soft asphalt hills
breathe your way
in burgundy sleeves
frayed rusted shoefoil
of cobbled years

scatter your papers
march aniseed dreams
indent the sandstone wall
with your ha'penny smile

you, too, were a child of bones
upon the sea of bleached clay
ground saul and peter
breath of crimson lines

learning to crawl
through leather-bound walls
but getting caught
coiled on the grief
of noontide pebbles

the misery of whim
quiet dignity of nothing
gentle pride of the abyss

find cheap relief
in twelve chamber meals
lard and mushy peas in
tiled up garden rows

worn down by
the soft focus sun
passing by

call for your step daughter
sit her down
comb her hair
peel her clothes
like mandarin folds

a tar voyeurism
bored of lust
but locked in cruelty
out of old habit

admit it,
don't you want to
burn the beds
just to see whose sleeping?
to find your face,
among the retreating blisters?

a shallow water charlatan
slice off your wings
feed them to your pets,
laugh as they choke
on feathers and blood

  just like
the gulls outside,
always humming the same **** tune
for generation after generation,

yet still
they go out to sea to die

It is always in the darkest of tombs.
Does a radiant gem shine the brightest.
Among those that found themselves.
Mere stones.
There to steal whatever hue granted.
As if precedence was the one lacking.
But every now and again.
Two would come together.
Illuminating the inner sanctum with their collision.
Only this match was set before it began.
No amount of kindling could stir ash.
Yet the lightning that flashed.
Ignited events.
In whispers.
Sorrow.
Hope.
Persistence.
It's only in this universe.
That existence overlaps itself.
In preservation.
For what else is there.
When death is used as a teaching tool.
Just to educate the mindless into ignorant coma.
A lasting self induced hypocrisy.
One that is always just an instant away.
But forevermore unspoken.

Much like apathy in a loving embrace and hatred in warm such a slumber. Not I in my deepest of thoughts or most shallow of sights shall I wreak the havoc of an incomplete soul. An undetermined body. A man, lacking in personage. Not I.

Still my body may lay, though awash in emotive complexities my mind remains. From the world's forgotten martyrs to the sufferers of society's cold embrace, all of age seem to have a grasp on the emotion. Coming easy, supposedly. Taking hold, regrettably. Wringing the soul for all its worth, assuredly. Though however apparent may be its profundity, however wise may it be to keep avoidance, its eventual presence seems an imperative. An imperative to life. Not my life, nor yours. But life in itself.

currently wishing
my uber driver would shut the **** up for half a minute

I just want to listen
to Joy Division
in silence;
with nothing
but the pressure
of my inescapable apathy

please shut up;
I really don't care
that two children were hit
by a tractor trailer this morning,
only a bit jealous.
I never thought I'd meet
someone as lonely as me,
but the continual conversation
that you regurgitate
proves otherwise.
I wish I could be
taken out
by a tractor trailer -
at this point,
I'll settle for anything.

uh-huh
yeah
really
no way

I feel as though this trip
is a metaphor
for my waking life:
just a blur of scenery
flying by,
while a stranger
makes noises at my depression -
and I just,
uh-huh
yeah
really
no way

I hate how
I hate everything

hate
how lonely I am

how regardless
of who
surrounds me,
        comforts me,
                loves me,
I still feel like I'm alone

welcome to the void

steeped my
skin in ginger
a bathtub brew and
sweaty forehead

but i was
the teabag.

when i shut
my eyes
all i could see
was red lines

rubbing where
they should be
remembering
squinting my eyes
in main street sun
thighs burning

(dear goodness
i don't know how
i ended up here
again after so long)

opened my eyes
saw my wrists

white and
whiter scarred
but i always
picture them as
red and
redder slit.

gasping for hot
and humid air
motivation is
strangely illusive
but visualization
forever inclusive.

i'm boiling alive
or bathing to die
in scalding bathrooms
of appalling apathy.

People fall in love everyday, but to me you're just another face
Another place holder to fill the gap
Another cigarette that will eventually be burned away
Another candle to be blown out
Another storm that will be blown away and move on to the next town
It's nothing personal, it's been this way for a while now
And while in your moments you feel everything, I feel nothing
Does that make me a bad person for not feeling the same?
For not wanting to be more than this?
You think there's something wrong with me, I know
But I find comfort in this apathy
It's better this way, to not be attached
It's better for me not to fall in love
Or to see what makes a person special
In fact, I think I'm better at finding what makes a person the same as everyone else
Rather than what makes them different
I'm better at finding reasons not to like a person
It's just easier that way