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Sep 22 · 25
stylesclash Sep 22
a birthday cake that eats
you with the memories of old friends,
a new lover who holds you like
an undertow when you’re sleeping,
a dream that quotes his promises
only in the language of rain

a moon that hangs outside
your window like a peeping
tom, a secret meant to be born,
developing like a fetus
in your heart, air

so pregnant
with loneliness

that it crams mountains
into your lungs. pressure

that can be vanished only
by confronting yourself

hesitation that replaces
random bits of your DNA
with a midnight sky, taking
you deeper into that dark place

every time.
Sep 15 · 24
stylesclash Sep 15
a photo collage of you walking away from yourself; a franken-
stein monster that is made from sundry parts of your ex lovers:
a looking glass for your **** psychology; serial monogamy,
like serial killing, that goes out with a "bang"; a recording of

yourself, completely in onomatopoeia; *** tapes, unlike their
VHS cousins, that are only incomprehensible gibberish as, say,
the unprepared student whose first utterance is always "uh";
you, neither, know what you are doing (or just as aptly, who).

DNA that twists parts of you into a knot along with it; e.g., a life-
blood leaving you to hang by your ankle, or maybe asphyxiating
you by noose; a myopia of hindsight, 20/20 vision that says "sike":

you as a polygraph test to self, in a language foreign only in feeling.

solipsistic silos where one flashes either photography or flesh,
as *** is merely the genital expression of Instagram--as if a "like",
an ephemeron that is as successful as it is phony in connecting;

selves ascending to a nihilism of themselves; for conscious is
the top floor of the mind--and this outlook excludes any "insight":
an eye inward, self-incriminating, so that liberation is possible

a subconscious, as if a dissident voice on campus, that is disinvited
in the hysteria of emotional illiteracy and spiritual obliteration;
your mental cavity as a "safe space" from self; you cannot protest

your self, even if culpability is the bedrock of the human condition.

blame that ripples outward, the way water does when you dive in;
waves that goodbye, without so much as a wave, for they merely
roll themselves into a cold shoulder; an azure of depression, blues
that do not gray with time; like U2, you too can find "no line on

the horizon": we are an abridged version of infinity // the end.
May 18 · 41
stylesclash May 18
at odds with
your conscience
you can't have con-
viction without a con
in it; "this house
has got a lot of walls" but
you're so stuck-up
with your stucco self
and you pave over every
hole in your logic

your pride means
you fail if you're honest;
"accomplishments are
just excuses to talk and
spit" so, you keep walking
like a somnambulist

a pedometer is not
a compass, counting
your steps--it says
nothing of contents;
you're more fleeced
than North Face and
you feign more than
a date that ends in fore-
play; you don't sweat
that you lie pathologically

you swoon over yourself
when you find a way
out of an apology;

weakness requires
mental gymnastics
honesty does not;
always up in arms
with yourself like
hands on a clock

negative vibrations
a subtle, but always
there "tic toc"

do you know,

everyone is glad,
once time is up?
Apr 3 · 59
stylesclash Apr 3
a ******* of smiles, everyone as the ***** of themselves;
broken hearts, like lesbians with a cutting fetish, ******* each other
and climaxing in catharsis; an **** of shattered glass, sadist ***

the "new you", only new as jaded to your jaggedness; your solipsism
spilling over your friends, the way silence does the early morning;
after the drunks have returned home, and the homeless are sleeping

whispers that you wake up to inside of yourself, zig-zagging down
your memories, as if the multiple choice on a scantron; the "right"
answers now all wrong; you ghosting you, yourself as your ex-friend.
Mar 23 · 113
baseball haiku
stylesclash Mar 23
missing the ball won't
make you feel guilty but not
swinging the bat will.
Mar 23 · 51
goodbye tonight
stylesclash Mar 23
you as lumber, lumber that doesn't provide lumbar support: the definition
of two people as pine; memories that are prickly, like a porcupine; a crown of
thorns, a hammer head, a head up requiring the strength of Thor; a hammer
coming down the way kisses do, resulting in a low blow; a ****** that *******

you from the cockpit without a parachute; gravity, the gravity of the situation;
everything up in the air. the sky and your emotions as a gravy boat; a sense
of falling down, while being poured out; while being pored out into a cesspool
of blemishes; everyone as a spectator at poolside, in aviator glasses, peering through them like a View-Master: you are a scene and seen however they see fit

friends you count on, like sheep; except that you can't count on, once asleep;
this false sense of security, blanketing you with the coziness of your bed;
friendship as the bed you make, but there's a lie in it; so there's no lying in it

even--especially--among your nightmares. morning that excludes mourning,
morning that does not give way to night again; a lighthouse of the mind,
beaming out to at least one of your multiple personalities when lost at sea.

a fire escape in the water. a stairway you find only by sinking. what goodbye
means, if you survive it; God foiling the best laid plans, aluminum foil for
the soul; your self as soul food, your self as the sole food: you eating yourself

alive if your health fails and you have no one to turn to. a wheelchair that
time travels, because it is a vehicle that can only visit the past; your body as
a vegetable, your muscles evaporating the way water does; your eyes rolling,
the only thing on a roll; your eyes as what's left of you with a role; the time

for talk is over, for when time is all that is left talking, it's over; you holding a positive, as if a charge, and wondering how long the battery will last;
would-be outlets, out of "let's": will i find Walt Whitman again, when i am

up against my next wall? obstacles as my poetry, until the key stroke is a key stroke: until poetry is an obstacle. you singing me electric, until you can't.
Mar 13 · 32
stylesclash Mar 13
monuments that are made of moonlight, fading into the day;
a mind as an hourglass, sand that cannot empty; a sandman
who visits you when you are awake, rubbing an irrational dream
into the corner of your eye; a rash that is psychosomatic,
the path that cannot be taken, taken; the ****** path

your own Boulevard of Broken Dreams, your own Green Day;
a wind of lyrics pushing you forward, while you remain planted,
as if a plant; roots that root against you; ground that, likewise,
grounds you the way parents do; an eternal childhood; a world
you cannot grow up "in"; a world you can only grow out of.
Mar 11 · 49
always on fire
stylesclash Mar 11
a body that acts the way broken English sounds; a body that is English
as a second language, writing you Shakespeare--when it wants to love
you--with a limited vocabulary; a multiple personality rhyme scheme,
where one ties a "not" together with a "knot", meaning both: you may
walk down an "aisle", although you will remain on said "isle" yourself;

a small tyrant on an island of one, you cannot relinquish your crown--
although you can supplement it, with a ring; an eye for an i, excluding
"i" in the ways "i" want to be seen most, because these are invisible;
a gluttonous ear that gains nothing, as if food for thought were
zero calorie; syllables that leave only silhouettes of their meaning:
the shadow of who i am defining me more, the more you shadow me

