I scribbled little unintelligible notes on a scrap of crusty paper

I messed up ******* and felt that sleeping made me hateful.

I never rested until sunrise faces me and blinds my eyes.

I've never tested just how hard life is but this morning I'm going to try.

I'm a constant and thought I was seeking harmony

I bought it all and ******* stances are what has found me.

Only perfection is acceptable

Only accepting that brings peace.

Only staying still will set me free...

Only nothing makes me see

I set the precedent that sent my body reeling

I know it stole my heart and soul

but still I'm peeling back the layers.

Because I don't know, and I sure don't show it

but I'm blowing it *******

I'm stealing time from golden stables

and I'm going to steal the show.

I've written my prayers on a piece paper
kept in abalone shell.

I've written my fears on human fingers
and I use them for my spells.

I've written one and one half
how to feel as well.

And I'm smitten by the fact and thought
that burning love can dig my well.

A poison well for poison people,
that no one wants to drink.

I poisoned only evil people
and my well is where they drink.

I'd decide to liberate, and decriminalize my *******, but no one seemed to care.

I've always had honkin' *******, and they made a lot of people stare.

Soaked white shirts don't hide honkin' ******* on fat boys at the pool.

But my ******* don't make the headlines because they don't make layman drool.

I've worked much harder on sounding off than making sounds,
and that's not making me as well rounded as I thought I'd be.

So, i'm gonna see what sorts of things that make people want to hear,
because if I'm hearing what they're feeling, then they'll hear just how I feel.

I inverted my cast iron pan while getting my cake batter ready

And ladled in globs of batter against mirror black

I stacked fruit into corners to get nice and crusty

And I'm burning inside to get fat.

I dug 6 graves 1 foot deep

For cupcakes that I make

I keep making them, even though the holes get steep.

I cup my makings into cardboard cartons
and I started marking little messages in my cupcake pardons.

In this evening I have decided
That milk and marriage goes well with porridge.

I managed to surge and outsource our storage issue,
I made it pass us, and I still wound up missing you.

I've made it past us, and yet I still wind up missing you.

In digging a pitch garden made with stitches of ruined charcoal
I sowed into ten bowls made of silver
Ten showmen, made of clay and soul.

I knew enough to know I didn't have a second to have for myself first.

Still, it's worse to know I thirsted for a patchwork portion of stable
little points, painted on a thrift store surface.

I didn't care how clean or worn it was,
because it always does the same thing
and it stings my eyes
and dyes my curtains

It brings my lies
and paybacks certain.

Not knowing is enough.
Showing feels too tough.

I baked my show sinew, and stuck it in a stock ***.

It's a lot.
By god it is.
Caught in needlepoint necks makes my life something I could give.

Splintering sounds
mashing in rock slides

Spending a town's
worth of gold
on iron oxide

To explode
TO EXPLODE
with all out nitrate

To erode
TO ERODE
all of time; wait;

Here it comes near!
Here it comes faster!

Rusty Gold, Rusty Gold, your only disaster!

Rusty Gold, Rusty Gold, he'll make you life end faster!

My crush made me a stupid house made out of cardboard.

Because she is so stupid, she rushed her feelings, and made a made up world that she stole from frenetic fantasies and little xanax pills.


I was stupid too, and cooled her off with *** and comfy mattress pad because I felt like a badass for having such a badbitch in my comfy covers just because she liked my ****, and was too thick to think about how radical it was do spend all of her love with a crazy bull dozer like me.

I thought with all four of her welfare made eyes she could see just how beautiful and disastrous you have to be to get on the hilt of god's golden sword.

It's not beautiful.

It's dead.

and it's morbid.

1.  "This isn't how I saw my life ending..."

2.  "I don't end anything that feels so new.."

1.  "...can't breath."

2.  "Don't look at what I'm going to do..."

1. "People don't bend that way."

2. "Most people don't, that's true."

2. "Promise me you never felt anything."

1. "You know I would never promise anything to you."

I'm a cold person.

And I'm good at being cold.

I've been told I'm an old soul,

But I'm not so good at being old.


I'm not sold on the oversold notion
that being old means being tired.

I've felt the most old at my youngest
and my most ancient is when I'm most wired.

The dirt under my knuckles is that last leftover I have from
helping out with a wheelbarrow full of hashbrowns this morning.


I can't butcher a hog, but I hauled in the cases of Coke, and bread, and extra chairs, and also managed to scramble every egg we had on hand.

And then I pretended I didn't care after I tore through my backstock of bacon, afraid of making my aunties sick because they're thick to stay home one winter in their ******* lives.

I don't want anyone to die.

But I know that they do.

And I guarantee you the last thing you want to say when you get to heaven is that youre dead because you couldn't get enough of your ****** nephews disgusting Christmas stew.

I made a point to paint a heart breaking pretty picture.

I think that it'd make sense to make it look like Breakfast.

So, I settle on a the best thing I could think of tasting,

Because painting delicious feelings is a feeling not worth wasting.


Starting with how if feels to start the day

Is the strangest sort of feeling but the only sort of way

I brushed the soles of my boot against the icy grain of frozen dirt.

I touched the crusty, crystal pane of white glass stain with watermarks and fingerprints.

I tried to abstain from feeling cold, because of how old it feels.

Being old can steal

bold feelings

holding on to the heels

of gold leaf
peeling off of sinter cinnabar shelves
checking off sinister forces

pieced apart by well ministered contorted purposes

Such forces on bring remorseful endorsements and attackments

and shunted, splintered, fragmented tactics.

Shivering outside is something I tried to hide when I was little.

I became much more embittered than little men like me seem to see at seven.


Dead inside, I lied like I was normal and what not.

It shot me like a cannon in the head to have lied so bad,

But I never cared and died inside seemingly sooner than my peers.

Who knew that the pain I spent my whole life preparing for
is the type that will hurt more than I can ever say, and know that even with my own best graces, will stain my soul like a scar can in the worst sort of way.

I prayed that it wouldn't but that won't work anyway, but not because I don't have a god, but probably because I don't know what to say.

So I just lay on the ground and let life happen to me,
and it'll happen again, it will happen to be
the only happening thing that happens as often
as a soul ******* thing that loves to make my soul soften.

I finally keeled over

I stepped on covers made of flannel

And leaned up on wood panel, cigarette smoke-stained walls

I stalled old age for as long as I could,

But I didn't have the utter gaul to think I could keep you from falling.

I knew that was a fool's errand, but it took everything I had to keep from stalling.

I'm appalled after how bad I felt for not feeling happy enough for all the fun that we had.

Classical ain't as classy as it sounds.

It's a ***** little thing that pounds you late night.

The best music you've ever heard

was birthed by poor souls who seldom see the day of like.

Like this crazy trumpet lady who had a thing for me.

I couldn't get a date because of crazy she seemed to be.

And that's what I love those most, she loved her painful process more that she ever would for me.

I dream about it every night.

I dream about spools of shiny silver string.

I dream about lightning is the music I try to sing.

I know, because I remember, because a lot to me.

I never knew you could see such things when you're eyes don't let you see.

I pasted a piece of my favorite food

on a bit of purple paper that I made for dinner late last night.

I still can't decide it's something that I've written, or something I should write.

I shoved it down my gullet and got in a fight with my ex wife.

Little-me never knew that this could be considered life.

I've coasted across a menagerie of silver skin

It upended my start in life, and led me into sin

So sowing weary worries isn't like it things had been.

Vending favored parties is the grim prospect we're in.

Doo-Doo day

It's almost there

Doo-doo day

It's almost here

doo-doo day

It's right in front of you

Doom is a foreboding

It's almost Doo-Doo day.

I'd been wordy since words were a thing

I've been unhappy ever after in every song that I sing


I've never had a bitter deal not feel bitter in the least

I've fleeced and choked my hope for rent money in the street.

Devastating rigmarole backwards asshats

enacting lackadaisical marshall guffaws

Law enforcement dogs push sugar coated cremation

Led with force, inciting indignation



Pleasant little patties sizzle on my grill

Bluegill fritters fashion out of flour and cornmeal

Make me make sense hopefully

Cementing demented ambitions is fishy business


Dog treats make me look like cornsilk hung high up in the sun

Songs are something frozen in my chamber

Popsicle lips horned over pickle juice

wax paper skin never looks silver in the sun

And then I finally saw what you said I couldn't see,
How much I loved you, wasn't a foreign idea to me.

