Disregard and reject me
with disinterest
since you can't tell I'm just depressed

every start
waiting form
every essay
waiting to be born.

I is in progress
or out of service.

Chants from hearts, that can't repent
-I hear from every bar, in soho
and lament
wading the streets
I see
sanctioned off
where I expected sheets of steel to fall
-from the sky

Is this religion?

Dormant disco *****
still turning in sleep
as big as the sun
and so they repeat

and trash, floats towards
then past, the bin

each platform captured within
as a pagan amulet;
persistence permits
and I await initiation

or the decision to elect I leave and project-
across golden maps fading brown, the endless claps on ears that drown.
An incorporated business I suspect awaits a future of decent respect.

everyone shouting "just let it happen"

and then at last a log cottage or cabin I built with my two hands-cremated where the stumps still stand. Of a series of misfortunes I depict this was to be the one I loved the best, for it was robust and could last. It would begin suspended in detention and later appear on murals and epitaphs. As solidified commands.

Graffiti, graff and moss would all overwhelm a tired future of eternal past whilst the wind whistled back through the cracks- "just dance" and "laugh".

Frozen, floating
in my tumbler,
my Life preserver.
filling the hole
of the disc's cylinder
becoming something
of lumber
and
Timber!

Crashing with
onto collapsable bed
collapse
something I give
uh oh, I'm
tired
and put me to sleep

Watering the leaves
amongst other things
I see
Inspiration
and ooh,
my poor Liver

I stretched
and my head shook
and a fragment of dust fell on my screen
and I felt dead silence

I had thought it before-
if there was anything happening in the silence
if people who sat there
were instead mounted
in some egotistical endeavor

in the distance and out the window
I began to see the beginning
of a stationary UFO
and the idle suspension chords
of the stadium below
and the light above
and down they glowed.

I saw buildings
that came in phases
instead of the pages
I am meant to read
my flatmate nagging me
et ce n'est pas possible
with such a scope of the city

and the day turned to a pale blue gray
and the sun waded away
down the back of this library
in which I could not read

I know we all
love perfect geometry

so there I laid
making sense of the scene
staring at the machine
resting incomplete
and knowing- it needs me;
I am the missing piece

But then I wondered
which part would I be
resting above the bicycle seat?
crunching the cogs-
and hogging all the good teeth
but no-
instead disguised in the frame-
-in the open triangle-
-under the icon-
-under the handlebars-
-a part I don't know the name-

but the one trying to make ends meet.

Oh narrative where have you gone? For I have looked long and wide for the stories of crumpled pages, crushed and ripped from the notebook.
Tossed utensils in bitter dissatisfaction, the romance and dining room etiquette. The mysteries of discovery and love and journeys and paths. Where has the classical romance fled in desperation? The aimless prose of life without purpose- the vagrant dolce vita/et decorum est. stories of huffing men of androgynous battles of bamboo shoots that bloom.

For it is science fiction that grabbed the attention of the masses- the road and where it led. And then also one without purpose. This is how love would be found- floating distantly in space with a raging discontent and somber acceptance of the next assignment due whilst Chopin plays instead of the blue Danube and there, a second sun would be found adjacent to two walls not a corner but more so a crease curiously waiting and the light would shine up and divide into two separate circles and beneath the boundaries of each, a shadow. And the sun would know darkness.
Oh narrative where have you run to? Or perhaps we have run from you.

Since he had gone mad with the passion. He was thinking out of body. He found neither a gentle caress nor the light pet was enough to express it.

Speaking in third person since his over soul was taken over. He found it was a cycle vicious and human that had him possessed. For every trip was soft, as it was grappled with.  To never remove its placement and to come close to strangling it.  It was nothing of a rational life nor mind.  The body to fall behind and under it would go. Almost too desired the eternal embrace; eyes always closed, To dream its perfection, Eyes always open To witness it.

It was no leap of faith, perhaps trust at its best, but instead of claiming it was of things above we called it love. Something much more close and controlled.

An Irish tap
Between east and west
And still thin sticks exist
And small clouds that
Come in small
And Leave out tall Japanese trees

Ai Wei Wei and his Adam's apple
Tunnel through the French catacombs
And the universal plateau

A desert awaits with needs
Everglades and tall Japanese trees

Elated as daisies and semi tones
touching yellow bones

Fabric scrapes of the lint and
intermittent highways

Make shift ufos with clamoring
pans as protective plans or deterrent
answers

Glamorous
And amorous
Voids the ear
Conversation Awaits
Looking forward
And the rest is history

When I was younger
My mother
wouldnt buy me a gun
or a dog
or anything fun.

