I’m
       Picking you
                 Picking you
                           Picking you out
And
                          Bleeding you, bleeding you, bleeding you dry with
The
                         Sharp sheers of my too clever coffee-lipstick-stained
Lord
                          And the garden variety scorn you Rose-hipped hipsters
Said
                          Your rosy glasses and tinted cheeks proclaimed, and:
               I’m
                         Casting you
                                     Casting you
                                               Casting you out
The
              Immortal, infallible garden of meaningful
Man
            And his poetry-stained bedsheets and love bites
Has
            Taken to candle lit vigil nights and too tall pedestals, has
Become
            More or less himself, of himself, for himself, for nothing, really,
One
            With smug sadness and the proud self-aware death
Of
            Self-proclaimed martyrdom sold to
Us
            Twenty-five percent off at Walmart.
                      I’m
                                 Taking you
                                              Taking you
                                                       Taking you down
To
                     My level, (game over, hit restart)
Know
                    That you were always player two and
Good
                     Intentions are nothing more than fancy dress
And
                    On your sleeve sit a collection of hearts,
Evil,
                    They pave the way to hell.

Pavlov must be getting old;
His ears keep ringing and he's can't stop,
Can't stop his own spit-up drooling self.

His dog isn't as well trained as he thought,
But Pavlov has run off the pages and fallen out of energy
To do anything but listen to a worse bark than bite

His dog is chasing Schrödinger's cat, he thinks,
But he can't go to the window to check, can't go to see
That perhaps he's only hunting his own tail

And down the hall, Aesop is telling stories to no one,
His words floating across creaky floor board seas
While Occam simply bleeds out in the bathtub.

And Plato, in his man-cave, watches the tv flicker light and shadow
While he wonders about the world he'll never know,
Wonders about the ****** dog that won't stop barking.

And Pandora is coming to collect her matchbox rent,
Tears still in her eyes from a deck stacked against her,
I guess 'cause Chekhov never loved her.

He's holding a gun to his head, eyes clenched tight,
He's wrestling with his own existence,
Challenging the story his god has written.

And Achilles is tripping on his own feet,
And Montezuma has plugged the lavatory again
While Maxwell bashes in another skull.

And Pavlov must be getting old;
His ears keep ringing and he's can't stop,
Can't stop his own spit-up drooling self.

And down the hall,
Schrödinger still can't find that **** cat.

I suppose I'm supposed to be more
Than a tired husk of soul.

I suppose I'm supposed to say more
To fill this empty hole.

But how do you write a silent letter?

How do you sing a tuneless tune?

The sky cracks open like a skull and
White hot lightning pops out like teeth

She's a dragon, and she's breathing fire and
Her smoke of clouds is stained by a teary wreath.

And I suppose she's supposed to be more
Than a moment's will-o'-wisp

And I suppose she's supposed to say more
Than cries, clean and crisp.

But how do you write a silent letter?

How do you sing a tuneless tune?

The worms aren't here to feed the birds,
They just don't want to drown.

And here, they crow, they've made their choice
Between a bullet and a tarnished crown

And I suppose they're supposed to be more
Than Christ's last meaningful meal,

And I suppose they're supposed to say more
Than a final prayer to heal.

But how do you write a silent letter?

How do you sing a tuneless tune?

How do you write a silent letter

When there's nothing left to croon?

Belts and wind and whistling teakettles,
--thus sings the gas-stove daydream--
They were all in the same league,
Forever-time winners of loudest screams.

But there are louder streams to drown in,
Deeper oceans and darker seas with harsher flow.
Moses opened up a red one once, I hear,
Someone whispers the name into another Merlot.

And life ain't fair to poor old Atlas,
He's sitting prostrate on the floor,
And he wonders if the world was worth it,
And he forgets this room ever had a door.

Listen to the static buzz topped with a 'v,'
The only window left for their escape.
The only window that won't open,
But they always denied that it was ****.

John Wayne is dancing by through the night,
And the world fills with his earthly glow.
With scalp in hand and women in tow, he says,
"Son, great oaks from little acorns grow."

And life ain't fair to poor old Atlas,
He's sitting prostrate on the floor,
And he wonders if the world was worth it,
And he forgets this room ever had a door.

Television flicker is the only company to nightly moans,
Reruns of memories and dreams run like paint
And the fumes hurt their eyes and burn their skin
More than the stench of day old saint.

I guess they forgot that skin was more than feeling,
They forgot that eyes were more than seeing,
They forgot that surviving was more than forgetting
And they forgot that living was more than being.

And life ain't fair to poor old Atlas,
He's sitting prostrate on the floor,
And he wonders if the world was worth it,
And he forgets this room ever had a door.

I was born under the sign of

The Forgotten

Destined for dusty shoe boxes: Cut up photographs, Desecrated loves

I am: Nameless
          Voiceless
          Faceless

Because I bought into my fate for the cheap price of:
neglection and bitterness

Inaction is my parasitic friend
                   My spoiled lover
                   My favorite excuse

I have too much
But
Not enough
And
I am too much
But
Not enough
And

I was born under the sign of

The Forgotten

and

This is my anthem