Here is the ballad of Web MD,
Self-diagnosing terminal maladies,
My fatal afflictions linger on,
I'm buying more medical texts from Fishpond.

Let's do our own diagnosis,
Teach yourself self-hypnosis,
My fatal afflictions linger on,
I'm buying more medical texts from Fishpond.

Let's sing our ballad of  MD,
Sure we've got terminal maladies,
My fatal afflictions linger on,
I'm buying more medical texts from Fishpond.

That was the ballad of Web MD,
What are today's self-diagnosis,
My fatal afflictions linger on,
I'm buying more medical texts from Fishpond.

Enveloped in this casket of riddled
Darkness, eyes are the only source
Of white, I scratch at them myself.

Extinguish the beckoning light , I
am gorged on the blanket that
covers me, it caresses thoughts

I am entwined in this place inside,
My mind is a web of onyx capturing
Thoughts corroded and entrapped.

The internet, social networking, you, reading this, now.


It’s all about surface value, the judgment of likes and dislikes. It’s all about interests,


"Oh, you like this band?
this movie,
this painting,
this author,
this show,
this *******?"

"Oh, you’re so cool, you’re such an awesome person", obviously.

You will never know me, never know who I am, and with the way this world has shifted,
with the acceptance of this voyeurism of superficial attractions, I’m afraid neither will I.

You’ll rarely know when I’m genuine or when I’m plagiarizing, original or manufactured, real or phony.
But that’s alright, it keeps a distance, it keeps things calm, and safe, and clean.

That’s all we really want. A facade, a dream, the image of our desires, not the manifestation.
We want cold, hard, unbreakable, shiny plastic perfection.

No one wants the warm, moist, moving, ever changing mess that is life, and love, and humanity.

So stay at your computer, stay inside your factory, keep typing instead of talking,
keep pushing instead of feeling, keep staring instead of looking.

It’s okay, it’s alright, it’s now.

*circa 2009

It sits,
As it spins
In the veil of night
It thrives,
As it survives
On the liquefied viscera
Of its prey.

Its many eyes
watch
As its many joints
Crack
Its many arms and legs
Bend and move
As it crawls
And climbs
Silently

It speaks,
Inaudible words
Slide past its teeth
And the venom drips
As it breathes
With piecing fangs.

I dare not say its name.

Here is a spiders web
Strands of rhythem
Being spun by the dead
Where liers come to lie
And the truthers come to die

Heavy wings and heavy thoughts,
It's hard to live and bare
This tangled web in which we're caught,
Threads of darkness and despair.

But yet I see the candle burn
As it flows, a flickering flame,
Engulfs me whole as I learn
To fight the threads and pain.

Although I fear my flame will die,
And I be left alone,
So just incase you wonder why
Somethings are best unknown.

Poetry is a dance
Of woven words
Crafted from the intricate print
Of memory.
Like that of a widow's woven art,
Patterns unveil the melodies
Of our hearts.

Then may we indulge in the fabric
Of love,
And dance upon fair dewdrops.
May we spin the initial swirls
Of sweet silk,
Beneath the shimmer
Of the resplendent moon.

Till the thread coarsens at a core
Of wearied entanglements.
The ghost of silk glows far away
Haunting the distant margins
Of our memories.

Scorch this knot
Of coarse wire,
Lest the dance of rhetoric will cease,
The fine fabric of love will sever,
The melodies in our hearts will mute.
Burn this knot. Blaze it with
the endurance
Of timeworn love.

The dance beckons its final stage,
Where we ignite the warmth
Of familiar eyes,
Lure them into a new dance
Of wordplay.

We are all but weavers
Spinning satin spheres
Dancing in discourse
To the symphony
Of our hearts.

I guess something is better than nothing, maybe we will wait and see
He said I'm the one they call price, I can set you free
the one they go to for advice, on their debauchery
He said nothing is really ever free, free yourself from reality
inside her head a porcelain doll smash up, and torn to shreds
see the broken bones of lovers strewn across her bed
the ****** ***** of the Antichrist, things that don't make any sense
walk with me into the after life, in life and in death

She did something you thought she would never do surprise you
the magic that she spins,trapped me in that web with you
******* on me now and then, but there is no way to win
I'm the one that they come to with the wagges of their sin
knocking at your door soaked in blood wondering if shell let me in
but she knows I can protect her from the demons and darkness within
The parasites and they monsters that crawl under the skin
remember nothing is for free baby, paying waiting to begin

A life spent spinning.
That is the common trait
shared by spiders,
And me.

I’m sure every spider would say,
If only we would listen,
“there is no greater achievement,
Than a well spun web.”

The first giddy rush
As you hang on a fragile thread
That may
Or may not hold
To the scrutiny of nature.

You create  a delicate structure
Of twisted phrases
Hung with dewy embellishments
To distract and awe your audience.

But over time it falls apart
Foundations break
And loose ends show
To disrupt the believable symmetry.

And then you must patiently wait
Until a clumsy foot or hand or arm
Sweeps through and tears it down
Freeing you from the façade.

Just make sure dear spider
That when your web,
Is broken and blamed.
You were not sitting in its centre
Letting it crash down upon you.