Perhaps it's time
For the stag to stalk the gun
For the driver to be blinded
For the killer to panic.

Perhaps it's time
For my porcelain mask to crack
For the sweet smile to twist itself
For the pain to be revealed.

I have wasted the days.

Only now
As I dwell on the years old
Does my future end.
Only now
Does the stag stalk the gun.

Only now.

I have wasted the days.

In a trance, slashing throats. I'm in a killer mood someone's going to pay for this. All this betray and backstabbing. Pleasure by seeing other people suffering. Stressed out, messed up, ****** up. Killing every living thing as I walk by. Tonight you're all going to pay. Tonight is the end. **Suffer!

Fill your heart, fill it as full as you can.
Fill it with memories most warmly hued
and remember them well
in all their glorious, sweaty,
kindly brutal
minutiae.

Remember each drop,
each bite,
each individual dust
mote dancing
the still, hot, sunlit
February
Thursday.
Remember how different
places all have their own
unique elusive
smell and how
it is impossible to describe this to anyone
who has never lived
anywhere else.

Fill your heart with all those memories
of the best kind
of home grown hell.

Fill it until its tears are forced out.
Fill it against the long, cold dark of parking lost.
Fill it against mysterious hate.
Fill it against misery and mud and hard
frozen
bottle
glass
lies.

Fill it so full it can't ever sink far down.
Burden it with buoyant stories
and weigh it with
hypnotic winter flame.
These are the things of which
the cold terror to
victory apocalyptic will be born.
There are no second prizes here.

Fill it with the certainty of the worn places
where the chairs met
the table
each night.

Fill it with the truth of
the gnarled and sun-warm roots and
the indisputability of a Beetle motor accelerating and
the violent pirouette of each spring
and the ozone smell and
the way wet wood screams at the sky and
the way the sound
hits all ears the same
regardless of
their color or
what side of Line Avenue they’re from.

Remember what line you’re from
and to hell with the rest.
You must mind your own.
There’ll be water
if God wills it.

You are never too far lost if you still know
your father’s face and can still remember
getting milk from the tubes
in the
silver metal cooler
and the red cookie jar
lid as the
adults smoked at the green kids’ table
and everyone mostly had blue eyes
and red hair and there was always a phantom killer
lurking  
right beyond the only hope door
before you were ****** into the mirror
world and
*******, but
kids sure do have to make some
rough choices
before nine o’clock.

Keep remembering and when you remember,
remember even deeper
remember in yet greater detail and
practice that remembering until
you
ARE
the dust motes
the milk tube
Thursday
roots
sun
until you ARE each drop of sweat
until you ARE the phantom killer
and the red cookie jar lid
the straight line of smoke rising out
of the ashtray and
the motor and the
scream and the
ears and
you ARE all these things
and you ARE
and you can’t really say where these things begin or where
you end because you’re not sure that
anything really does end or
begin
anymore.

Beginnings and endings
haven’t much meaning after
everyone has
shown their cards and the worn places on the chairs have
met the table
one
last
time.

Goodbye goodbye
I commited the crime
I had a try
But I just cry
Not worth a dime
So I die
its my time
Goodbye goodbye

Hang in there,
My little bacon back baby
sweating from head to toe.
Those little piggies
are squirming in their straps
spilling their veins across the tarp.
Become the smoke
let you being take it in.
Swinging back and forth, intently
in a room lit so dim
willing yourself awake
briefly, paralyzed by the grin.
"We're having steak tonight boys
along with hawks and ribs.
The main course
tonight
is a helping of long pig."

I see her in the bed; she's gone to sleep.
Wake up, Love, satisfy my lust.
My hand is wrapped around the knife.
I can't wait to see your flow of blood.
I can't wait to watch it fall.
Are you afraid to be a ghost?

But already in life, you're just a ghost.
You're lucky your floor is soft to break your fall.
I lean over to see my reflection in your pool of blood.
Before I leave I'll have to clean my knife.
I hope you thank me for your everlasting sleep.
Too bad I'll need to find someone else; you didn't satisfy my lust.