English as what exists outside of your brokenness; language that
does not languish, even when you must languish; genes misplacing
their syllables: if your jeans misplaced theirs, would you be panting,
like a dog, in the heat of the moment? a body that is always on fire

a house that burns only inside the walls, and collapses suddenly;
smoke that asphyxiates muscles, your fingers jittering for breath.
Mar 10 · 302
stylesclash Mar 10
emptiness that uses those closest to you as building blocks; fog
rolling in, inside you, like gentrification and renovating your home;
the present moment as a viewing, for you have already "cleaned
house" to present yourself; an empty you as the most attractive you

you as historic, only as a skeleton, for you have stood over but
cannot be understood; walls that don't have color, walls that don't
exist until painted by, say, a penumbra of white lies or "no vacancy"
blues; a full house, a houseful of memories spooned, like greens,
into an unwilling child's mouth; flotsam and jetsam blue-blacks

floating, like black eyes, in the silence that follows conversation;
walls that run into you in the daytime, disappearing at night;
isolation shapes, falling like a tetris of delete keys: dropping Ls
and squares and snakes left and right, T'ing up I's at your Q levels

when you come with more question marks, than a Riddler cosplay;
cosplay a conversation, yourself on the other side of your self:
walls that self-articulate, like a spider's web, from the subconscious;
a sense of frustration, when you can no longer find a way to be you.
Mar 8 · 97
Disney Inferno
stylesclash Mar 8
a Disney Land including all attractions, where satisfaction is
the only price of admission, for you may not enjoy your stay;
lines that are based on your circle of Hell: cheaters, invisible to
everyone and vice versa, riding in no time flat—just like real life;
behind them the corpulent, occupying two spaces, experiencing
time as multiplied by their weight, a minute as several hours;

hoarders, keeping too much, failing to keep to themselves;
confessions with the legs of Usain Bolt: finish lines of thought
that move opposite of you, forcing you to sweat out more secrets
to no "Father"--for now, like an orphan, Daddy is just the man
next to you, changing time and again; once you catch up, another
run on sentence running over your sense of self-restraint;

angry souls who cannot remove an ear implant that finds
their pain points; one, for instance, features Al Franken narrating
himself only groping your *******; his verbiage, as elegant

as epic, recalls a troubadour reciting Homer’s Iliad, lasting about
eight hours; looped infinitely, the hysteria here approximates
that driving his resignation; the cartoon anger of vigilante justice:
vigilante because, post-******* Clinton continued sitting as
president (or standing, depending on how he likes his *******).

amusement rides incorporating sin; a Small World where ego
grasps the size of the universe: one's sense of self overlayed
to its very edges; a sense of hollowness, always larger, upon exit;
a Toy Story for the ****** who, tallying high his rub register,
has funded a **** star's spank bank; her body digitized, he does

not see himself as purchasing prostitution; he inserts—filling
now his own spank bank—ever larger toys on himself, to which
his audience remarks, in support, “wow, what an *******”;
a Mad Tea Party where we, in our first world bougieness,
must drink the psychosis of our prisoners who play ballgames
with their own ****, and then pitch our own; for it is rather
****** that we place ourselves willfully in solitary confinement
and complain: we will never suffer as do the truly alone.

a Barnstormer, where gluttons are *****, like cattle, on-rack
in the commodification of their reproductive organs; machines
that milk their **** to the point of mastitis; slaughter as life:
all ground, ultimately, into SoyLent Green, to feed the others;
Monsters Ink for the new journalists, the Twitterati, who are
transfigured into the shade they’ve thrown; grotesque shadows,
their life-force is generated by bearing themselves to rejection—
what was visited upon others, now themselves—for, otherwise,
they must die slowly; Tomorrowland for procrastinators who

must mime, daily, the movements of Shia LaBeouf in a sunrise
to sunset Tai Chi class; they sleep only to discover, at wake,
they daydreamed about sleeping; delusional insomniacs—
awake eternal, they cannot bring themselves to “Just Do It”;
Under the Sea for rich and poor; underwater in unnecessary
debt, they thirst no matter how they quench themselves;
drinking only by drowning, they beg to choke on their desire.

Frontierland Shootin’ Arcade for politicians who put in
crosshairs everything except war; they must be murdered
collaterally—innocent as they are—for sport; a ******
shooting from his helicopter and laughing megaphonically:
for the fact that their lives do not matter should echo
as distinctly as it has in Mai Lai, where “**** Anything

That Moves” is an actual order; the women in their family
will be *****, the babies will have their heads smashed in
with the butts of rifles in a lust for body count; and then,
like Prometheus’ liver, they will be resurrected to live again.

a Shootin’ Arcade where those who cheered Trayvon's
death replace him: transported, they are homunculi:
adults in children form, they are shot for walking home
with a "parent"--and mistaken identity is irrelevant--
a dependent child, in this world, is so suspicious that
one may be snuffed-out for bearing only his likeness;
victory isn't less real when symbolic, than when real.

Goofy as the only mascot that you may take a picture with;
a mirror that, upon asking ‘who’s the fairest one of all?’,
turns you into an albino; gold diggers who are accompanied,
always, by dwarfs singing “heigh-**, heigh-**”; a Mini
Mouse, shrinking to inscrutability, when you want to log out;
you may want to leave—but pleasure and self-annihilation,
as in addiction, are the same; so you must destroy yourself.
Feb 27 · 34
stylesclash Feb 27
a palette of nightmares that you can paint a conversation with;
"space" containing space, space without oxygen; breathing room
that asphyxiates you; memory as crazy glue: adhesive, by nature,
only once too late, holding us together once we no longer do;
a ghost making a haunt of your mind, haunting you all the time;
ghost writing: new lines from the old you, delivered over seemingly
insignificant moments by my subconscious; wordplay as gunplay,

a videography of bullet points; the 14 million bits of information
per second conveying something only peripherally--our conscious'
bandwidth too narrow to grasp or censor--that becomes a "trigger"
once summoned by a scent, scene or spate of spatial recognition;
maybe, if you wake up with your bed on a different side of the room,
you will not remember; if you close the blinds; if the light stops
throwing itself like shade; if, like Marcel Proust, you never eat

a madeleine again. a weatherman beforecasting weather that was
inside you; a long thunderstorm that lightninged your rubber heart;
a windchill possible, only because you were blowing it; fresh air
that, like radio, "got you to work"; until, like radio, it went silent:

dead air. weather that bumps into you in braille; waiting, apparently,
for the day that you can feel again. Numbness deep-seated at
the wheel, "getting you to work"; emotions translated as anxiety,
as if the one word in a foreign language we know; and we, travelers
too blithe to learn. a taxidermied head of your worst future self

hanging on your wall, like a Talking Bass, powered by self-defeat:
so you can at least (or at last) defeat yourself; an obscenity of
similarities between us all; and we, nonetheless, **** each other.

"i should warn you that you may **** me;
but chances are, i'm gonna ******* over". - marliyn manson
Feb 17 · 27
stylesclash Feb 17
a suicide of your inner self, its religion slit, like a wrist,
and bleeding out through your wits; words that sound
the way dizziness feels, a listening party that weakens
you in the knees without any dancing; the future not
“dangling” in the balance, dancing as if tonight, music dies;
an ex lover returning one night, in their previous identity,
before becoming someone you don't know again

an inertia of emotions, swelling up in you like a cosmos
of impossibilities; dark matter as what does not matter,
nonetheless, weighing heaviest on you; souls as soles,
worn and never “brand new”, despite our claims, with
all the little things we step into; memories volunteering
themselves, willing you to humility, that you are unclean

the ghost of you in someone else’s footsteps, creaking
up the stairs, opening only the door to the past; addiction
as electrical storm automating your fingers, you reach
to obtain what shuts you down; a world of hooks:
we are hooked on, hooking up and on the hook with
no way to “come down”, unless we again get high

eye contact that pinballs itself, looking for a higher
score when you are not around; flashing lights
and Pavlovian sounds, a discotheque of the mind,
releasing small hits of dopamine; retinal gluttony,
we eat someone else with our eyes, McDonaldized
and fast food-ed, and instantly gratified with ****,
we see more arched backs in our imagination than
golden arches roadside in a morbidly obese country

such is what you can expect for the idea of fidelity
and that adultery takes place, first, in the heart;
whether we are addicted to narcotics or erotics,
fast food or fast news—for some of us horde (or
should i say *****?) information, as if “motor mouth”
were itself an ****** pleasure—we seem unaware
of our state. Orwell saw our undoing in a society
that is controlled by inflicting pain; it was Huxley
that predicted the mass infliction of pleasure.

