I will never

not

crazier and stranger than you was the fact that it

                                                               ­             never

                                                               ­            opened

                                                         ­                      up

I consider myself a pyromaniac by design.
**** me softly with your absence --- you ar
e dead to me as in you are gone, but you
continue to haunt my loneliness with your i
nflicted trauma. and all I want to do is make
you understand that *you are an evil disc of
make-believe in make-up - - - you are not m
y sun - - - you are a cheap fluorescent ligh
tbulb hanging by a dusty chain and it's been e
asy finding a replacement with every step outsi
de - - - even the most overcast days are brighter
than you.

be the cigarette that lets the Manchurian
candidate wear your socks to a job interview
because his are all piled in the corner of his
bedroom like a group of dead Kennedy's... bad
thought will never take you home again. the
good is found beyond your comfort zone, so
ride the waves, captain cherokee! and when
the invisible hand of graduality cleaves you
from my marrow, there is nothing but the irk
of a waterfall beyond my cheek-bone, dripping
from the red corners of his chapped lips,
bleeding in the autumnal creek of Octoberish
winterfreeze  

the poem ended where it did, as my inspiration
faded into caffeine insanity and the cipralex kept
me MDMA'd to the glowing grave.

beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful ! ! !

we've all seen each other from a distance - never behind the eyes, where in time, we find ourselves eyeing the mind we all hypothesize lies inside - but can you look behind your eyes and see this mind you're so convinced is in hiding? where is the mind that keeps lighting my iris to allow for this writing?

the same question begs a Q and A session with the mesh inside insanity- my congestion, depression, transgression, suppression- Civilization and It's Discontents- it's inaccurate content, its torment to the inner accent I would consent to except I'm too poor to see you anew as I accrue symbolism and make do- I love you. All of you.

Through this fickle piece of data floating through space-time I make rhymes and say I'm a poet- but all I am are the words that are spoken so potent, I don't even live here inside of my head, I'm just a guest at best- perhaps a bird making nest for the rest of my life- after that, the soul flies into the radio wave of the grave where my behaviour is so unpredictable, it's unthinkable - I become what is represented in the word 'God,' 'Brahmin,' 'Ultimate reality,' the finger pointing at the moon and not the symbolist insanity - I

become

your

sight,

_ _ _

I

become

your

underbite.

you asked who you met the other weekend at that party - let's just say, you met a part of me. you met a version of you who you knew the moment you exited your mothers womb - the great thoughtless void you enjoyed - toyed with - left to sink into faceless space so you could run this pointless race and have fun doing it.

you can't win the human race, because the finish line is hiding in the that space behind your face - it's like you cross the line, and you die. disappear - and it all goes back inside the box - the creatures, the cash, and the clocks - a vulture squacks as your feet rot inside your socks and the trees mock your transience - the universe is a wave of ambiance monitoring itself through every iris shaping words to papyrus.

we are the sound, and we are the silence

we are the peace, and we are the violence

we are the religion, and we are the science

we are the doctors, and we are the clients

we are all enemies in secret alliance

what is the sound of one hand clapping? (clap hand)
so much for zen... so much for Rimbaud, I rub my eyes with cayenne so you can laugh at my pain and say, "now that's a comedian," he's sweating, look at the grease on his chin. look how he declares war on himself when he tries to find zen, he's giving up with this 'trying' as a way of trying again, he's crying again, sighing, seeking, writing, tightening the loosening bolts in his skull as he seeks out his peace in the peeled potato where the point is to think of potatoes, not Plato, not Aristotle, oh God oh I condemn all these looping mazed thoughts to a bottle

first, it's beer, then it's wine, then it's ketamine time till I finally find there is nothing to find and I'm fine but the feeling is gone in the morning...
we've all seen each other from a distance - never behind the eyes, where in time, we find ourselves eyeing the mind we all hypothesize lies inside - but can you look behind your eyes and see this mind you're so convinced is in hiding? where is the mind that keeps lighting my iris to allow for this writing?