However with an expensive taste
I would feed my moth my cashmere vest
then that didn't fit
Only to encounter my long lost love bank; Mathilda the stray cat!
And mind you, collarless and deep in debt,
I'd find my moth
and feed her that.

Who walks with a tall cigar.
Aiming to spite the fate of a former affair.
He found height to be something to reach for outwardly, as a street instead of stars. As practical desires and the successes of a lateral man are not evident as those of a dream but instead a carefully plotted seam.

Deep inside my Tum
Whether I am lifting a Van
Storm clouds above
A damp weatherman

Tension hooked in by the side
trampoline
suspending the moon
in our wildest dreams

Demented is not a subordinate
grey
nor subbed to explain,
But instead every color there is
And self evident;
Cream:
Which is no tone
But texture to grow.

So stop with the divination
and calling my name

I'm right here

On this, honest
Double take
I'm looking forward

And not clinging to dreams
Ones I must obey and perform
the practice of wishful thinking for
in the name of
A mighty god

When I am right here

So stop the divination
And name Calling

I'm alright and I know it
I didn't need you to tell me that
I was another thing to worry about
Reluctantly finding the answers in my subconscious

I will sooth say
Loosening the gates
And letting all the folks in,
Into my humble castle
With exotic carpet hospitality
All are welcome

And we will be friends
And join forces
Without illusions of sums greater than wholes
But with a purpose to share what's worthless and worth all

In the Library

sitting for hours

and I waited for something to happen

tired and agitated
I lifted my flowers and sticky fingers

arranged, into to gentler
and more efficient
bouquets

I left through the weighted silence
that pulled on the room
like gravity
which couldn’t go unnoticed

before leaving, making my small contribution
that was modest,
mediocre, humble
saving a tree and shutting off a light
a bumble bee and it worked

I thought you were more like other females I understood perfectly

And you werent
and thats what I wanted

split teeth in romance,
empty gaps not in lack

I wanted to touch my nose against
yours

and I would have to recognize ours might not fit so perfect

so whilst I imagined

my backlight dimmed
and I was more certain
that I was what I wanted
to be liked by others
And not remain Hidden

I wanted to say I was so sorry that I lived so far
In a New Jersey accent and feel the words slant

My sweet, pretty, well versed commodity;

This was to become my mistaken novelty and spectacle
that I will have felt I should not have lent

To anyone else. For this was no prize,
and not a second hand desire.

This was of the most simplest love to provide.

Laying in bed with you using me as a pillow to trust in youth

I now laid in bed alone and thought of you

and wondered how I might of soothed better,
not seemed to have used you,
not faced the truth,
to lead on to lose.

Now you were gone
And moved on
but instead I seem to feel
the distance grow in my chest
and I know I am responsible
that we lost the will
so I am sorry
I still live so Far

walk into room from shower
Write message to hopeless love interest on Facebook
comb hair
wonder if I used to lose this many when I was younger
make a neat pile to see if its a substantial amount
eh
itch in ear
walk to bathroom
consider if i should see a therapist about anxiety because of potential hair loss
grab 2 q tips
return to room
cleaned ears
chose to ignore it
seen 4 minutes ago
No reply

Some of us come as studded earrings carved with the occasional crack. As a hairline receding. Shaved to make old age come with ease. As the small hands well kept of young adults to be respected. But most, instead of the stone something more rounded glass perhaps but more precious and delicate. With an eye that has yet to become what it has seen. Washed up. But washed none the less. Picking up scent as a wet towel. But this one was the youth. Just aloof a fool to follow as perhaps the sand upon we stand.

as day shifts                                                                                                                   and the longer you stare
to night, security lifts                                                                                                                           into the air
from my sight.                                                                                                         the more convinced you are
Now begins the                                                                                                                that something is there
extensive fight.                                                                                                                     and if you look hard
one imminent                                                                                                                            then you will find
and brutal.                                                                                                                                             that in fact,
Not of the Mace,                                                                                                                you've lost your mind
but of the Mind.
Though pain,
does ensue.



           by the
gloved hand's shadow
behind your head,
foot, neck and eyes,
above your hair
and just behind
your shoulder.
Darkness seems to
take on different
shades as you stare,
the void nothingness.

Color sells on a carousel
spinning round
flashing hands in front of
children's
faces

We so often forget the muses are found in the youth.

so bring me again
to that quiet seaside that I found
comfort in

Bring me again
to that smoldering cold shouldering
thing you do called a sin,
neglect.