in having what we want all the time, we are left
with little that we actually want; we dismiss,
even, our circle as if an unwanted notification.

the word “vanity” in Hebrew is “hebel”, meaning
“vapor”; it is our vanity that leaves us empty;
it not only chases the instant and temporary,
it is tempted by a world that pimps it for profit.
we are groomed to be consumers, so it follows
that we treat *** as an act of consumption

and not consummation; food as convenience,
or a gustatory experience, and not food; news
as a sitcom, where you don’t laugh at the show:
the makers of the show laugh at you—a satire
whose audience, in fact, takes the joke seriously—
feeding their hard earned “peanuts” to the Blue
and Red elephants of the circus, for they are one,
and those that think otherwise, bring to life
the ******* emblazoned on one party banner.

laughter that echoes back—returning from
the future—a whiplash of screams; contorting
your neck sideways enough, you must turn
your attention away from our comedy of errors;
our night, descending still as it does in winter,
mostly unnoticed, until it’s—literally—“too late”

constellations appearing in that night,
offering us guidance in their luminescence,
if we are not, even then, too taken with
our phones’ brightly lit screens to look up.
Feb 16 · 1.5k
fake news
stylesclash Feb 16
moral advancement as fake news; although we have not fallen
from the smartphone to the landline or the PC to the typewriter,
we constantly fall back and forth between war and unwar,
prosperity and impoverishment, because the soul is not technology
and history is not a march toward human perfectibility; love as

fake news, for marriage—consummated as much on Facebook
as anywhere, which is to say, only virtually—fails at a coin toss;
life as fake news, for you may terminate yourself with the assent
of society in a way no different than when one puts down his dog,

once he is too much of a burden to care for; for you may
terminate a child with a "get out of jail" card, because ***
is a bored game we play and games, being just pretend,
are not supposed to get this real; give up $1,000, collect
your new iPhone and do not pass go, for communication

is fake news: we speak only in electronic smoke signals
and, reducing our character to 140 characters and consuming
TV characters that are shown at a different angle every 3.5 seconds,
our literacy of ourselves is too ADHD to know who we are

and, thus, we have nothing to say,

no matter the multitudes in which we say it; fake news as fake news,
for even the first newspaper in America, dating 1690, was printed by
the notable liar, Benjamin Harris; literacy as fake news, for the difference
between now and then is that, although we can read (and view), we cannot
suspend our belief in a way that sufficiently separates us from children,
who are ready to believe almost anything; it is no surprise our president

is a WWE Hall of Famer; not unlike a child watching pro wrestling,
we are Stone Cold over these personalities--pick your poison--for
if one permits that Trump is an idiot, he ignores this question:
how stupid must his opponent be, if she cannot outsmart him?
like John Cena fanboys, who wear his brightly colored merchandise
in support of their hero, they, at once, will jump up in defense

college as fake news, for this daycare for the adult-aged
takes already fragile egos and coddles them more; we teach
self-esteem and not critical thinking, censorship and not debate,
lest anyone be offended by your ideas; democracy as fake news,
for once the obstruction of the marketplace of ideas is an ideal,
we no longer have a democracy; good intentions as fake news,

for Adam is human nature, and the original sin we contract is
real, as Freud confirms in his idea of Thanatos and Eros:
we are governed by a force that drives us to annihilate,
first others and then ourselves, and this is only tempered,
often unsuccessfully, by a wisdom that says we know better;

myself as fake news, for the grotesque contradictions
apparent in Trump’s language are my own, and he is only
my id enfleshed; i am an image bought and sold, believed in
and unbelieved, curated, for instance, as being “straight
edge”, when i merely lack sobriety in other ways; some of

which, perhaps, are more self-destructive than yours.

some of which are too crude to say and, ignorant of them,
you can go on believing me; as Kennedy once flubbed his
line, “Ich bin ein Berliner”, i must likewise confirm my solidarity
with something i should mean not to: for i, also, am fake news.
Jan 28 · 831
stylesclash Jan 28
a highway built by tetris, standing on too
many Ls; writers' blocks nosediving, nose-
diving with you in tow, because it is "time";
history asphyxiating on the water of silence--
sinking in that silence--vomiting itself toward
the surface where it can be photographed;
a viewing experience: all histories drowning;

your image as "you", to be retinally caressed
and heard only with visual inputs; syllables
that cannot be turned off, even if you close
your eyes--because we are always turned on;
******* as the new religion: a trinity
between your image, *** and death; eternity
covered always by the stretched pixels of "now"

a distortion of your face as all clouds; snap-
chat filters for *******, pixelating commitment
and leaving your crotch bare, one-eye to bear;
pins and needles for an "i love you": vocabulary
that is no less ceremonial and meaningless,
now, than when one covers his heart for the flag

(just as a flag "unflied", one salutes taking a knee,
*******/off, awfully absent; without official leave).

a "selective hearing" analogue for humanity
when, for all of our touching, we can grasp butts
but not "buts"; blind hands search our braille,
missing the contradictions they are want for;

at best, for we will likely be censored, cut-off,
condemned, scorned, smeared, satirized . . .
beaten, persecuted, prosecuted and prostituted
or pimped out in the name of some "cause";
the future of conversation: a humiliation fetish,
for one cannot hold an opposing point of view.

we must be as one as low lifes with only
base aspirations; we must perspire spin-
spiration for our careers, beauty goals,
***** gains and the enumeration--literally--
of the self into the number "1". we seldom

allow a p1ace under our crooked h0use;
even in the age of participation trophies,
the distance between "1" and "2" is filled
with verbiage of how we love our vanity;
a 6 inverting with a 6 after a sext for a lick,
a 6 with an edge and handle for the stick
coming on the back end of the *******
after the back bending, i.e., back stabbing.

a recording of yourself that is heard only
when you don't think; the human shadow as
a commercial item you advertise to yourself:
new "twalking" feature, it re-charges you
as it twalks with you!, wow!; nudism

without flesh, so that we may be ****;
honesty as percolation and not an extraction
as, say, wisdom teeth or hostage rescue;
all the words we've been waiting to hear

suspended, without suspense, in silence;
only anticipation, for we already know.
stylesclash Jan 13
an anonymous third party that, like privates,
can ***** your private thoughts; wet dreams
occurring outside of sleep, outside of your body;
the upcoming of one "E", e. cummings running
riverine as **** himself: the id made "real",
made real; a Rubicon worth a thousand pics.

a silent twang, words that twerk; incontinent
consonants, analinguists eating assonance eating
the asterisks in your asterisk for a condiment;
a shih tzu flu, eye contact done *******; for
man's best friend must turn her back to him--
looking upon him in the rearview, before leaving
him in the rearview, then looking upon him.

twatting: to take care of an abandoned *****
without regard for her emotional state, or to lust
elsewhere without any sense of shame; conversely,
"schmucking" (thanks to the Yiddish) for those
who will schmooze a poor schmoe with chutzpah.

