A sea of brown and green lay at my feet,
with subtle movement i can hear them clink.
Some are empty, some are unfinished.
But for right now it doesn't even matter.

Stained cheeks of watered ink,
Salt that's mixed with sadness.
A heart of pain, a lifetime's worth.
Filled with remorse and regret.

Embers burn your words of love,
it's right there in the fire.
with a broken trust, pages are torn,
like I never even mattered.

My fingers, cold, only at the tips
as I clutch the final letter.
turns out you were no good for me,
and I was no good for you.

the spaces where things used to be,
all silhouetted from dust.
this place that once belonged to us
is now home to me and my bottles.

She lit a cigarette in his name, and poured some ***** onto her scars.
As the night became darker she whispered a broken 'i love you' from the door ajar.
She could see his chest rising and falling, and that was the first time she neglected her heart.

The second time came around as she poured some wine onto her guilt.
As the night became lonely she whispered her shaky 'im sorry' to the candles reflected on the silk.
She could see the shadow of his embrace as it moved slowly to the rhythm of their thrill.

The third time came as she poured whiskey onto her fears.
As the night became somber, she whispered 'i don't want to be here'.
From the kitchen counter she could see the glim of his body, as she hoped he couldn't see through her tears.

The last time came around as she poured some gin onto her lies.
From the shower curtain she could see the warm water falling upon his eyes.
When the night became heavy, she whispered a nostalgic 'good-bye' as her clothes fell from skin, for one last time

I wait here
I sit comfortable
With the most uncomfortable awating.

I don't wait for anything in particular,
Maybe I'm just getting psychotic
Obsessed,
Or just now fully understanding what an artist does
In particular a writer,
                          The bleed
                                  The invisible wounds
                                          The drinking
                                                 The foul sour mood.

I haven't been drinking that much
I've exercised like a maniac
And that might explain my couple-day-break from writing.

**** this
***** all the poems
Smash those beers
Even break my guitar

Just don' leave me waiting in vain.
Come with me, let's split the world into angels and demons
Let's blame them all
Let's play like little brats
Let's let the soul shine brilliantly
Let's smile, laugh and cry in the summer rain

Come bleed with me.

I don't drink baby
But because of you
I've never wanted to burn my throat
With that poison more in my life

God! Bring me down a trail of violets -
Bright violets for my love who drinks too much.
For we felt no fault in evenings spent dancing to old songs,
writhing, primordial dancers, our shadows burnt onto the rocks behind by fire
the air gliding around us like water in a stream.
We are heavy things. Our bones are filled with blood
and when we grasp eachother we rip the stems apart
And oily petals seep from underthings.
Dionysus!
Red, thick hot oily petals
Rose petals, broken from the bud
That weep for us, and die for us, as we lie
Clasped together like thorns
Elpenor!
Too late to continue our travels together
I will come back and bury you, I promise.

I like the nastiest bars,
Those where the waitress is called names
But she doesn't care 'cause she's too kind
And tries to keep it all clean for 400 a month.

Those bars have drama
Whole worlds and stories continuosly entangling,
Whisky on rocks, vomits and shouts
Here comes Rita the waitress to clean it all again;
Dogs bark in the streets
Women cry in their beds as men get drunk
And kick the innocent trash can over a discussion about gibberish.

The loner cat lurks the street at night
Hunting for hamburgers that fell off the trash can,
The drunk men start a fight,
'Here comes the police!' 'Run-run!'
One falls, gets the blame and a free trip to county jail,
Three others join a party and feed the ******
Money and **** --- tails.

Finally, the last one goes home
To beat the crying wife over the same junk
And the repressed anger only a coward can hide.