Easy will I give blood to thee
My love of anger simmering.

Tough mutts and breezy gates shut up while I'm walking up the paved path to heaven.
My shadows carve depictions of their home across it's border, until the time that obliteration comes preceding daylight.
Presently, the senses tell stories of alleyways, bending, screaming, dark, and hollow niches where cells holding cretins feeding on easy cons, closely eyeing the greasy pawns that wobble across rotting paper, voodoo art a secret guarded closely hidden in the hole a beating heart long ago vacated. Robbing rich snobbish ****** their childrens life of ignorance concerning newfound addictions.
You know the type.
You know that I know you too, and how you prefer to shape the ghastly forms these predators take, turn them into your thralls discarded soon after rehearsing the parts of your play, writtin precisely to incite your own addiction to probability gamble gaming intuition. trashing skits naturally reactive to exhibited patterns laughing mad at the victms thrashing quiver, stashing films of the accidents in your pack to gift the sadistic mastiffs  attack and ravage and tear and
Sadness.
The fictitious movies play out onto the skyscape of this mind we share, and attempt to accept the last thing you truly fear.

that big ugly thing stomps its feet
rears its head and shows bared teeth
that big ugly thing roars an echo
flares it nose and gores me beneath
the cracking sky of a barebone youth
the laughing demons of jeers uncouth
that big ugly thing won’t leave me alone
that big ugly thing is at hand, and here, i stand
i’ve got a stick, and they’ve got ivory tusks
and fangs and venom and a rage inside that poisons my kindness, my patience, my virtue
and still i hold my stick high, open my eyes, and keep getting up
no matter the horn that pierces nor the bones that shatter
no matter the claws that catch nor the ribs that scatter
no matter the teeth that tear nor the blood that spatters

i mean, it’s not like i’m going to let them win
i’m a pretty sore loser

I'll give you my heart,
fresh from my chest;
after all,
it only beats for you.

I'll give you my lungs,
traquea and all;
'cause every time I see you,
you take my breath away.

I''l give you my brain,
empty my head;
it makes me think about you,
every moment at any time.

I'll give you my eyes,
straight out of my sockets;
in the end,
I only have them for you.

I'll give you my legs,
bend them to your liking;
'cause if you tell me,
I'll go anywhere for you.

A swerve and crumple

the too-low Miata meeting
the steel of a
semi's rear.

top speed impatience
becomes

a mangled massacre
of twisted plastic and metal.

Bone just powder in
a pillow of pink
red-streaked
pulverized flesh.

my jaw agape as I pass too slow-

existential dread is the hand
contorted upward
a few fingers missing
or lost in the mass-

A horn brings me back.
People too late
to care.

I contemplate stopping
but I'm late too-
and there's nothing to salvage
for me here.

Jason had this penthouse apartment that was centrally located in Beverly Hills.

He was incredibly clean, but in an overwhelming kind of way.

The carpet and stuff were spotless, the cabinets were plastic, and the paint was not chipping. I felt like I was in a Doctor’s office waiting room.

He was snoring loudly, and just at the right moment he opened his eyes.

"Ha! You are dead! This is a dream, right?"

I felt a bit offended, as I was obviously the one snoring.

"No, no!"  He pointed at the clock. "It's 4AM!" (Lucky number 8!).

"You're a zombie! You're dead and you're dreaming!”

“I’m a zombie, alright!" I yawned and started to hack up zombie gore.

"Watch out!" He screamed and jumped out of the bed.

"All right, you monster! I'm dead and I'm dreaming! I'm dead and I'm dreaming!"

He chased me around the room.

"You're not dead, you're a zombie! You're a zombie, that's just what you are, a zombie, so it's a dream!" He threw up his hands. "You can't win!"

“I can't win, yeah? That’s right, I can't win. That's my luck, ha-ha!”

I hope you like midnight horror flicks." His face crinkled with confusion; the zombies smile that I was always afraid of flashing on.
"Well I didn't say I was a horror movie person. Oh, that's right, but you said, I'm dead and I'm dreaming, so that's a horror movie, right?"
I thought about it.

"Okay, I guess it's more like...like if a zombie comes to my door..."

:: 09.24.2020 ::

Open your mouth
Let me see your tongue
Tell me how it tastes

Is it sweeter
Seeping with blood
Cut at the tip

Trace the edge
With the knife
Make it taste

Like me

Hold out your hand
Let me see your fingertips
Tell me how they feel

Are they smoother
When they’re slick
With saliva

Trace my skin
With your tongue
Make it soaked

With blood

once we sat on the floor outside of the theater and talked about all of the horribly destructive things we wanted to do to our bodies

to crack open the sternum
to bite off the pinkie like a baby carrot
to pick at every imperfection on the skin until it is raw and ******

understanding the urge to undo and then rewind ourselves in ways that finally made sense was the first thing that tied us together

Rotting means having your brain
collapse in on itself in a grey gooey heap.
It means your eyes
falling apart and your tongue swelling up
and bursting
under the weight of a thousand maggots.
It's cutting your stomach into ribbons
and letting it shrivel into nothing.
It's letting your bones wither and crack
and your hair fall out
and it means curling up into a
dry
dusty
gooey
broken
slimy
oozing
ball.
I think I'm rotting.
Please help me.
Please help me,
I'm rotting.