outrage when we pollute the earth with plastics;
"liberation" when we pollute sexuality with ****;
lust when we adulterate our bodies with plastic

a nightmare of oxygen, for when we have faith
with a lowercase "f", we breathe unlife; "death"
excluding moral decay and celebrated, even,
as a rescue from sorrow; Deathscorts to help us
end our journey and, as if a *****, date our fate;

cataracts in the eyes of our skin, we hold blindly.
and lacking such insight for touch, we let go;
when a shatter reveals to us this fact, surprise.

a way to unhijack minds, from plastics to neuro-
plastics; a shiver of loneliness, when you can't stop
lying through your teeth, chattering them; phantom
limbs when we try to feel ourselves, so we ghost
ourselves and know our hypocrisy; phantom pain

when we "love" again, so we know we are not
loving again--and when we love, hurting enough
so that we may not give the moment away.
Dec 2018 · 1.6k
stylesclash Dec 2018
a ghost dividing like math class, carrying one(self); under
the house: a crayola painting of our trust, the colors melting—
with an eyeless glare—into ****** looking numbers; 1,001
ways that you can ghost me, the updated edition, revised for
Inclusion and Diversity, so no one gets left out of getting left out.

rain reversing itself, falling up into the sky where it holds
itself in, as if a cough; an unbelief in the idea that you are “fallen”;
relationships like wrists that can be cut, so we may bleed
the same blood; love, even old, reduced to a techno of glances
never meeting—we dance, interminably, around the truth

for we have known each other once, and may never again.

as if only gadgets, we are thrown away once we outlive
our usefulness; the past, in our “tech age”, is “information”
and academic, hence we readily move on to the newest thing,
which gives us “love” as a chemical rather than as a bond.

a bond is not easily broken; love, as such, is desynthesized
with the kind of entropy that sets in on laughter—how you
reminisce with a sigh about what was just funny, but no longer.

a flash mob of fireflies describing the night of your mind,
blinking out with a cruel goodbye; illumination suspending
itself over time, only through your belief in who you are.
Nov 2018 · 47
stylesclash Nov 2018
names as fog, rolling off your tongue
and into obscurity; the intonation: a last
wave, undulating into the breath of water;
a fetus of your new self passed backward
and ruled dead; a "finger gun" version of football
when play resumes that excludes only the ball,
so all rules, physicality and hubris remain

just like so, it is an absurd spectacle as
we ****, swipe, fling, go fish, 52-card-pickup,
put down, lay down, get laid and stumble
across each other's 50-yard line--ghost football in
hand and ready, always, to extend its power.

the rules, ostensibly, may disappear next,
as the literal object of the game already has;
does your cooch count as encroachment if
i'm playing without a conscience? perhaps
there is no pass interference if there is nothing
to catch but shade, as "yours" becomes "mine".

an ex-centric sleep paralysis featuring Dr.
Mengele, vivisecting your various organs and
sewing them back together with the flesh of
your previous lovers--the skin spooled, finely,
off exact replicas of their disembodied heads;

the dream repeating until only craniums
are left, restarting if necessary. you breathe

one break up from your lungs upon waking;
it skates an icicling of memories through your
byzantine airways, which only body warmth
can melt; you, cold-blooded, slither over.

another, atomized ***, leaving mostly tender
markings; a vindictive scratch in your throat;
forcing a cough, it can force you to cough-up
nothing it would like, for it merely reminds.

the tenderness exists, despite the neglect.
as an apathy of rain slackening out, failing--
at some point--to dissipate at all, your name
fades into the vocabulary of other words;

it can become, even, archaic and appear out
of place--forced, as if to make a point of itself.

falling into unmemory,
someone starts with
a "clean slate"--and pretends

to be someone they are not;
sleeping with me
in their lungs.
Nov 2018 · 36
stylesclash Nov 2018
mouths that print-out CVS level receipts for
your new lover enumerating, after consummation,
what else that mouth is good for and how long;
hopeless romantics who try to "beat the receipt",
"thank you. *******. bye" spelled with a slime of
saliva you can taste always, just by reading it

the transposition of ******* onto the body,
so, finally, *** is considered only "coitus ex machina";
you can hate-**** the machine you rage against in
the deepest recesses of your unconscious, Freud

muses about capitalism and its dissed contents.
self-dissing because like, love and body-positive
are empty symbols--as when syllables sound like
a measuring tape for IQ, rolling out into the Q;

the question, of course, might as well be rhetorical,
for we are incapable of asking anything meaningful--
even to the annoying tune of Haddaway, who
once, for an entire decade, asked: "What is Love?".

the most memorable--perhaps only--response in
current memory, beamed-out for about $5 million:
a Diet Pepsi Max. this makes sense, as our lust for
fulfillment is so wayward that it can be hustled again

and again. New Products, like new lovers, new
identities, new physiques, new diets, new fashion,
new--more up to the millisecond--news, and (in
the vein of Foo Fighters) new nooses to hang your
head--are shuffled on repeat; transient suicides
for your unhappiness, before it is born again.

who will you replace me with next?
who will replace you?
what thing will replace that one? write my eulogy
with your ****** fluids the next time

you ******* since--
like consumer culture--
it's all about you anyway.
Oct 2018 · 43
you vs. yourself
stylesclash Oct 2018
a stormfront moving into your palms,
automating your fingers with its electricity;
microscopic glasses that can translate
the data in your nerves into filmographic,
freudian moments--so that we may witness

"the fall"

track marks that re-arrange themselves
into a serial bar; a registry to scan yourself into,
measuring your unworth in hearts broken;
rehab that forms icicles only inside your cranium,
so temptation results in immediate brainfreeze

an out-of-body experience in which half of your conscious
watches the other in a VH1 pop-up video--
personal anecdotes only you could know, typed out,
rather impersonally, by a third conscious

the National Security Agency

an exhaustive list of **** titles you've consumed
appearing in chronological order in the pop-ups;
your life, earlier that day, unfolding on the LCD--
as you watch yourself *******--all in hyperspeed.

a smartphone that assembles itself as your eye and
dumps megabytes into your cranium (or takes megabyte
dumps), giving new meaning to the term "*******"

your cranium as a boutique diaper for Corporate
America, where the admixture of hate and fetish for
new products and cultural kitsch culminate--
we can belong if we are willing to self-humiliate.

a lasso for dopamine; a rope whose length increases
in lockstep with unpleasure; a monopoly board for bodies,
so that you can own them like a second property--
unlived in, perhaps revisited, whenever you pass "GO".

