I hate myself for how fast I give up on things,
especially things that matter to me.
The way every moment seems singular
in time, space.

Gravity crashes in when I see you.
Your mouth is a graveyard
Each of the teeth in your smile,
a tombstone.
You say my name as if it’s
written in stone.
Carved.

I don’t think it gets better.
You feel increasingly mortal the more
they know you on a “first-name-basis”.
Working 8 hours a day doesn’t give you
the same distance anymore.
Everybody is doing something to get high,
get altitude, relief, waste their health,
except you.

Live your life like it’s the last.
Smile, for the illusions and lies they give you
are pillows on your death bed.
The courtesy you give others;
bury the truth.

To burn the skeletons in your closet.

Bury it six feet inside you.
Keep it deep in your stomach,
so that when you speak
only the crows come out.
Your tongue is the gravel path.
Lips, black iron gates.

Your smile is a graveyard.

Ellie. My name is Ellie.
I want to be a writer. I want to be a star. I want to be free.
I imagine myself riding on wide open roads,
on the back of a motorcycle with a boy
who is as much of a ghost as he is a person.
I imagine myself dazed in rooms
filled with a purple glow.
I imagine pills, lust, liquor, leather.
I want to live forever
and I want to die young.
My name is Ellie.
I don’t know what home means;
I don’t want to.
I need people to love me.
I will break all of their hearts.
I imagine late nights in underground clubs…
Marlboro, rock & roll, Howl by Allen Ginsberg–the bible.
Tanqueray;
falling down in a graveyard muttering in Romanian,
hoping for salvation,
but while I’m called an angel night after night
I’ve got the devil in me.
Rosewater runs through my veins,
the blood has already been spilt.
I won’t ever belong to anyone, not even myself.
When you have the knowledge that nothing’s real
it’s hard to do what’s expected of you.
I relate to flowers a lot.
They’re beautiful, but they don’t last.
Sometimes no matter how hard you try to take care of them,
they just run out of life.
I think I ran out of life the day I was born.
Everything is nothing.
The gods don’t want you to know that,
but that is the one truth.

keeping yourself alive
by believing in
the gorgeous cause ,
the idea that justice is real
and that you can see it

But then, you actually pay attention
and these things you hoped for
become stained glass portraits
in church windows
as seen by Atheist eyes:

dedications, so very pretty,
likely to nothing at all.

I want to write such terrible ******* things tonight.
About my mother.
About art.
About life.

But I won't.

I know nothing other than that i am,
that i must go.
Your philosophy means **** all to me.
If it can be one upped, it's obsolete.
Any thought before this moment is incomplete.
Different minds add different pieces to the puzzle.
Your certainty is not enough for me.

Presentation,
A replication emitting stability, security.
"Enlightenment" for the petty consciousness.

They throw bombs like I throw parties
And it’s equally hit and miss
Often a mess, never a success
And still we throw and throw

They have Molotov cocktails,
While I serve the regular kind
They’ll bomb your mind to pieces
While I serve peace of mind.

No bloodshed but ****** Mary,  
No barbarian, but Cosmopolitan
And my Irish Car Bombs and Kamikazes
Don’t bring death, but only fun

And the Paradise I’m aiming for
Contains gin instead of virgins
And Nixon doesn’t feed the flames
But keeps us frisky with its whiskey

So we’ll keep on throwing parties
And they’ll keep on throwing bombs
And we’ll keep on serving cocktails
Just to keep our conscience numb

Nihilisms brutal, how could you choose to live that way?
Coz everything is futile, life is glorified decay.
We're all dying, and I can't wait....

Each day simulates birth and death and everything between.
Next day is the same **** thing, how many hints did you need?
Cradle to the grave to the cradle to the grave,
Makes plenty of sense to me.

"Smothering me,
setting me free.

I was three steps from heaven.

A voice told me to drown
in feathers and darkness,
let myself down, down, down...
six feet in
I was swept into the space I kept my demons.
I was conflicted. I was embraced.
I was home."

That's all I had too.
Shouting in my head across the kitchen table,
and everyone understands in their own way;
We just need to talk and be heard.
I need to speak and be affirmed.

I just wanted to say something to let you know
I'm still here.
I'm still alive.
I'm still human.

I was writing something amazing up until my phone died,
and there's something to be said about the techno-ego-logical sort of life.
But I won't say it now because greater men have said it before;
and surely they'd have no respect for just another social-media *****.
Like how blogging has become such a ***** word,
so let's just call it poetry.
Disguise our senseless needs to vent feelings through rhyme and metaphor.
I've become everything I've always hated.
I can date it back to the day I acquired a smart phone.
But I'll lose no sleep over confessing how it makes me feel less alone.

ººº

Beware lest anyone cheat you through philosophy and empty deceit,
according to the tradition of men, according to the basic principles of the world,
and not according to Christ.

Colossians 2:4-8 (NKJV)

His Nietzschean trip moved from Comic toward Tragic:
Deleuze’s delusions flew out the fenêtre
Airborne and ****** on philosphy’s magic
(the nihilist suicide’s raison d’être…)
Propelled from the window, transcending the Ontic,
his organless body in textual flight,
a schiz-flow beyond on a voyage turned frantic.
His thought – a nomadic adornment for speed,
multiplicitly viewing a thousand plateaux
was a force for unhinging the doorways of light
and a plea for postmodern decoding indeed.
His frame soon encountered pure striated space
in the form of the pavement caressing his face.

He joins other smokers of Gallic tabac,
other esotericians of cognitive frenzy
(those mullahs of madness, those sultans of Whack…)
Sorely missed by his victims, disciples and friends
he is mourned, misinterpreted, copied, dismissed
– but for semioticians he heads up the list.

Another brave Frenchman, some guy named Debord
a bespectacled Marxist (who missed all the marks)
made the mediums’ message a radical bore
dialectically fading the lights into darks.
Indirectly disrupting pop-culture with Punk
and other anarchic phenomena-junk,
he too chose to leave with a nihilist bang –
while we whimper and suffer down here with the gang.
The old situationist’s last situation:
an agit-prop funeral short on elation…

So to French de-constructor-philosopher-ravers
and all who rejoice while society wavers
I offer these lines, like a quick coup-de-grace
and be warned – they’re now viewing the Good Lord en face.