there is a wasteland
the abdomen of a swollen sea watching precariously as i bite into bits of dark chocolate and don't stop until the entire package is on the floor like a drunken dancer or a torn best friend
a candor that i sold auspiciously for a pair of high heels that i never wear, they just sit in my closet waiting for dirt to be pushed into the canvas of it's sole
i'll only wear them indoors when it's raining and i can hear the synchronizing of the drops on the roof top with each step i take onto the hard-wood floor -tap tap tap tap
i'll do this until the sincerity is gone from the momentum
eventually next summer they'll be forgotten in a cardboard box that has "free" written with a red sharpie and perhaps it's next owner will be forgiving, will take the loneliness of the esoteric feeling of wanting to be worn and introduce them to the vinyl floors of a cheap club or the cold linoleum floors of an expensive resort hotel
i'd like for things that I've known to have a continued story even after it's out of mine, and they do

there is a wasteland
a woman that constantly licks her lips because they're dry but they're only dry because of the constant moisture forced upon them
the reduction of catch-22 as if the joke doesn't fall smack into your clothes
trying to find something underneath the bra strap, past the skin
but you can never get through, can you?
she pulls your hand away and you're left feeling rudimentary
lacking, like the lackadaisical manner in which the lights never hit you the way you wish it did

the worst ones
are just like my father

For us, life holds;
countless enigmas,
uncertainty of existence,
certain exceptions,
bulks of expectations,
improbable concoctions,
perfect nothingness,
imperfect pains,
high level dreams.
But,
don't you think!
Brevity of human life,
ephemeral stay in this world,
is more simple and lucid.
Simplicity and Lucidity,
is all that life can give.

Unanswered fantasies are not discreet
Thoughts burned into the minds of the restless
Silent ghosts, tip-toeing with heavy feet
But they are not words for us to confess.

Lust for matters and things that cannot be
Matrimonies of what is and is not
With lullaby whispers we tame this sea
Wicked little details, only we’ve caught.

Yet somehow my body is translucent
Dull skin, thin and fragile with overt veins
Blood saturated with my existence
Tainted with the colors of love and pains.

Unanswered fantasies are not discreet.
Silent ghosts, tip-toeing with heavy feet.

let me paint my morning for you
I'm alone, in my room
it's a stormy summer morning
And we are sitting around talking

today we're wondering what to do.
Depression sulks deep into the sheets
"why get up! you don't have plans"
and the alarm begins to buzz
Optimist whimpers "its still early, I can get up and get rolling" but no one is moving
Hopeless Romantic dreams "maybe the mail man will come through and ask me how I'm doing"

the ocean is so idolized
she's what everyone wants to be

she can be patient and thinking
sitting still like a mirror
reflecting the great blue sky

she can be strange and esoteric
lurking like the creatures beneath
hiding dark and obscure wonders

she can be turbulent and rioting
frothing with intense emotion
howling in distress about her pains

the ocean's variety of personalities
can be seen in all the world's people
maybe that's why we like her so much

This day, the grand commander refused the opened door of the corridor that exhumes National odour,
The iconic gallant lamented “good harvest is impossible with rats in the rock’
The Grand commander is right, isn’t he?
Giant rats with two legs and ***** claws caused us wounds yet to close up,
The pig fight they played us in tough dirt
let the Atlantic be a stain remover yet it won’t cleanse us
Let us take the hands of the Clock to dance the moon walk,
You see these rats are black flames in a dark room,
An illumination of appetitive explosion
Oh Clock, the thorns on your feet, can you see?
That the rich green land broke your rich green  blood,
Wait, can’t you smell a dead rat?
The beautiful rat who at a time was the pilot of the crafts
who went so far to bury legality in a pit latrine,
I guess, it smells too nice.
I am sorry oh Clock, I know you hate the moon walk,
I see they make your old wounds open to new grief
Should rats hunt rats for if rats hunt rats then who pants?
Twenty shekels of silver awaits you in twenty’ 20
Take it and let the times get sweaty *****
Oh Clock! Your prophecy talks in time
Should I seek vengeance from the grey sky?
Should the thunderstorm strike and the gullible grey hair die
Rats of bungalow minds in elevated ranks
We trust their word yet they ****** the sword
It is this organizational madness
Let me stop here before the mad dogs bite me

Silence.
Stigma.
Don’t speak. It is not
real. Nothing, is real.
Real until you hold it
inside, hold it until
you cannot breathe.
**** it. Strangle me.
The thoughts alone
drive me to solitude,
stuck in the meadows
of my mind.
Flooding. The green is
turned to red.
A bath of blood,
a cleansing of the pure.
No staff is needed here.
No god.

Welcome to the real world,
                                                 *****.