burn **** down, whatever,
don't give a **** to prattle on
in youthless connection;
shown fear in a handful of dust, then
a lotta life on their face.
at least not all go hungry.
transcend dead-time,
know now how to be alive,
to find decisions forgotten of history.
now, walk away with interest at zero;
     stronger than enslaver.
     trying to frolic without
letting time fly, but check it out,
where did these rings come from? like
basic-complacency, sprouted
like grain, like burial flowers
wilted and browned; death in a hand-
full of dust, swept
in circles. tripping
in the muddle-colored puddles
with curious thought,
'When did the line
          move farther up the path?'

sun rising; wail the
sirens of recognition.
tat-tatting away frost.

writer's block, tripping,
killin' dragons a whole life.
inspiration. ****.

starting with periwinkle,
when they say I'm colorblind
I cough a bit;
tarred-up heart, doncha
know, bless your little heart then.
I could run wild, given highs
that rare to lull;
now, a call to cull. I willing,
force the slaved ego.
I said never to capitulate;
how obstinate,      I;
swearing prostrate.
I, crying why?
"To live of metre,
  for to die in metre,   of course."
pretty cold-blooded, a moment
for I when I needs an eye;
prostrate, perfect,
composing ****** structure
in order for I to redeem
a gaze from hand
[when clock tick-tocks]
through wound of perfect grace.
feel all awkward, shut
the door right quick;
"Who the **** was that?"
               Suzie Black,
why you sulking around this I?;
why you balking around some lie?

fumbled getting the key in the
lock. took ‘bout five minutes
before i heard the tumblers click –
nesting in the notch’d metal.
with gentle press, I swung the
door open. light hit me, blind’d,
as my perception bled in constant
to the left. nothing seem’d to have
it’s own place, or space.
i would turn my head from the left,
and the world would be right’d.
stop’d movement,
world bled left, and
i went for the couch.
“Where have you been?”
the maternal commandant.
“Where. Have You. Been?”
    out.
my left-most body
felt stretch’d, felt warp’d.
    out. i’ve been out.
“What’s wrong with you?”
a seconds pause.
“Are you ****’d up?”
she’s got me.
“You are ****’d up,
aren’t you?”
how obvious.
dialogue never left mind
through mouth. knowing better is
ninety-percent of the solution.
of the problem.
“Who are you?”
her voice rising.
“Where is my son?”
her voice peaking.
“What you done with Cole?”
he’s taking a break from this,
this… this reality.
he need’d some time.
she huff’d indignant, and turn’d
to return to a yellow-lit kitchen
where she hots a friend.
both ******, both drunk,
both lost to me through slurs.
    But I am your son;
bleeding left, pupils constrict’d.
    But I am your son;
bleeding left, sour-smelling breath.
    I am your son.
bleeding left, falling right, falling into
the darkness of a thousand-year sleep.

into space with stares
while they fleet along foot-path;
a week's time till it's been
twenty and six times round. and
distraction of perfumed air lingers,
ending season towards thought
that what will come will run on
leaving syllables pathed out
even though return is not expected.
return never expected; actually,
**** Expectations of memory.
reality, now is further truth of
memory than receding ages.

. . make no sound; reminded of the friends loved and left. all the shame to how the fates will rain on you. oh how the days will rain on you. when too much room with the blink of an eye, something surreal, and the paranoia runs deep till anxious at base of soul. lilting. i want to be in freedom now; i will not wait forever; i want to sing till Babylon falls. (somehow i can't get through) why would i lie for. what would i lie for? who could i lie for? all my friends are my enemies and all those secrets that can never die. a little obsessed with death? (but memory) HOWL, *******. (birds of prey that mock the night) oh you ghost i'm craving most; spontaneous breath.

dreamlike sea-swollen
hair; tossled-storms.
you'll ruin this marker.
you'll ruin this life.

dawn sun rising. done.
universal, chilled to bone;
breathing eternal.

fear, not
      waking again;
                cored-understanding.
          fear, found
               pseudo-rational,
   in light of possibility.
           in light of Self-doubt;
           when the Conscience whispers.
                 constant murmurs,
"did you love them?"
                 when shut-eyed,
"will they remember?"
    anxious thought, rampant
                              at ending; yearning,
             rampant in drifting. yearning,
   for the lighthearted, only; yearning,
       from Self's-center, only,
                    there already.