Adderall for insecurity, for attendant inattention,
when you don't get the attention you want;

Suboxone for ex-cheaters, simulating
the taste and feel of genitalia in their mouth
as they near relapse into other laps.

stray hairs that crawl through your nose in your sleep
and furtively accumulate in your digestive tract;
a hairball of guilt you can hack-up like a cat, mid-coitus

ideas that aren't conveyed in electronic smoke signals;
camera angles lasting longer than 3.5 seconds;
microchips that detect ADHD-inducing content;
magnetic eyelids that draw down, confronting you
with the darkness you only hallucinate isn't there.

instagram totem poles excluding self-approval--
a monument to our id, identifying our homes
in place of an address, so our ugliness is official

memories that can be collected into metadata,
all images belonging to the same species processed
thru an algorithm that re-creates consciousness

new dialogue options when you recall someone;
an on-demand descent into the nether--like a pain-
killing drip--allowing you to drift into conversation

when you are only talking to yourself.
Sep 2018 · 147
stylesclash Sep 2018
a narcolepsy of yourself that sleepwalks
beside me and stops, unexpectedly, to become
real again; a sky that contracts like a diaphragm,
each time you breathe; colors that get airsick

and intensify with nausea, with nowhere to land.

a heart you can plant in the ground and
grow into a palatial prison; a mathematical
formula that measures the tensile strength
of the steel--where the conspirator is timesed by
the act of disloyalty over the length of time.

a lie that will run riverine over your face,
if i were to shine the blacklight of the past;
ink that drips through your eye sockets
whenever you can't break the silence


in true "generation throwaway" fashion,
we discard one another as if garbage when
aluminum with a sleeker, sexier bend appears;

when, looking up from our handheld, hyperopia
casts the illusion of a "new and improved" model;
when up close, that, too, loses its angles and detail

and becomes the n(ex)t thing to replace.

when night enters your eye and eats the cornea,
when "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" and

your self-doubts make so(me)body ****.


trust as prosthesis for a phantom limb
when someone isn't there; a self-enumerating
list that timestamps the number of times
i thought about you under your eyelids;
weight watchers for lying: a how-to guide on
how to slim back down to your original point

a GPS that locates broken promises on
a map of your brain, measuring the neurons
not fired; Google Earth as an almanac for souls,
so that you can see inside of yourself

on this date, and how wrong you are now.


a nightfall of white noise washing over
memories; a constellation of bite marks
flickering in-and-out of my mind; ants cannibalizing
themselves until the crawling stops--
and i am left with only silence

******* involving only your tongue, because

you too often hold yours.
Aug 2018 · 377
stylesclash Aug 2018
a needle that transliterates an eye,
recording trust with an LP of your soul;
a walkman that makes loyalty portable
for when you hear shadows in your head

body heat that can be thrown like a fastball
at someone who has crossed an imaginary line;
a glass doppelganger that visits me in my sleep,
and breaks so that i can wake up to your hurt

because you wouldn't tell me in words

a viewfinder for goodbyes,

so that i can see the way emptiness
comes over you when you walk away.
Jul 2018 · 72
stylesclash Jul 2018
a shadow of yourself
seen on the corner eloping
with fading ones and zeroes

an air that blows away only
your surroundings--and leaves
you intact to live alone in a historical
moment--without any of the content

you remember or could touch

an illusion that almost has flesh,
a memory that leaves a scent which
conjures the corollary taste--trust

or something like it, mixing with
your saliva as the enzymes
break it down into empty calories

we entrust our bodies to others,
but no more as we become both
satiated and malnourished at once
Jun 2018 · 156
stylesclash Jun 2018
a list of soft breaths assembled into
a jenga tower, a spine filling with cool
water each time you remove a block

crumbling into a 500 millisecond
*** mix tape--your greatest hits
condensed into a sigh--when you pull
a voice you don't recognize

an "i love you" that doesn't belong

you rebuild the tower, each time
with less breaths than the last

until there is nothing for you to relive.


a rainstorm that tails you silently,
when you turn around--lightning
that must be read in braille, a slight
shock at your fingertips that arrives

after the poor english is decoded.

a type-b personality sulking furtively.
guts that draw the sound out of thunder
as it nervously bounces around your intestines.
full, you ***** up the flash into the sky, so
that you can eat your emotions again tomorrow.


quicksand that you can carry
in a backpack and then empty
onto someone's doorstep so that they,
too, can feel the essence of a memory

that gets hardwired into your brain
through repetition--and then must be
vanquished through stillness and nothing.

an atlas of g-spots that shows you how to
contort your words into all the right shapes,
so that they fit into the brokenness of the moment

making it whole with your presence.
May 2018 · 71
stylesclash May 2018
a limited edition **** to give
that you can force into requital for
an ex-lover, inserting razor blades
into her eyes any time yours meet hers

a needle that transliterates an eye
as if a record and, threading along, plays
the breaths collected from house fires--
carefully parsed from the coughing
and crackling--all over the grooves

spasmodically loudening over the ones
with an irregular shape which would skip
otherwise, and then eliciting a sharp

sigh at some final, anticlimactic track

i would call this first-ever ocular LP
"choking", as the listener takes in

your weak english which never

says anything when it needs to--
and the reason why i so often
just prefer to look into your eyes.
May 2018 · 63
stylesclash May 2018
a heartbeat that makes ocean
waves inside your skin when
you listen, a storm that ***** up
the water--and leaves you salty

a whisper of the future slithering
off and into someone else's ear

a thunderbolt riding on your tongue
that slingshots down to your core--
shocking at first, reverberating and
then nothing--mourning unborn

words with a funeral in your guts

i couldn't say what i want
to you, and even if i could

it wouldn't matter now

an eye that fills up with
the sounds of heavy traffic,
polluting all things seen with
noise--nothing is beautiful

you see me filled with noise,
and not who i am anymore.
May 2018 · 86
stylesclash May 2018
a birthday cake that eats
you with the memories of old friends,
a new lover who holds you like
an undertow when you're sleeping,
a dream that quotes his promises
only in the language of rain

a moon that hangs outside
your window like a peeping
tom, a secret meant to be born,
developing like a fetus
in your heart, air

so pregnant
with loneliness

that it crams mountains
into your lungs. pressure

that can be vanished only
by confronting yourself

hesitation that replaces
random bits of your DNA
with a midnight sky, taking
you deeper into that dark place

every time.
Apr 2018 · 69
stylesclash Apr 2018
your slippers
still lay next to my bed
your scent
still lingers in my nostrils
your taste is
brought on by a flood
warning of memories

i can eat you
in my sleep only
now so i dream
awake in a half-narcolepsy
that comes over me
like a cold wind,
stylesclash Apr 2018
if you squeeze
time hard enough
the juice of the past
won’t come running;
but fact may become pulp
fiction as you read your fantasy
into reality–and then, as Flag of
Democracy put it–you’re ******.
Apr 2018 · 52
stylesclash Apr 2018
i’m going to
say goodbye to
the you i know

and get someone
else in return; it’s
not the you i want

but we’ll move on.
Apr 2018 · 52
stylesclash Apr 2018
a phone
that texts your
subconscious to
a random contact

an instant camera
that creates a snapshot
when you undress
someone with your eyes

a phone book
that divides
your feelings into
colors, under red:

a recording of
your breaths
drifting into moans

an app that
deletes memories
and sends a postcard
to the new you

greetings from

bright clothes that
make you 10% slimmer
with optical illusions

a time machine
to an alternative past,
exactly the same but
with unusual kinks

1993 ...

a sega genesis
cartridge that blows you

1998 ...