I knew enough
that falling

Down these little steps
was enough
to break my neck
maybe strip my skin
or hit my hip

and never walk again

A time for things vile and sublime
turquoise and lions

but perhaps panthers instead
would raid the forest

And instead of sleeping
at night
forges the pristine plight

one of courage and control

of risk, yet a roll
and a flowing water fall

and amongst
other things divine
to recall
the sun to rise
not in the day but night

We prefer
indifference
things homogenous

though we can  still shake them up
coming to terms with
being alone

Grazing off the Screen
the little things that you sometimes wrote
I came to collect and keep close

So slow, does my lung breath
as a palpitating tremor
shaking
and stirred within
the mind that thinks

"when will it come?"

In expectation
desperation
dire attention
is required
to keep
My tears from crying

this dialectic
meta-dates.
I dictate:
"will I detect"
in rhetoric

"if I shall have expected it to arrive"

In sugar cubes
complete, and on time
as diamond brick streets
to tumble down as ice to melt
down my cheeks into my mouth
they leak


or welled up in pools
or on diving boards
with clay platforms
spongy stone floors

Blowing back and forth the reeds
to feel the river pour
as a wheat mill to turn in torque
to establish the width and paddled
chore to show off as a nimbly plotted
game of over lapping arrows and empty treasure troves;
of the destitute dialogue dominoes.

We speak so ludicrously of our losses
wishing our condolences:
a useless phrase.

- - to make the differences
living wishes we must expect
and expect to give.

Sometimes I wonder how clouds can move so slow

and we know they are moving

but still

sometimes they seem

so

still

I see folks sit in Solids
I have retired
and went back to work
some entire, image
is too generous to forgive or have received

for torn faces do I see
ones of more healthy regimes
to begin and end
not in a day dream
but in a nightly sleep
and daily score

ones of impending towers
to drift to the sea
and wish forever more
to be

the slithering concoctions
on a writhing rock den
of pain and empathy
will supersede

and others who possess
such unnamed beauty
are possessed

and instead to find
its for the best
to relieve of said tension
and maintain as a suspension

does it quiet down quite like the boat built for thrones. quilt in a flashy pattern to hone those that moan in distress to a tone that goes without oars. Ours Uranus envied. tightly like the slipknot that slowly brought the cone to breath.  The cone held depth but no more than the test we cheat and skip fast like all the rest. arrest me nay but may it be known there was no one that groped this 20 dollar bill tighter than any other mans addiction. hopefully one day we believed. but probably a night, this endless feed would fulfill its fight. return to a swarm but perhaps alone, remove the breath that basks afloat this bone.

quick to a dust.

proud as sun.

your goodbye, a smile. and a wink that was won, maybe you felt it. close and come near. but maybe distant, hidden, and nonexistent was it, like your fears. slipped from the pool off the diving boards divorce. we felt its return to fame as a belt on the mane. all was quiet on the sunlit stage. silhouettes to a frame and my cranium to the cane. like a gap was made. in the space, now what remained was a scar on my head where the hair was shaved.

light and it worked.

but still had doubt in our dour faces, tears tumbled out.

and then soon, we become confused.

were the lights on the streets those of the moon? when could we find them slip through the grass. on a tired binged morning would I sleep at last? was it past the noon in the night we prayed. is that the question? is there any redemption, am I too tense then, for the 9-5 man to realize his wage? is the question the question or the answer we seek. it pressed against the kidney we guessed, and then flipped we questioned was it the appendix. or the pancreas. kings cross saint pancras would suggest rest was not the best option.

we sought cooperation. none we got but maybe a salt shaker flipped, one grain above the edge,  95 proof, 51% off the ledge, weight against, the bourgeois rent, patience spent, and the place went. weary eyed gentleman. welcome then to the court. you should have all received then, the letters we sent in envelopes  with stamps and other bores. spiraled with a speed down the barrel we swore bent. but soon, evident, to be straight like all the rest.

Is it hard to breath fire?

I always wanted to know.

quick like baskets.

cross legged with the ivy
silhouettes come clear
the wear isn't there
and it seemed never was ever as thin as a hair.

Hasina had gums of a prune colored play dough, much like the type which he used to mold and model into similar contraptions and cases. Contrasting with the teeth of a superb suburban plaster, the ***** contusion continued its conversation. Collecting admirers and adolescent adonis’ innocent of their sins. Since the inoculation, passed away, a pretense to nervousness approached the very essence of our chest; the bead of the brooch where we found the philtrum too close to the nose. Curling inside its own bare curves. A bed without sheet, hindered, harnessed, the horse dragged on.