. .  he claimed to be a grid-diver; always sinking before being noticed. claimed himself impressed at this vessel's soul-detachment. once learned, be effective when ready to vanish; when ready to oust self from, well, anything requiring absolute dispersion. now though, feeling, all the leaving has been wasted energy; has been a lesson. of futility through, always learning, but i cannot escape mirrored-judgement. i will always remain near-center, until a vessel's final wastings. we wander not forward with end sought in mind, yet still forward with appreciation in understanding death-in-form already reaches out to affect influence. once ego, death requitted this once infant with affection and no grand-stand when revoked or rebuked of eternity's place upon him. sent loose unto waiting-game, meant for to conquer Sun and Time; death-hands applauding selfish-sincerity. wasting a gracious gift of lifted finger, continue, found lacking in all sincerity while sweating nervous thought of interaction. now, to be more than, well, more so beyond an existential probability. giving up to what knows next, covered in ink, and syncing words below riptide and current, but ******* drowning the vessel shall always over-ride; always over-ride; always over-arrive and come on too strong.
then slip when rebuffed.

shivering autumn;
patient ever patient. waste.
down the road, fleeted.

such space for creation
without strangled-throat;
without pre-conception there
at fettering length. and i want
to smoke this *******
cigarette right here, right
now, where supined, ego
stoking knowing i can't. i
won't, and i'll just come along
down the road and revolt
against own great Ego; i'll
cycle cyclically some later day.
           pretentious ****,
sometime's we need to be hate.
sometime's there needs to
be contradiction; self-made
chaos in attempt to -- ****,
i don't know. i wanna smoke
this cigarette. i could use
to burn a bit; could use for
a moment's blindness.
                   (you're there right now,
            already. a while now)
could use for a moment's
luminescence out from supine sky -
textured dry-wall. want felt in
the bones; about a nic-fit, about
time to smoke this ******* cigarette.

no longer scraping by
on less than best-intensity
hoping to strive
when never forging the effort
required to initiate willpower.
distract yourself into a wholly-
wholesome hell; from never,
to withered creativity
spurned of falsely-fading
memories. remember
to burn out right quick
when dawn rises;
always post-guidance.
(a giant to personify the weak)
to now remember, to now
give away obstinate pleasures,
accepting that,
perhaps -
*******, and say definitely -
there was never a forgotten-name
in a self-pressed image
within range of another's
perception. (exspansing)
feet still stink; grounded
yet? meandering along
patient-timing and aligning.
        "drink water, you growing boy."

originally, you came here to copy
a poem, then there came this
spontaneous *******.
i luck out, and can keep up a
responsibility for the drunk-***
and fu- (*******) saddggoddamn
it i finally got this typer typing. but,
still, why do i keep expecting
someone to come walking in the
front door?; why am i complacent
to thought of some ephemeral intruder.
and, watching eyes hallucinate
from corners, one hell of a talent
by use of self-destruction;
self-evisceration, but how
was that precision of language?
why are you lingering, now,
still here? how
about let it ******* go;
good me like you used to, and
all over-the-place is a kinda
way of life. (feeling wasted;
trashed) there's never been prison,
listening to privileged rock star;
kinda in for ******.
all he did was smile,
and he shook guards' hands.
validating them,
more so to get in any head;
willing patients a preference.
(let 'em guess their illness,
discounts if right;
derisive mocking, otherwise)
now, guessing around too long,
a rise of sun to brighten . . . nope,
segue **** from out your ***:
    In first light, wax poetic.
    In the night, wax tragic.
Paper may burn but
                  Words will escape.
            Lawrence Ferlinghetti;
****** that up, huh, LawF?
bet he wore bowler derbies, and
money-down if a three-piece suit.
                             (betting on vanity)

