#postgrad
slap the box and
call me poison-us-
with fight songs,
not our trees.
The leaves fall
halo-like the root
ground angels that
they are.
Thats something
im gonna say I remember
tires, pavement and small
wet kisses.
Tired, paying and seams
of brain, hitting the floor
dancing. Dancing.
Dance, prance, stamped
on the back of my neck,
nicknamed. Self-proclaimed.
And,
I probably wont remember your name.
The game is in the tough turf,
rough birds, reads yellow on
red, branded
Crimson at birth.
I heard it the first time…
Denny Chimes. I got
soul,
but I am not sold, here.
You no arts kid.
You ***** breathed skid.
You ******* no color bid.
You wise eyed pig.
coonass roux grit rig.
pompous junk drunk jig.
keg king fit for fear fig.
God is in the pavement,
and the Bible is on my belt.
And I cant STAND the fact that
you need help.
roundin up the wheels
of my drinks in hand
till the cows don't come home.
I dont want to be alone,
sing till the loam becomes sand.
And its quick,
to fall far from plan.
You're skinny and you misstep,
but I kept the ideas on head,
not a.
I walked down that sidewalk,
liked I owned the place.
And I did,
when I was not the case…
I screamed at your window,
a few months later.
I hope you heard me.
I DONT CARE IF YOU’RE A STAR!
did you hear me?
My skin may bubble,
but its not allowed to scar.
And it doesnt
because I said so.
If I could go back,
I would heal from you.
Blue.
Loves in
two,
more
than
two…
less than two.
One.
One decision I did not make,
changed my fate.
a date.
Now labeled and baited.
again and again
and again.
Tell me of my sins.
I wanna smash that
bullet between your ears.
Its been jamming around for years.
You wanna root my fears
in what is up here, perhaps
appears
before mirrors.
shards halfway into you,
we broke through and became one.
Tears, terrors,
and pinkie swearers before God
(waittryitagainImeanit)
BEFORE GOD…
I love you.
Above all,
I adore you.
implore you,
to see this,
in true
living
lovers.
Count my confessions
one
two
three
its too many to say
what I ran from,
but,
I can name the cracks
in the concrete
four
five
six
I didn't pick up any
thick licks of honey
ringing the horns that
sounded the years
of long bad ticks.
I don’t have
any
new tricks
seven
eight
nine
im fine
ten
and I've hurt you again.
Thats a lie and I just might win.
sly over there, a violin of concocted *** coils
of Cmon— let me hear that again.
Your songs are lucid and the spit is acid.
Thats why I became his main assettttttttttttttt
tttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt
t t talk is cheap
but my body is cheaper…
You looked at me that way,
spinning my hay for whats its worth
and at least
you fed it to your horses.
everything runs its courses,
the forces
carry my wheels packed with my life
in a bag.
Jet lagged from flights to hell
and back-packed ready
to see my God in the pavements— away close to home
with the Bible on my belt.
I felt
the tilted welt
split its rock
and crumble tumble down my throat
into my gullet
swift like velvet, memories tell it…
That my fiction is now Non,
and the friction is gone—down the road
with me.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 2:41 AM UTC
Ten minutes ago I cried
wracking, heaving, red-faced,
closed eyes, no-sound sobs behind
my hamper in the corner, craving him
even though he sleeps uncomfortably
4,000 miles away 6 hours
into my future, hostel walls akin to
secrets within--
twenty one pilots blaring
in the space behind my face
and above my throat, unsettling
the anonymity of my lifestyle, indebted,
growing thinner than my frame as
we both fall to the circumstance of youth
chanting the war cry in pub crawls
and hub drawls where his best friend
sits across from the smug smoke in
between cherry lips,
our kissing knees
begging me
to repeat
history--
in an unadulerated, first-time
draft ripped open and stretched
for my next big "portfolio"
that's worth more burning by my own
hand as I run blistering (drunk) through
a hallway which will never be mine like
the bills-rent-direct-deposit rinse repeat
cycle spinning my eyes into glazed over
acceptance of my lot.
But he still sleeps out of reach
while I'm too paralyzed behind this
******* hamper.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
He strides up to my desk, beaming
like I'm the winning lotto
ticket he wants to rub off in his truck--
"Well, aren't you as cute as a button."
Puke creeps up my throat while
his creased eyes clearly try to
conjure the image of my naked
**** I thought I cleverly disguised
by a collared grandma blouse.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?"
Heart racing from the effort to keep
my mouth shut and my cheeks
pale, I see other people
whisper, widen their eyes
at his use of "cutie" and "dearest"
while he winks repeatedly--
apparently a Morse code for
I'd-do-you-baby.
I practically feel the slime
slipping down my outsides,
but I give him a smile.
-because I have to-
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
Dead from 8-4
Fingers sore
Weak core
Faxing war
Still poor
Nothing more
Out the door.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
Faceless patients forgetting their patience
How does this computer work?
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
It would seem, that at some point, people got bored.
No longer do the masses beat down my door.
Though I love being lonesome, I long for companions
To keep up my spirits and never abandon-
A knock on the door! My breathing grows quicker.
Just UPS. A package delivered
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC