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Trevor Gates Dec 2018
That other part of me is hemorrhaging again

You can see it if I pull up my shirt

It’s just below the scar on my stomach

Don't you see it?

That’s ok; no one does the first time

You have to get used to the idea that something

Something lives inside your body

Other than yourself.

It’s like letting the pus of an infection

Or the twisting the water out of a damp towel

Counting the minutes, are we?

Those cracks in the medicine cabinet are getting bigger

By the day

The walls are hollowing out

As much as you to picture me,

You’re going to be distracted by the woman walking the other way

Crossing your path wearing black stockings,

a low trim skirt

And a pale face that bears no eyes.

I’m past the elevators, in apt# 276—

Ignore the violently shuddering man in 274

Like an idling phantom, turning to catch you

Our synthetic blood laced with FDA-approved preservatives

The bass boosted from trunks of Cadillac coup-devilles

Synths layers—then delayed, and phased through mixer boards

Faces given masks to paint and supply over masses with

Industrial strength dream pop for Death metal Floridians

Mesa Boogie rectifier amps thrashing and impregnating ears

Scotch eggs soft boiled and left in saucers of cream and Irish whiskey

Children walking single file face towards modern Auschwitz.

Snail trails over rotten apple cores

Left by riot girl Eves

And warned by Adam O’ Conservatism

Ahead of corporate delusions of grandeur

The people raise banners to spoon-fed malcontent fools,

Hiding the holes in their teeth,

Using metal clamps for their jaws and joints

Hosing down any person not white in appearance

And pigmentation, putting the carcasses in  

Meat grinders and rubber soles

The devil in the frying pan, ready to harden arteries like teenage *****.

An incoherent mess of self-indulgent metaphors

Spewing from rushing fingers tips on clashing keyboards

And aching, sore, tense back muscles,

And weakened nimble fingers

From a late 20s savant or loser

Unfulfilled, unquenched, unsatisfied, but—

The time will come when we shine and when we reap what we sew

And live lives that we always wanted for ourselves

But the longer we wait the older we get,

and the days don’t last as long

The weeks fly by

And the eternal year of our youth is

but the quick and fleeting year of our age

At one point does the ambition and aspiration,

fade like our energy in our bodies?

We learn to live with disappointment

and join the herd of others like us

And praise the idols of the limelight

The industrial age for the modern American economy,

For when the night has a thousand eyes

And we’re a thousand kisses deep

And we shed tears only angels can envy

We’ll know what sorrow is

captured on film and described in books

Where literature can emphasize—

illustrate with text what paintings couldn’t

It’s a stupid septuagenarian fantasy that fades

With the vagrant woodsman covered in ash and coal

Roswell interstellar lights escaping over the 1950s desert

And the roads smelling of sulphur and shrimp

Crystallized cathedral spires

I’ll get naked for a dive bar lunch of psychosexual deviants

And Warhol-esque color coding mixed drinks under neon flickering

and horse fly buzzing

And clubs to dance till the apocalypse can edge our lust

Seek fulfillment in the retro ultra-nuclear fusion reactor made up by

Technobabble neuromancers sitting in platinum rooms waiting
for the show to be picked up for a revival on cable 25 years later.
We’ll run the blade against the grain and find that soft spot

For the blackened metal to merge with flesh

and can call itself bone when we know it’s all just really

Trevor Gates Oct 2017
Out of this world and through burned storybooks

Vespers and vapors of death-rattle breaths

Turn to birth cries only mists can hear

Through the chasm of her eyes

Like dark pits of asphalt

On a rainy night road

Wet and open.

We’re ghosts to a passing plane of shifting lives

Where broken glass crunch like egg shells

Under leather boots with steel toes

Worn by long torso-less patrolmen

Speaking in evangelical tongues

And slipping

The Silver-screen silhouettes telling me sweet nothings

And invisible people play moonlight sonatas

With skin-covered cellos and djembes

Near waterfalls and deep valleys

Of green and prosperous dreams

And life.

Animals to the metropolis, Human to the paper jungles—

Controlled, creative chaos next to whimsical

notorious passivity; it’s eclectic like tea.

Where do these words take us?

Where do worlds take you?

Everywhere and nowhere

But mostly

Trevor Gates Oct 2017
All is fine, on the other side

Misshapen cats and dolls

Those tricksters have it all

In empty spaces and pillow cases

Lighting striking twice, now thrice

Creating avenues that illuminate

handsome jackals that *******.

All is fine, when dead inside

The furnace lights itself

From the pain I solely dealt

Naked and afraid; with complete dismay

Nothing as long as that eternal song

commemorating an epic tale

blurred by time’s murky veil.

All contrived, within my mind

Galvanized heart beats

Occupy walls of streets

To love and not be loved

What remains from ink stains?

A tongue well-lubricated with wine

Spewing quotidian antidepressant lines

All is said, while coaxed in red

The deniers of vices both flesh and soul

Instilled from the burnt bridges toll

So torn and *****, so wanting of ***.

So lavishly beaten. Pleasurably defeated.

A thousand eyes poking from brick ovens

Summoned through muck and devil covens

All inside, my guts and mind.

Lungs full of American Spirits cigs

Scalped head like an old lady wigs

Birds of a feather, doused in boiling weather

Flock together with kids forever

All my exes live lives I could not give them

And I live alone, denying I miss them.

All is fine, on my side.

All is fine, really.

All is.