AIM screen names
predicated on your flaws
(e.g., MzMuffinTop2,
60secondman, Fl0ppyDrive,
QueenLaQueefah), etc.

a mirror
with your self-
image flirting
back at you

a mirror
that yells out
annoying and untrue
positive affirmations
about who you are

a punching bag
with an OLED layer
bending with each strike,
displaying yourself
at your worst

cigarettes that
are bought in boxes of
handmade paper-
mache coffins

beer commercials
starring only alcoholics
and victims of
drunk driving

receipts that print-out
"*******" after
the fake smile, after
"have a nice day"

a shoe that detects
public transit platforms
and forces you
to walk away

a wedding ring
that dismembers
your finger, if
you get divorced

a ****** that
reads your ****
like a palm, with
a 100% failure rate
for cheaters

a birth control
that reads *****
like a palm, with
a 100% failure rate
for ******

a bra that shrinks
your ****, every time
you lie to him

boxers that twist
your *****, every time
you lie to her.
Apr 2018 · 47
stylesclash Apr 2018
a hand grows from
your ****** and reaches
out for the world

in its palm a mouth
it does not withdraw
meekly speechifying from
within cloistered walls

a peace sign

"i come in peace"

as if

*** is a temper
tantrum beat on
a body inside-out

manhood cannot be
measured in height,
nor womanhood curves


a child cries

the revolution has
been televised,
given your mouth
*** appeal and turned
those nubs into
lovely little lumps

a confetti
of *** falls

swim in a disco ball

in the sky plays
a videography of
your hands(ful)
of *******

a means to
an end, ends
are made
to meat

atheists make
a religion of the self/
this is what
looks like

what it is
when it gropes you

what it feels
like when you want
to get dressed,
but it decides you
must stay ****.
Mar 2018 · 68
time bomb
stylesclash Mar 2018
some day we
will walk toward ghosts
that, once corporeal,
we ignored or hated
Feb 2018 · 88
stylesclash Feb 2018
a survey intended for millennials asked,
are there any apps that you can't do without?

i responded: yes, my space and my yahoo.
Jan 2018 · 93
stylesclash Jan 2018
eat the distance
as the emptiness turns into twins
and then into triplets, make friends with
the ghosts in your head. have imaginary
conversations about what you would say,
to the multiple versions of your object of affection.

sometimes be diplomatic, sometimes bold in
your honesty--a hand without an ulterior motive,
reaching into the interior and pulling out
the sticky gumption of unspelled words.

chew on the boundaries, digest them,
scamper from the ghosts like that iconic
yellow ball--in an increasingly uncompetitive
level of resistance to cannibalism.

feckless words, defenseless bodies,
a braintrust broken into basic instincts.
as james earl jones once quipped,
"rules? there are no rules here".

petty things, little puritanisms, obfuscate
the truth suspended between us--seeing
through ocean and drinking in air, we reject
the idea of drowning, no matter how real.

most people want to eat each other,
whether because they hate one another
or love, because their inviolable space has
been violated, because their space, immediately,
has become unbearably lonely--if only for
a moment--because of a need to devour,
because of a need to be dominant;
otherwise, a need to be dominated.

slickly veiled with correctness, like a crisco
greased lamp post--so that one may not climb
atop in an **** of a riot--we maintain
a civil image about ourselves.

let's dispense with the decorum
and speak frankly of the words we sublimate
into gentler cousins, distantly related species
we can make a "please touch" museum of
because--specifically--they will not bite.

bite me with your verbiage,
hate me with your tongue,
fight me while fighting yourself:
show your shadow boxer to me
for he may leap into your skin,
or perhaps dissipate and leave you
defenseless--like you want to be

talking with the ghosts in my head,
there is that honesty i let be wanton
on paper--cannibals all, obsessive eaters

i stand before those alien to themselves,
like tommy lee before a space cockroach,
and i shout out, quite simply: "eat me".
Jan 2018 · 417
event horizon
stylesclash Jan 2018
adoration is the act
of taking a compressed dot
and giving it linear extension,
expanding it into the universe.
Jan 2018 · 102
stylesclash Jan 2018
adulthood is delayed
breaking english breaking
bad the kids are staid
intersectional femonics
non,sense place your commas
where you get ebonic klonopin
comets fly? fall down like
michael douglas in that movie,
searching for a conscience

get your womanhood
degenitalized in college
march for it, with your mamas
disincluded pro-life pals
watching on the outs,
so many words--so few opinions
your umbrellas' inside-out

flaccid rain, minds drought

eat my political incorrectness
**** me/where it's sexist
get a daddy, get freudian
adulthood is nickelodeon
slime time live your lies
no lives matter--opiates
are american as apple pie

get n'synch:
buy, buy, buy.

trumpet in the trumpists
piped, pathetic progressives
singing for the money shot?
democracy is now *******,
cumswapping the memetic lottery;
comedy is ****--**** is comedy

the naked emp snickers
over his bickering peasants.
warring with sentiments,
pledges of allegiance,
right hands--left *******;
matters of the heart
seem so silly.

take a knee,
then take another

you look like yourself,
you look like one another.
Jan 2018 · 96
stylesclash Jan 2018
sometimes there are no words for sadness
and you have to dig in, split hairs between
words--like, admire, adore, for instance.

like is casual. maybe it's pulchritude or
personality, but superficial nonetheless.
it doesn't drive you with a sense of mystery;
it's as pleasant and banal as preferred weather.

admiration is a word that intrigues me,
it's a bit forgotten in this ***** lexicon of ours.
it might have to do with attraction--not a desire to
possess, touch, *****, nibble at or devour, though--
a beauty that suffices to be in the presence of,
it crowds out the emptiness around you.

i feel that vast emptiness, and not only
the space between human beings--but space
that runs directly through them, as if not there.

what words can you compartmentalize it into?

things you can find words for are ordinary, so
i suppose you can't. a poet's power, perhaps then,
is to destroy beauty by virtue of describing.

that's a funny thing, seeing as how most of us
begin our journeys as writers as romanticists.

adoration? this is rarest of all, for admiration
exists as a nebulous feeling, and is not shaped by
the peculiarities of a certain moment--an awe
triggering all kinds of "feel good" chemicals,
which cannot be exactly experienced again.

of all feelings,
this is the one i perhaps cherish the most.


"everything you love will someday die"
goes the chorus in the song so entitled,
"don't give up or hang your head in sorrow,
it comes around again"--what is it robert frost
said about the intervals in poetry? inevitably,
the feeling we desire is tightly condensed
into a pitch, suspended amid empty innings.

that is my experience, anyway--and
it isn't something an accomplishment,
a creative outburst or wealth can contest.

these are cuts taken in a perfect game:
academic, merely statistical and irrelevant;
though style points for form are assigned,
as near-hits and misses are unduly deliberated.

(can you imagine registering a ten for
your crispy, smooth whiff at otherworldly stuff?)

one is never roy halladay, but he might be
the fastball thrown from his cannon arm,
landing satisfyingly in the crunch of a glove.

sometimes all the things that don't matter
strike-out around me, and i am that ball;
i believe this is the embodiment of "adoration".


you could probably fit a lot of things into
that metaphor, maybe even swapping adoration
with wealth or creativity--whatever it is that floods
your body or ego with the desired spoils.

i, personally, cannot imagine it.

only the warped among us couldn't surf on
a thread of humanity, and only a narcissist
could be that obsessed with his art.

