Answer your phone,
Oh I got a question for you
And I can’t wait to hear the echo
Of your answers ricochet through your lungs
I’m hoping you can play the game.

Am I outside your front window?
Or in the crawlspace in your parent’s attic?
Can you hear me in your television
Or does the tape tracking leave a static
Disconnect from your mesmeric dance
Please don’t leave me on read, pick up your phone
I need to know, I need to know.

Am I the cold of a closet void?
Do you see me staring at you with my mouth agape
I’m impatiently pacing the patience within me
Just to hear you answer and ask me please,
Agony in black cotton and latex,
And I guess I’m as aroused as you’d expect
Foreplay until the sharp licks the skin
And I’m bathing in your warm red ichor
Answer the phone Sid, I need to know, I need to know


What is your favorite scary movie?

Scream for me,
Scream,
Scream loud
Scream sayonara
Scream sweet Sidney, scream
For me.

What’s your favorite scary movie?

At risk of sounding heartless,
I say **** your favorite artist.

You can say you think they've changed,
Or you can say they're still the same,
But if it's clear that they campaign
Against my rights and freedoms,
And you won't disagree with them,

I'm willing to admit,
I do not give a ****.

Just want to let everyone know that I have a book filled with all except one of the poems on here. The Book is called Patient 139, I’m Not Okay (I Promise) And Other Poems and you can get it as either an ebook or a paperback on amazon.com or at the link https://www.amazon.com/Patient-Okay-Promise-Other-Poems/dp/B0B14GS6PV/ref=tmmpapswatch0?encoding=UTF8&qid=1655527690&sr=8-1

When yr vision softens,
   there are those that'll say it’s become too blurry—
   but I know the real reason—why yr like this.
There is no light where you need to see,
   but yr eyesight is the last thing on yr mind,
   when everything’s on fire. When it all burns.

It’s so hard to find people that still share their feelings,
   like kicking the moonlit asphalt of buildings,
   so impossible—it feels impossible.
No matter the punishment, no matter the lesson learned,
   you keep falling, further falling down this path
   so impossible—it feels impossible. Yr stalling.

Every delicate tool you own, is just an extension
   of the hands you’ve honed, memorized positions,
   check off the procedures, go thru each step.
Pray to Mary, cry the way Jesus wept.
   it’s all coming down today, those buildings are falling,
   but you were born for this—you were born for this
   it’s always been here. Yr calling.

You stop yr prayer—and instead plea:
   Maybe there’s mercy out there, but that's not for me.
If there’s one thing that God will grant me,
   please never let me see, oh please,
   another one of those G*dforsaken hospitals.
Not again, because right now, how’re you feeling?
   so impossible—it feels impossible. Yr falling.

Ms. Del Rey says “the world is made for two”,
but her idea of two is some fresh hell;
it’s seems that Lana thinks a girl’s abuse,
is cinematic fodder one can sell.
The other woman sings about her man.
“sO pOPuLIiSt” with flowers on her head.
While some may come from poor & tell the tale,
Del Rey wears being poor like it’s a dress. 
But voices that she channels in her songs,
Bespeak a femme fatale alone, and they,  
Are both no one, and everyone in one.
The guardians of endless summer days.