We soon found that the things we feigned to hate would come close to fame, In a magazine cover sheet, handed in late.

Hasina, and her mother, certainly did not suppose that that beneath the floor boards, neither harm nor concern would be discovered. And neither was. With the way their will worked things became distributed. Disturbed guests of unwanted presents and gifts soon re-sent to other more malleable means of hospitality.

Hungered as the hundredth wolf come to late. He too howled, but not at the moon, or rather not its simulacrum of a glowing truth, its silver light, or any movements its clearly showed. Growing loose the tumor slipped out, slowly. And with a plop, pressed against the walls, The jaws dropped and the mason jar closed and posed on exhibition for lessons, and interests, obsessions, dreads, things grotesque pressed against the walls.

To be captured, resting above the skyscrapers. Where in the hours of dawn, space overlaps, a frowned pace of a clock grows fondly of the time that is lost and past.

Down Below
Where it was too dark
You Would Follow
and it was all so
indecipherable
For you to know
what it was you liked or ever wanted.

Preferences seem like a joke
or some volatile masking smoke
that soon leaves
when you can identify what you need
and soon you love it all
after hours of hate
Was there ever this fate
or was it a choice this whole time
then the decision was so difficult
but why?

Fate is a water that this stream has seen before
long since it was ever formed
and left the second after it was scorned
and some how stays
like some cold warmth
that chokes you
to warn you you might get soaked.

I feel uncomfortably cold talking to dead love
doing things I dont want to
and, feeling shoved
into the future.
Into paths, lifestyles,
chosen for me
not that escaping would make me free

I could run
but what from?
everything?

Where men are gay for their beers,
and never integrated with the world’s clock.

Where men **** away their fears
on a wall only as big as the spot
they need.

All these fields
and the health they yield
all mushy and dead
from the crops
that would from the veins of grain, rot.

wrestle with the puzzle
with only your finger
or maybe a single straw cold glance

Maybe a bed of saw dust
would fix the pain in your Head.

No feather pillows
to comfort and cradle the mind.
to address the metal wounds
poverty to shelter me
and never too soon
if the distance of this curl in the sheet
might seem as distant
as this scene
as the movie passes it plays in
double, half, real time

As the flat valley
where a palm tree grows
in a puddle in my palm.

Mended the electric circuit
of the frequency of your body and memory

Finally slicing that grain of rice.

for the parted message like a divided sea,
fragmented slowly, evaporated

stuck in this resistor.

that makes it so tedious the final drop of condensation
finally becomes
a summer ants
last
breath
on a cold winters day or perhaps it was so little
like the smallest petal
falling down
as the pedal of a bike
cycling
up and down
through the largest
park
or maybe a roses thorn lifting the dirt up
ever so much
that a bit of dirt
amongst the frost
would rise up
the loudest sounds
as the heaviest dirt filled cloud
one this frozen water
could no longer hurt.

Sleep,
Breath
Heavy
Disease
Eats every
Seed
Everything
I needed
Slipped from reach
There it stayed,
On a clingy moss that grew off the cliff .
There it layed,
As a tired cat in the sun.
With teeth long as a trees.
It finally signed a treaty
Where the body meets its end.

No motives.
Plot.
Paths to follow.
Into that thick light green patch that would seem to never end.

Not a pulse or shadow, to follow into a light or wall.
"Its staying tonight, and that is all."
For when it wakes the second one will be what you have become.

Chicken has always been
there for me
I have my strobe lights
as police
and backyard decorations

ear buds in
and so it begins:

A true beat
is all I need
Long drives
that turn into streets

If the switch is clean
then touch the twitch

"I'm waiting"
from my bedroom door
For all the love I can offer
That is what I deserve

But now only in a dream
Magnified, this is the beginning

no better time to start
beer is my drink
"I party hard"
"I'm a Machine"

Ill play by your rules
I dont have my ID
But you let me in
"For the win"

I'd prefer to not have to correct
-Then you are biting my neck.-
The type-os in the morning

So I am on top
of things. Cup in my hand
but my cooled sweat gland
says this is fall or spring
but no club of a constant winter

On my way home
But I still want the boom

I want this song
on repeat
a better deal than up the street
"ACE!"
and all those cliches

(No I don't want this to end if I haven't found a special friend so goes the story of the personal party)

Better beers for the same price
and for the time being this shall consume my life.