Trevor Gates Oct 2017
Lately, I’ve come across odd characters and purveyors
Players and soothsayers of such fallacy; yearning and moral foliage
that stirs up something inside of me.
Something that is not inspiration but equally so
Just and robust—inescapable even,
unsure what the word is…

We’re all owners of a false paradise.
That warm place between life and death
It’s meant for a love one that never takes it away
or purposely fills in the gap left in ruins:

A home underneath the veins and a place beneath that as well
A prison made of tendons
With ligaments attached to heart-shaped locks—
Nooks and crannies in the corners of joints and bones.

It’s the lust for life
And the bargain for a soul
Less than zero *****
Given to while in the cold.

The realization remains peripheral
Nonetheless opaque and visceral
Painting a mordant but striking visual
That sharply penetrates the individual.

Pharmaceuticals help dislodge the jaw and
tempt the ravishing worms of intestinal intrigue
to slither out from the bowels and say their piece.
“Hi, I’m anonymous and I’m an addict,
But only by the broadest, modest definition of the term
More like an ill-advised profession,”
they say with a subtle wink in their sponsor’s direction.

It’s the lust for life
A fierce addiction
With hedonists as victims
Catered to a primal submission.

They’ll hate me; fear my desire to split from myself.
I’m an empathetic Jekyll, an apathetic Hyde.
A tainted Seraphim, a saintly devil-kisser.
One half a feral Bonnie with an over-****** Clyde.

And when all is said and done
with carnage coming out of the wishing well
You’ll see that I am both a vision
Of Heaven and Hell.
Trevor Gates Feb 2015
It’s 1:21am on a Thursday night and there’s no rain
where there should be.
There’s no weeping over the seven-colored earths
and the erosion of the skin is building up.
I have a mouth full of stumbling words,
nervous and absurd,
like wax flowers and plastic china cups;
bottles of placebos.
I have masks on the walls
and body parts on the floor.
Dim light from violet lampshades painting worlds
with minimal effort, but with profound meanings
that pretentious collegiates speak over bearded elders
while stuck in fishbowl towns, separated from the oceans of
metropolitan beliefs.

    Pulling nail fibers from fingertips with crooked teeth,
    a habitual ritual christened from a darker half.
    Waves of feral multitude plunging the streets
    As riots of people made of fire chant the names of fallen angels
    And personified martyrs.

Episode after episode of plot-thickening exposition,
the weight of which is but a feather to the pull of the moon.
To **** my privates to a saddened resolution that’s
sweeter than a mutual **** for the sake of love.

    Penetrating me with needles as thick as bones,
    Brittle as sculpted phalluses made of teeth.
    Drilled out from the cavities and clamped iron
    that make me grind and ******
    In my sleep
    out of nightmarish extremity.
    Or persistent calamity.

She’s dead, wrapped in plastic
And fountains are pouring mercury
Profuse silver-stained drooling
Ostracized from sane certainty

     The thunder of guttural bellowing
     In the chasm of bed sheets,
     where leather bound demons
     split ***** hands under ice knifes
     Muffled voices
     And embryo faces
     Tearing out primal smiles
     Tied with black laces
     In a public amphitheater.

She’s dead, wrapped in plastic
And fountains are pouring mercury
Second time I’m seeing it drool
With a last moment of certainty.

It’s 1:41 on a Friday morning and there’s rain.
Trevor Gates Jan 2015
3am, the epitome of perpetual night.
        The hour of the wolf in sheep’s clothing
        Alabaster clocks, ebony needles for hands
        Walking to one-second beats on dripping wall paper,
         exposing the blood in the house and meat in the pipes.

I see shadows of the malevolent past:
        Rings of smoke and ***-stained magazines
        Lies woven into eyelashes, sealing them shut
        Bleak figures made of shattered glass
        Transparency, their only truth.

And dawn shows the new day
        A stage of light like sweet Arcadia
        The pages written for me to walk upon
        Every hour summarizes a year’s worth of turmoil,
        an abstract of vicious malcontent youth.

Standing against usurpers and cattle-branding parents
        I will not allow the false punishments to continue
        Nor the raging strangulation subjugate my woe
        Sweating fingers penetrate the holes
       All while pleasure and pain in endured.

As the sundial strikes noon, life meets the middle
        Leaves falling off trees while amidst the winter
        Hands tired and dry; legs crooked and frail
        I will wipe the dust of my friends away from me
        Like nothing and everything in between.

The tomorrow won’t come this time
        The prelude to eternity will be a last gasp of air
        And I’ll welcome the suffocation like a lost brother
        And abhor the condemnations like a pious father
        And I’ll think fondly of that fading mother
        As the light of day segues to a haze of fire
         I’ll take those reluctant steps that I must
         Ravel my life’s threads into a warm coat
And I will meet you at that cold and violent dusk.
Holy metaphors Batman!
Trevor Gates Nov 2014
“Lucratively tedious” is what I called him.
That odd-ball collector of street-wise poets
Bulking up the lost devil anthologies while
Drowning black coffee with wordsmith stoics
Ready to deal a winning hand
at a moment’s notice.

The carnal majesty of fever blizzard erotica,
Stories penned with the sweat on oily skins.
The curtains of neon phantasmagoria
showcase psychosexual fiends and harlequins
Sing away raw vocal cord fire while I’m
dancing with Queens of glamorous sins.

He had that red tail swinging in the rain
She watched, the emissary of jaded seduction
With pale skin and leather lips abundant
Stroking hair full of snakes and destruction
With a wardrobe fit for 1980s metal scenes
As he in turn supplemented instruction.

It’s those bedlam vices creeping through the creases
Playing in our heads like a thousand movie reels
Desired fantasies mutated into corrupted realities
Shameful like the artificial chemicals we call meals
Some things need to be ruined to be appreciated
Just Like ol’ Lucy in her stiletto heels.
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