you ask me what I do
when the acid rain comes
to leave ulcers on my cheeks
roughens my skin like eczema,  
teases blood from pockmarked flesh

it's simple and pure, like snow
i feel my best stood at the window
tongue melting with ashen flakes
hailing the nuclear fallout

the orange sky is a cigarette from god
we drag on it like starving lions on antelope
there is spice, sunlight in the dust
it'll clot up the throat, but it's worth it for

the guilty pleasure of knowing
everything else is crumbling, more

What have you become in this hollow space,
You were once somebody,
Once something
But now,
Your words are nothing,
And your face yields nobody.
A sunken man, a man so grated
He has abandoned the joys
Of
Wandering, and
Instead taken sweeter to whining; “why me”
And “why me”.
But these concerns
Never slip from his flakey slim lips, rather
They tumble and tumble
In his heavy limbered skull,
Rattling into one another
Like cheap cream chinos upon a white apron,
Resting and soaked
At the street corner laundrette. Never to dry.
Never to dry.
Emptier
than his pockets. And
Looser than the screws clasped to his spectacle frames.
The lenses are slipping. Vision is ending.
Words are nothing.
And so, passion ceases
As
The walls
Squeeze the last wonder from his
Breath; “why me” and “why us” - “Why do the stars
Dare to shine”.
Alas,
The universe lays gormless, and
Relishes in its own undisputed silence.

fleeting, confused
specks of dusts, furthering the stories
of dusts long past
giving names to fickly forms of masses
reaching out to skies undoubtedly
unreachable

We are stories from a
bygone era that will be forgotten one day
And we’ll reach mortality, try as we may
ever expanding, ever exploding
‘til the last word has been said
‘til the last thought has been made

We are all the pieces
and yet we are none
We unravel the mysteries
we’ve created for ourselves
Yet the greatest mystery of all
one we have yet to understand
transcends the dusts,
the stories,
and the pieces
because we have made it so

We truly are small.

George pleaded for his life
begged to breathe, requested
the continuity of his own existence
before the lynch with a knee
on the commemoration day
of many lives that have burned in vain
violent resistance on detention
a fabrication out of desperation
when all they had was the sick joy
of seeing an innocence in pain
fell silent and motionless
once and for all,
and he too, has burned in vain.

do not let that be a fact.

Eric waits, and now
George too.

where is me
upon ash and dust
shall the rain collide
so tell me, who remains

drowning in faint whispering of the syntax?
bracing the brackets of the mind?
buried in dust of bone?
why the frail psyche bound to collapse?
no me is not here

humans are simple
their composition seemingly
far too elegant, a dash of this
pinch of that, presto!
that be a man there, no?

pack me up, carry me in your knapsack
it seems I'm little more than a midday picnic

The water tries
to spell happy
my brain yells
                              **** that

row up the stream
God it’s all so
                             blue!
wait no
It’s nothing
cause it's all breaths
of tiny explosions
and everybody
                               dies!

just pixel cells and carbon
or some **** like that

a great green north
shouting hymns
to quite a rumbling mind
but all the quite is too much sound
the beautiful green trees and little
                                                        blue ponds!

make the sounds
click
postcard
paint it on my
face

hey
I’m happy!
                             wait
                          no
rustles of wind
are just the gas chambers
hissing on

those two oxygen
*****
are professional arsonist
wearing mask that say
                                           fertilizer
                                                    salesman
you breath in life
I burn inside
out
millimeter by millimeter
until a tree grows out of my
head

we all die
but what if we
                         don’t
It’s all real till it’s
                               synthesized
I'm symphonies inferno
until I'm part of the choir

I am damaged goods
A corruption of heart
Up from abyssal depths,
Down to desolate clouds.
The fragment lying between
I am not the incessant air,
A rage of non awakening.
Culmination of all fears.
No words do then, describe
me; I do not conform to rules.
Exception I am; ambiguous
A regular consonantal fool ?
Decreed to consume it all
I carry a ravenous thirst.
Unchecked; I grow fervor
A demon, I am accursed.
Where, then, do I find home
Where does my soul belong ?
Whom shall I call my tribe
Then; what do I, thus long ?
I am damaged goods, get ye'
I do not conform to codes.
I belong to the nether realm
Let me lie, in my .. abode.
Do not then, exhume me,
I have chosen to slither in. And,
Lie dormant in the underground.
Where exist I may, in quiet
Lie hidden away, from the
carnal realm, I want none of it.
A monster of my own making,
A necromancer of the Undead.

What is waiting for my weight—
for the matter I carry,
for the energies bonded within me?
What is lying dormant—
anticipating the day
when my body lays itself down—
so it may drink from my cisterns
and eat from my stores?
What will come into Being
from my ceasing to Be?

the songs of wings flutter in the air,
            softly through the stars, begins the fear,
                                                                
                                                    the loss of who
                                              a question remains,

          a destain for the most precious,
          a party of cranes conversing in silence,
          a life that remains unbalanced.