In your kitchen I run the water and wash my knife.
I think about your fragile ghost.
I remember the sound you made as you hit the floor from your fall.
I'm glad you're forever going to sleep.
I need to leave now so I can satisfy my lust.
As I leave I still smell your blood.

I'm on the hunt to quench my lust.
I'm on the hunt to find more blood.
I hope my next prey hasn't already fallen victim to sleep.
As I walk I breathe in the cold air of my favorite season; Autumn.
I pull my hand out of my pocket and stare at my sparklingly clean knife.
I can't help but think of your jealous I am of you; I wish so and to be nothing more than a ghost.

Through the window I can hear the pulse of your blood.
You sir, are about to have eternal sleep.
Maybe you will satisfy my lust.
I can't wait to see your ghost.
I can't wait to see you fall.
You're about to meet my knife.

I'm clumsy, and through your window I fall.
Give it back; you've taken my knife!
You're granted my wish; I'll be a ghost.
Thank you, Sir, for stopping my lust.
I feel it flowing out of me, soaking me; my hot , sticky blood.
Thank God I can finally get some sleep.

I'll go to sleep now and when I awaken I'll let you know what it's like to be a ghost.
It seems to be that only my blood was what could have ever cured my lust.
I love my knife. I love my fall.

White Asylum

I love red!
Wanna know why?
Come on, I think you know!
I’ll help you out!

The
runny then crusty,
gushing then sealed,
but always
thick,
oozing,
smooth
kind of red is my favorite.

Can you figure it out yet?

That red that only flows with punctures,
but then cannot stop.
At least for a while.
Sometimes it cascades
like
     a
       waterfall.
Sometimes a soft trickle
like
a
calm
stream.

But, sadly,
overtime,
just like an artist with his paint,
it gets dry and flaky.

Now you know what I’m talking about!
I’m positive!

Haha yes, I know I’ve gone mad.
I love it.
Embrace it with my entire being!

I think thats why I'm here.

I never get to see red anymore.
They keep me locked away in these
padded
bleached
blinding          
white
walls.

Surrounded by plain.

I really do miss the color red.
i used to see so much of it.
It was a masterpiece.
And I was the mysterious maestro.

Until someone ratted me out!
Not so anonymous anymore!
Gotta tell everybody!
Hmmm, shoulda turned them red too.
Didn't have the time……

Why are you still there?
Have I not made you insane yet?
Good luck sleeping tonight.
Don’t close both eyes.
Thats when I visit.
I make sure you are not looking.
Before you leave and never see your life again.
Sadly, I’m in here.
And you are out there.
Not so many white walls where you are.
Do me a favor, will you?
See some red tonight.
I have lost count of how many days since my last masterpiece.
I really do miss it….


Anyway!
This has been the most pleasant of visits!
Please come again!
Just one thing to remember:
Don’t close both eyes.
That’s when I come.


And I won’t let you go like last time.

People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

But we could be a family.
We could be a whole.
We could be together.
But no one could be cold.

If we could live on an island,
no hate,
no guns,
no war.
We'd look back and wonder,
what was it all for?

People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

Gangs,
tempts,
nudes,
exempts.

We sit at desk,
eating or eaten.
we laughed at or laughing.
beating or bleedin'.

We know the truth, but call it cruel.
The cruel one is we, the blind fool.

People diein' on the streets
****** puddles at our feets.

Who shot the most guns?
Who then killed them all?
Who didn't mind a casualty?
Who could be responsible?

"Not me!" we cry,
"I'm a good soul."
But even if we declined,
can I be told where they go?

While you sleep
I see you smile
I hope you're dreaming of me.

On fitful nights
I'll stroke your cheek
to soothe your breathing.

Oh, you might
wake up in a fright
wide eyed with spite

That's why I
have bound you limbs
so that you cant fight.

Don't you worry about my wife.
You'll meet her soon
at the tip of this knife.

The air thickens
with the perfume of horror
clinging to life.

Finally my sweet
we'll be together
Like I always dreamed.