"the intervals are the tough things"--robert frost.
Jan 2018 · 104
explanations ii
stylesclash Jan 2018
the right words
destroy mystery,
transforming a sense of wonder
into an apathetic
recognition of quality.


getting to know someone is
the process of enumerating god,
revealing in the crevices of humanity a disappointment;
because, precisely, there are no shadows to
adumbrate these little secrets, which
cannot evoke faith or wonder.


i take no satisfaction in
not knowing you, i would

take no satisfaction in knowing, either.

that leaves, merely, the fleeting sense of
wonder in the middle; it sometimes disappears
in hours, sometimes in moments.

sometimes immediately.
Jan 2018 · 60
stylesclash Jan 2018

i wouldn’t want to
put my finger on it.

once i do, it becomes ordinary.
Dec 2017 · 84
stylesclash Dec 2017
a couple is a crisis cult for two,
and money provides all the solace
in the world for an otherwise altogether
71-year-old in need of a heart transplant

of course, youth and its ***** hands
offers less than a staid, old politician

screaming "****" from the top of
your lungs will not help, for in (my)space
no one can hear you scream-- even
after that name has long since been abandoned
and rebranded several times over,
re-worked and reimagined


when i come face-to-face with
my mortality, will the specter of death
raise out of me like a jack in a box,
as i desperately try to close the lid
and live again inside those six walls?

is this how living is defined, and
is it impossible to escape? probably

the id casts a shadow over everything
and we always find it an accomplice,
whether technology, our hearts or our fists.


right now i am in god mode/
have infinite ammo, shooting at
indiscriminate targets because no one
"shadow boxes" with their bullets
and aims with any real purpose--
even if he knows the contents of
his clip or watches it wind down

the illusion of firing off
a machine gun and penetrating
random walls--briefly animating them
with life as they spill out their contents--
is too powerful to stop shooting


death descends in a lot of forms,
and you hope its grip is temporary;
of course, the id tip-toes back in and
sometimes never even goes away

is humility just arrogance
with table manners-- a sense of
decorum draped over an insatiable appetite?


we have big dreams for our guns.
we want to shoot down the world,
so that we may live in a solipsism
where nothing can challenge our greatness.

living among others is an act of inferiority;
which, i suppose, is one reason more
why we simply do not.


"right hand man"-- people are like
parts of your body, an extension of yourself,
as in the thing we use to grasp something
and feed it into our mouths

in peruvian slang, a friend is a "pata"
or a "leg", in albanian that's "zemer" or "heart";
the attempt--and success--framing this romantically
implicates a matrix of ******* which
runs so deep through society.


you pump my blood.

you get me from point a to point b.

you are my friend.

you are my love

and a couple is a crisis cult for two.
Nov 2017 · 77
avant garde
stylesclash Nov 2017
the imagination is depthless
and things like the physical world
and your body are a game of
pac-man with well defined boundaries,
a clear goal and trail of pellets--
obstructed by nothing more
than the ghosts of our fears.

*** inspires me with
no sense of wonder and
neither do cities or the binary
we find in mountains and oceans.
who cares? a woman you can pin
down with flattery and good looks;
the truth is slippery and doesn't acquiesce
to coaxing-- just long, often interrupted,
spurts of observation

it gets uglier with time
and absolves you of your guilt
of (really) being ****, too.

it's a deweaponizer--
and not a sword to wield
or gun to shoot at ideologues
or fundamentalists; more quotidian,
your friends and family who
stab themselves with small needles
as if from a broken compass

unable to self-direct and
so instead, self-destruct.

i don't want to
bury my face
in your ***** or
leave my delible footsteps
on the beach with you;
and the idea of traveling
strikes me as the kind of running away
and self-escapism that is so common
in Type B personalities.

**** running away--
i will put my roots down
in a wood on fire
and burn with it
sooner than live in
a pointless game of pac-man

neither victory nor the suffering
of defeat is compelling
once reduced to tropes.
Nov 2017 · 793
broken glass
stylesclash Nov 2017
there is no need
to punish some people
when they do wrong
for they are already broken,
and that is like stomping on glass
after it has shattered

even careful hands
may get cut piecing together
the shards with the glue of
love and poetry, but that
is what it takes.
Oct 2017 · 79
stylesclash Oct 2017
we are the fake sound of
progress and liquid
crutches found in
a glass of cognac

we, ian watkins
with a furtive hand
behind a pencil
lostprophets finding
themselves in depravity,
in a forbidden temple

our consciousness swirls
around us like the stars of
cartoons, when an animaniac
is bludgeoned with a hammer

although we don't recover
as easily as figments of
an artist's imagination,
the infinite number of lives

fear holds us back
from our full potential
and some of us suffer in
silence, others outrage or
schlep thru life as joe schmoe--
everything bottled up inside

smiles are *******.
especially the ones captured
for posterity, a blatant admission
of that fear that we'll lose
everything soon

we hold back joy
and try to conserve it
as if energy, or an oil
we'll have to one day drill
in the sea for

my pursuit of happiness
at that point might **** up
your life, spilling onto the shore
of Louisiana and forcing you to
make due somewhere else,
come back and live
in a trailer

with rotting teeth
and graying hair,
they still bring their children
to me in jail

fears, fears
some band
has tears for those

the police
couldn't stop
Lenny Bruce;
the pc police
are holding the constitution
to the fire

Brett Favre
could still throw
a bullet and
break your fingers
at the tender age
of forty-eight

the only fingers
you've ever broken
were KFC

there is no shame
in villainy, because
it takes the village
to make the villain

go get crucified
and bear yourself
to some lesser sinners /

self-immolate and
pour the cognac
on your easily extinguished
fire of fear, see if any
tears are shed then.
Oct 2017 · 102
die hard
stylesclash Oct 2017
angel/devil is john mcclane
admonishing a sly negotiator
in his misguided, although
well-meaning effort to out-chess
the terrorists and escape
nakatomi plaza

my inner-bruce willis
shouts "shut up ellis. just
shut your **** mouth"
as coked-up ellis, still
high off of his line, dreams up
a scenario where he's dressing
down a voluptuous dream
built-in with a sense of humor
which will embed itself
like a heartwyrm, and give
new meaning to eating
one's heart out

as i eat my heart
out of that very wyrm
once i find it sliced in half
and rooting around
some other heart
with the same hard-on
for innocence and ***
and whispery moan, the moment
your hands touch her

shut up, ellis.

let the place blow up
with a shaftful of c4, imploding
out the windows to the streets
below where strangers
can walk on the broken glass
and break it into
smaller pieces still

can you now hear
the crunch in your mind?
or is it the explosion
from the gun, jetting
through the air for one second
before it pierces your skull
with the kind of ease
it takes to shut up, ellis.

tell her she doesn't know me
and that you just met
at the party tonight, ellis
she's going to **** you

john-- how can you
say that after all these years?

Oct 2017 · 86
when my father dies
stylesclash Oct 2017
when my father dies
there will be no love
and that's an abstruse word
something divvied into a lot of things
it isn't like / a light refracted
into a prism, with
a rainbow of enticing colors

perhaps years
of living in "self-impose exile"
as he would put it
and the derivative introspection
put too great a lens
to such matters, but
the human condition
is generally deplorable

weakness isn't beautiful
and personality defects
cannot be romanticized like the physical.
your penchant for drinking
over-sharing, lying or cheating
is not a mole on your forehead
or a *** that hangs
lower than the other

weakness is ****
immorality is ****
dishonesty is ****

and i'm aware
that honesty at a certain point
becomes suicidal;
but we should only
stop just short
of killing ourselves

i give you
my honesty
but i am a bulimic death eater
who will eat you up
and ***** you
to live your death,
if you are not honest
with me

we are born as animals
we understand fear /
our level of socialization is so poor
few of us ever grasp
the concept of respect
although it is a word
that is tossed about

mostly because
it's simply something
we want for ourselves

**** me,
while i ****
everyone else

love cannot
be divvied up
we hardly have
the capacity to love one person

we hardly have
the capacity to love ourselves

it seems to take
a lifetime
to reach self-acceptance /
let alone self-love

when my father dies
there will be no love

there will be no mountain
to stand in the shadow of

shadows, darkness are really
the only place where we can find comfort

come stand in the shadow with me
and tell me your secrets

the things not said
permeate our conversations
and i can barely stand
to hear words