. . love is shaped, like cities burning; tracing fingers, soot and ashes. (yeah, kinda like that) don't get high off the marker; ****, yeah, we got there through wasting a ****** addict's table.
(hope you ******* read this)
pain is as much coping as it is a distraction; let the **** go. you're not held near-high; you know this. you know; where and what are you? slanted text, and there was given too much effort; too much thought; too much this self. birds of prey that mock the night, blood-howling animals, and YOU ARE NO BEAST. through the darkness, through the night; obviate names from your learned-nature long before the thought of landing. this world made for ending; howl, *******.

day is coming, rain
all the night. tears shed from high.
day is running, gone.

these writings
continued tho-
ught on ident-
ity. in hiding
i had grown -
one side of the
footfalls may -
though hope not -
fall on another's path.
i must go alone, my
writing, found broken
lines, found blurry thought.
awaken. this Reality is to write
the Void; some Muse of Nothingness.

allow us beget
the nigh-times,
when running,
      screaming,
out unto the night;
      scrap the fire in your head.
marvel at emoted removal
from renaissance of self-
implication, mayhaps this
time without screaming, without
Yelling;      times post-passionate.
direct line of sight,
pop the blinds
and come see the reality;
becoming,
always embarrassingly patient,
and upfront representative is flawed.
**** the right thing.
the same exact spot;
the aways self-same.
**** it to loss;
sliced thumb to bone,
luckily the left-hand,
and not the Hand of Creation.
(unused potentiality,
most likely)
and at times,
make it wholly
so unbearable
so that you'll never forget
the purposed-reason
behind changes in survival;
**** a memory on memory on memory;
be cold,
be uncomfortable,
be the resonance
found plucked of soul.

what the **** is the point anymore?

******* cold. early
tea season snow; sun sets soon.
season to retreat.

you are here, now; present and attentive.
blood-tipped pen, to scrawl some paragraph to
give feel of absence. wait, wait, dropped it.
    you are here, now; present and attentive. come
back to that character left to be narrated. (whole
third-person sorta thing.
    you've let to want for a time now. let to a time far outstretched by
initial understanding, or even seen at beginning
doctrination for assistance in hibernation.
    a winter where start; three come-to-gone in pace.

i owe the Universe some ******* poetry.

prattling on, in fit of insanity,
and there was, almost, a
lost teacup of whiskey,
yet saved by practical skill,
and i had just picked up
that cup. this is melodrama.
feeling quite off-place,
comma,
who will ******* abate -
will placate - actuality
if this vessel finds itself
as lost cause?  (guess
question unanswered;
left) promise you, that one,
nor any other cat,
is real. forged truths placed
with mind not prone
to retaliation; generational rest-
rictions for those come second?
(who came second?)    won't be funny.
surprised to continue, but
****, we all saw it, chuckled
effective appreciation.
now, float the dead ones home;
never be good enough,
quietly, just look like
the magazines. just like you.
just like me.

starting, this power that's been so very
missed; longing, staring, as instrument become
effigy. no one tried burning it, though. maybe
a stake pre-posted could have helped with
that; then again, people don't like to be told
where, and most importantly what, to burn in
ritual. some family traditions die hard, or more
so, don't die at all. much like turtles - figure it
out; that's some analaphor. (that's some mis-
pronunciation, huh) and, here's a little add-in:
time will find this half-sheet; something, some
intangible being means to an answer. I never
even posed a question; paradoxical. You kept
me aware when a trip went a little too hard.
i have a timidness when thought turns to losing
this vessel. i'll ******* lose it someday, of course,
mind the blind; there, worlds not shined. hasn't
been but their static for some time. work from
the bottom once more; a henge of stones named
a pyramid - that thought crashed, but a quick
wit could bring us back around to the topic of
catacombs. but, nope. nothing.

returning with response;
returned are the sounds
of Daytimers,
reluctant to rest -
that droning mechanical
metronome,
and voices staccatoed.
what words follow?
(any more resin?)
and, here we ******* are,
with a *******
adventure - when
were so many projects
started? no stupidity,
foreseen mistakes diverted -
averted; reverted;
           perverted?
       (rhyming of the introverted)