Blaring Gjallarhorn
Crystalline ammunition
Shrub-like heads
Civilian militants

Snake charmers, take my hands
Sting them once again
Render me strong and heartless
Tend to my obsidian horn
It grows longer as the sun subsides

Blood on the papers
Christened for television
Whitened crusade
Negotiation for control
Count your blessings

Arm the hangars
Send the reserves
Whip the cavalry
Watch the nation
Watch them bleed again

"time heals all wounds"
Oh how wrong I find that.
Sure, the mind may bury the wounds, cover them in scar tissue,
lessen the pain,
but never heal.
Sometimes you're the one that ends up getting buried.
Each secret, every guilt ridden action acting like shackles,
causing the wrists to go raw,
every conscience thought acting like the worst witness, accuser.
Nobody wants to feel like this.
Nobody should have to.
Nobody wants to live like this.
Nobody should have to.
So why does my mind
plague me with thoughts of
self mutilation mixed in with memories
whips, chains, belts, coat hangars, heated metal, wooden spoons,
frying pans, baseball bats, tools not meant for this so called "discipline".
I can't distinguish what actual anguish I truly experienced,
everything feeling so vivid,
so real.
While the physical scars, abrasions,
evidence
of what actually happened has healed, faded, washed away.
Every broken bone, torn muscle, bruised bit of flesh has mended,
even the severest of them, through the help of physical therapy.
But no conditioning can help you outrun
what you have firmly planted between your ears.
Trust me, I know what its like
to not be able to trust your own mind.
Long before I take my last breath, heart flatlines,
whether it be a bullet piercing my skull,
razor blades carving up and down my forearms,
or sleeping pills that permanently take effect,
but believe me that a sad soul will **** a man,
long before a gun is loaded, knife sharpened, bottle filled.

People might think that this poem might be controversial, yet I think that this poem is universal.
It shows the true thoughts of me versus what you see, this is the true me.
People think I am a king ,that was born to have nice things, I'm not, I'm the same as you, I share your same views and hold the same value as you.
Everything that I have ,I worked for it, it didn't come to me in the break of heaven's dawn, no, I had to hunt it down and ****** it from the people that gave the ridicule that I used for fuel.
People always think that I'm a push over, I'm not, I'm actually beast that's in a cage built from rage placed conveniently on a stage.
I put on a show so that you guys will let me go, that plan was a huge failure, you keep pushing and pushing, what do you want, do you want me to blow and show you what its like to simultaneously explode while you implode?
I think this way because people treat me like a public enemy, when in reality, you are the enemy to me.
Why do I say this?
I say this because you all put me down as if I'm just a clown that moves around the town looking down as if he's drowning in his own sadness.
No, I'm not drowning in sadness, I'm drowning in madness.
Did you know that there's  a reason why I don't share the thoughts that I have in my poetry?
It because you guys can't handle me and everything that you might see, so for your own protection, I hid my persona for your detection.
It had to undergo submission in my inner detention, all this because I thought you all weren't ready to go steady with my soul.
Well, sooner or later I had to say the truth and show my inner brute like Brutus did to Caesar.Of course I'm just full of hot air ,but does it look I care?
No, so just sit there and just stare, see if I care. I may sound like a hound growling and howling, but all I'm doing is screeching while teaching the subject of stereotypes, the editors might think that I'm not right, but who cares. This poem might be censored for all the scares that I leave in the air, tension is so thick that you can cut it with a knife, well isn't that nice?
All I wanted was to be left alone, but ever since I let one person read my literature they all want to be ensured that I wrote it and didn't copy it.
What an insult I feel like I'm going to revolt , so here it goes, quick as a lightning bolt.
I'm not normal nor formal, I'm a writer not a fighter, I spark emotions like a lighter sparks beautiful fires.
It must be my attire isn't, I dressed like I look tired, I'm not I'm actually hyperactive, proactive, and reactive.
What does Mr.straight have to say about that?
Mr.Vega might think that I'm bad, that was never the point of this poem.
The point of this poem was to show 'em that I can beat them at there own game and get the same fame that a normal sane person would receive.
At least I have half a brain to conceive these lyrical verses that challenge all of your beliefs.
I'm insane, that's half true, truth be told, I'm as solid as gold, yet I'm too cold to be sold to the general public.
Am I going to be subjected to rejection?
Well, if I am, then I'm prepared for the friction from people that think that I only write fiction.
If people can't stomach my rhymes, then they can't handle my mind, for my mind is full of them.
Sometimes I burst in flames, I have to put them out with your doubt, for with out it I would've been burned so long ago.
I'm getting to old for this,might as well end this.
I just created a wormhole that swallowed the world whole,I just stole the art of literature and I'm sure that these words roll of your tongue as if it were sung from the top of your lungs.
Remember this poem whenever you have so much anger that the military can store it, and hoard it in military aircraft hangars.
Anger is a gift that shoots swiftly and shows itself briefly
Use it with control, if you don't, it will consume you and destroy your views, don't be like me, be you.
Now, let me sit down on my throne, leave me alone.
Let me enjoy this fabricated city that I ,oh so carefully built out of appreciation
Please, let me have this one thing, or else I might perish from asphyxiation.
According to my calculations, this city rose from dilapidation and mutilation.
Hopefully, this piece of poetry will have caught your fascination for me.
Now this is truly the end of this rhapsody of my tyranny that revealed the true me.

A mastodon of grieving age filled the spectacle of times past. A rover of red in a jacket of green, to forward a foreword, the four-letter word; to endow the knight stars in velvet jades. Deeds and tumbleweeds and beetles and trenches; seize the days gone by to build a fortress of hangars. Bogotas and Bugattis creak doors wide shut, halfway there through the thoroughfare. Absolute is obsolete, bear in, child, dear and mild, and a clock goes tick tock. A hissing sore, to kiss and roar, the wild boar steps out the door. Rhythm and rhymes; the ancient mimes of windpipe chimes; whom seek dimes and memorable times. The jades bleak of charades and stepping stone parades, contemplating foals and shoals and riverbed holds. The Moonlight sonata jumps and soars to come back down the upstair, through internal voids of night; whom take home the earnings and yearnings of early morning wars.