in a real family,
there are no secrets
and i suppose that's the tightest
that you can be

be tight with me
be blood with me

it brings to mind
that cutesy billy bob-angelina jolie
shtick where they kept each other's
DNA in a capsule around
their necks, that's
not what i mean

that gaudy
ostentation of love (and i needed
two very similar words
to describe that ...)
is usually all we get

bruised flesh
of text messages
in all caps

clasped hands
a plastic body
wrapped in a cash band
with the dollar value inscribed
to: me from: me
the best body
my money
could buy

in a twist
on a classic atmosphere lyric
let's build them
with littler ****
and bigger fists
to fight with us
for some meaning

i'd like to stand
in your shadow
but you provide me
with no cover

maybe i will be like
the purifier
in chronicles of riddick
walking into helion
to burn to death, simmering
into ashes in seconds

that would be easy--
better than vanity.
Oct 2017 · 86
stylesclash Oct 2017
the word is
simple maybe three
letters and we line up
the alphabet around
a bulls eye throwing darts
in this spelling bee
which has been made
most impractical
as our hands waver
and mental acuity falls
with our punchdrunk emotion

i don't even think
this emotion is real
in the sense that it's there
although reality has rapped
on our heads enough to cause
a great deal of chaos
over a pronoun

real in the sense
in which we try to conjure
some theoretical you
into reality-- superimposing
the future onto the present
with some seminal joke
flagging its tail
in search of
a gamete

the fetus
begins to develop
and like some meme
a hand thunders down
on the "abort" button
because reality doesn't consummate
at consummation

dodging hands
with the mythical smoothness
of steven seagal
and striking without effort
against respawning enemies--
both real and imagined
and avoiding that
concussed state of mind
which makes a confusion
of my vocabulary

maybe sometimes
we want to be beat
into senselessness
just to taste ecstasy
because clarity offers only
the essential, essentially bland
taste of water-- sometimes
jazzed up with minerals
and sold to us bottled

that sugar high
or whatever it is
barely reads on the glucoseometer
and perhaps it is because
i am so steeped
in the tradition of mental aikido
that you cannot hit me--
or at least hard enough
when i invite you to

so beat me
senseless and make me
struggle with my words
as i start inventing
sometimes failingly
new words to fill in the gaps
for things i haven't felt
or known before

bruise me
beat me
degrade me
as i will you

or i will simply

beat and
degrade you.
Mar 2017 · 244
stylesclash Mar 2017
in saints
although most
believe in
good people
and this
is a mistake

not unlike
the moral fragmentation
that takes place
when we hurt others
in our self-interest
and preserve
the image
of our goodness
to others
and ourselves

drop bombs
at a rate of three
per hour
and ****
and dismember
what is to them
an amorphous
and contemptible mass
of men and women
and children
for a wage
and the symbol
of heroism

doesn’t repeat
the jingoism
of statesmen
who are awash
in corporate money
from boeing
and lockheed martin
and who acquiesce
the profit-seeking
lobbyists of war

but fathers
are fathers
and raise
and this is
the fragmentation
that allows us
to be “good”

based living
ends in a fascism
which first consumes
its enemies
and then itself

was moved
from plantations
to prisons
where jobless
(aka “worthless”)
or under-employed
members of debilitated
$20,000 per body
in an act of

to reservations
with disproportionate
rates of suicide
**** and disease
are re-banished at times
when reservations
are identified
with natural resources
as in the gold
of general custer’s day
or the pipeline
of today

and then
turning inward
into the already
embattled middle
and working classes

white people
have vomited-up
the first great idiot
of our age
and equally delusional
consigned fate
to the man
who presided over
the systematic dismantling
of occupy wall street

a man
who they now

the failure
to recognize evil
in others
and ourselves
is fatal

to absolve
of blame
with a vote
or the faith
we place in someone
is asinine

the waves
of proto-fascism
expose us all
for our lack
of moral courage

and so
the belief
in good people
is a mistake
and we must
confront ourselves.
Feb 2017 · 211
stylesclash Feb 2017
i crave
the things
never said
and the honesty
which isn’t betrayed
for a cowardice
formed out of
the fear of

have become
and sad keanus
and good guy gregs
who ideate
in a uniformly
small and
****** way

we lack
the nuance
to grasp
the complexity
of our life
and divide
itself Manichean
into good
and evil


we love
in our self-interest
and consume
as if a drug
for a mysterious

in which:
is intractable

the identity
is protean
and our ethics
rise and fall
as if a wave

the undulations
rolling in hyper-speed
mostly unnoticed

of respect
as doctors
commingling life-saving
with a practice
that holds hostage
the health
of people

and the insidious
reducing something
to rubble
on the shores
of history

a class act
and revolutionary
***** leading
the mass ******
of muslims
in the name of
corporate profits

and no one
is greater
than the needle
or the gun

wether we must
hold or
the hand of evil

we can
do the palmistry
of predestination
and trace
the intricate lines up-to
the moment
in which
we become

or examine
the subconscious
and see that
we already are

this admission
of our guilt
allows us
to begin
to confront
the evil
around us

the boring
of those who
are good or fine
in their own eyes
is powerless
Feb 2017 · 115
stylesclash Feb 2017
i have
no interest
in choreographing
my words for you

accept them
for their crudeness
as i hold-up
a mirror to myself
and give visage
to my vulnerability
and ego
at once

i have
no playbook
of shotguns or draws
to piecemeal myself
into your heart
or quarterback sneaks
to call when it's over
and i decide
that it isn't

i have
no artifice.

i don't
play games.

i am
the coldness
of the world
wrapping-up to you
for the morsel
of goodwill and warmth
that exists
in itself.

i won't
that i'm better
and that scares
you away.

i am
not a hypocrite
i don't
cry foul
when i am trampled
by others'
pursuit of happiness.

i hold
this mirror
to myself
to grow.

i think
i will grow alone
as this vine
the herbicide of art
and climbing
to the top
of the aristocracy.

it's there
the weeds grow
and into the minds
of the people
who do not
accept me.
Feb 2017 · 430
stylesclash Feb 2017
shower me with
your naked thoughts
and spare me
the varnish of
humility and grace
and the platitudes
we mouth to give
ourselves that appearance
of humanity

as in this
idealistic condition
in which kindness
and optimism
are the quintessence
of itself

i don't
give a ****
about kindness
and the binary
of optimism and
pessimism leaves
no room for reality
so **** that

least of all
from yourself
who i don't expect
to conform to
the standards of beauty
and fit neatly
into the boring box
of womanhood
which is made
by woman-haters
whose artisanal hands have
made itself as
ostentatious as


and that's
not at all unlike
which creates
a veneer of strength
from illiteracy
as the resultant void of
emotional depth
is held-up
for exaltation

these varnishes
of people
cannot confront
the depravity
of themselves
but we can

not that
the implication
is that we can
conquer it
but we can
admit our ****-ups
and secrets
and try to attenuate
our impulses
or at least glue ourselves
together over
these scattered and piecemeal
and move-on

and move-up

hollow things
as money
won't be so hollow
when we are drinking
from the cocktail
of each other's
and the ambition
to rise above
all of it

**** your
and tell me
who you
really are

and i'll
tell you
who i really am.
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