the insects crawl over me
i have to keep them away

don't jump on me already
don't let the me decay

a sweet
delicate taste,
veiling true intentions.
Delicious retribution, then
silence.

She sits on the table her head tilted back and her mouth open wide ready to catch all our unfiltered trash.
Planted firmly on the worn wood along side the water rings from long forgotten and unattended cups.
Her round body adjacent his long frigid fingers, tediously tapping the decay off his cancer.
She gathers up her strength and holds her pose like a marble statue at display in the louvre.
Like a switch she shuts her brain off from reality and allows him to dump his filthy bitterness into her.
Her lips close along with her eyes and chokes down his worthlessness, equivocating at the burning as it stamps itself to the inner wall of her stomach.
She solemnly reminds herself that is she is beautiful and that she is strong.
That without her dust and char would violently float amidst.
Her chalked and caked lips reopen awaiting the next flick of his fingertips.
She sits on the coffee table wishing it was coffee that we were drinking and that she was a coaster.
But we dont drink coffee; we smoke cigarettes and she is just an ashtray catching all of our secrets and regrets.

People are always so full
of themselves
but when you need to depict yourself
apart from all the valid reasonable
arguments
you just forget who you really are
you turn into a carrion &
your now cold dead eyes are the ones
in the crow's beak
its unsuccesful attempts to
taste your weaknesses
from inside out
it would never be able to chase you down
but now that you're a parting gift
welcome be the one
that will dissect you quick & harshly
they won't ever care
about what you were
or could be in life
your hopeless future could've come about
once or twice
but you tried hard enough to stop it
by giving yourself a lethal deadline
weren't you?

i’ve heard people explain
if **** and cigarettes are smelled
it’s coming from me, a perfume
i only have to light.
they’re used to my repetitive nature,
my decaying body stuffed inside
a six year old leather jacket.
it's a running gag that I
destroy myself on an
hourly basis. it's funny that I
spent most of high school
clawing at my wrists to get
the fatal flaws out.
I put myself on display
and then get uncomfortable when
I'm asked for a blow by blow
of my most recent suicidal episode.
the gashes on my arms seem to be
an invitation for people to ask me
personal questions whose answers
are only given as whispers under the blanket of night.
i am open and yet how closed am i,
the wanting to be heard conflicting
with wanting to create an air of mystery.
so when you smell smoke just know
i am around, i am waiting
for my name to slip out
when friends bring up
“crazy exes.”

I been drinking since I was sixteen .
That was many a moon ago.
I been in the party life most all my life .

It was a natural environment I fit in like the ******* furniture .
I played the scene for all its worth found many a warm bed seldom was it my own.

Then for awhile I stepped away .
Never from the bottle just from the scene.

Many thought the edge was gone that the wolf settled down became some old dog sleeping upon the porch.

But anything planned is often foiled by life.
And now back to what will be my cemeteries  existence  I return.

Alone but then again a lone wolf isn't the a wolf if not alone.
The fangs still sharp with some fresh scars on display.

False happiness and full of **** .
It wasn't my choice to return but at the party till my death shall I stay.

We all find ourselves wherever the **** we least expected .
You can't plan life but you can catch a buzz somewhere in the ******* inbetween.

Cheers

Gonz