Pining for that little bit of love you gave
Pickled my heart strings in tarnished golden thread

Darkness gave me glassy eyes
Loveliness is little more than stress on my workbench

I've dusted lint out of my linen pockets and stocked them with candy instead.

Mussy hair makes me care less about why and where
Just disappoint me
Poignantly
And I'll breath it just like air.

While spotting for terns and heron,
My sunburned arms were glaring bright red,

Subsurface sunfish weren't interested in my suffering,
they preferred my redworms instead.

Pock marked, panfried fresh
finishing my signature dish with zest isn't fun anymore,

We'd gone feather collecting every evening since we've met

I've settled on the corners of the lips that look at me

Every evening after

without her feather

This stuck in my head while smoking outside last night

The idea used to tickle me

and whisk me away in my head

But now I look at meandering

as something you do when you're dead

Above my bed I hid a bag of things

Never ever stay up as late as me.

Love snags my neck hair late so,

Never wake up

Love let you down, but did it ever let you know

Your hair is growing and you don't need make up

Pick out anything thing you want from what you see

Forever seems like a lot

But it goes faster than you think

There's three stacked sticks stuck in my back

That were put there by a little rat

That rat that rat sang songs to me

Now I'm pickled in a vat

because that rat ******* me

It's not little fifty dollars bills anymore

It's a lot more that I ever that should be

But here it is inside of me, upended in my intestines, and shouting

Kindey dream doom

Soon it'll boom all over

It's paper packets

Over all the olive oil fires\

and it end's in the refreshing wishing well

How fast is it going to feel after that ******* slips at the hilt?

Sharpen your eyes from all the icicles that feel from the sky last winter,

I'm sure you saved them for a rainy day,

They stayed awful sharp in that cooler drooling out dry ice out of corners, out into the air.

I'm sure you feel braves for allaying away each little boil
the burns under your skin

I'm sure if felt great scraping up all the little scabby, ******, barnacles off of your underside on the night you finally decided to die.

I listed out my groceries because I have to eat.

I seek them out, because Life *****, and I have to eat.


I see a cute girl jogging, but I ****, and I have to eat.

I meet my friends, and apologize,

I'm not strong.

I live in fear.

And I'm weak and I have to eat.

Goblets shove all of the leftover grizzled gristle and guts,
Sinew is dry fiber soaked and tied taught.

Hack up with your sharp knife,
shaving diamond dust and uncrusted rusty edges

please pour that toxic oxidized powder into my tea
I want septic shock to leave me without the chance to see.

Splinter little trinkets
Fastened with rivets and copper solder.

Shrinking, biting steam vents
Passed over duvet covers and sing a little louder.

Blasted, offensive convents
Massive ******* oven tidbits.

Tragic gas based slaughter
blotted with blood and shriveled cygnets.

There is this thing inside of me

Inside and I burn it all night

Bearing fruit is this ugly little seed inside of me

I slept outside, in hot pine tar to keep myself stuck on earth.


Flying into a lunar corona was a burnt little seed that cracked

first thing in the morning

after all the worms suffocated on my mud hill

and after all of the soot the storm deposits

in soft sod underbelly brownstones


Sintered bits of shredded mail make my eyes light on fire
whenever her hair flipped and smelled light rainlight after we stayed up all night fighting and *******.

Stillness made the water on my head cool and soft

Softness held my hard heart aloft in a little parchment paper so I can save it for later.

My passion project as of late has be to not hate who I am.

Bastions of souls hold in cold hell, burn higher than I've ever been.

Sinful shame bends rays of shelter, over arching our heads.

Pressure is just that,

navigating through sand without sandals makes my feet hurt.

Stepping forward is just that,

propagating national pain nixes ******* people.



Pleasure is just that,

Greatness passes the the eye of our needle bound stitch rippers.

Schlepping towards non-tactics makes me rack my brain at night.

Consolidating passion feels vain, and mixes my misty eyes with my brain.

Clandestine stonework embedded into a nasty little nest.

Showmanship passed for ambivalence wrested from dead reefs.

Sheep blocked out a weathered blood scene.

Worn in ridges was worry held in high esteem.

Debilitating rehab little mission soft serve digs

Mitigating shifting shores over migrating make-up plains

Stagnation covers cold old little riddles

Pragmatism isn't a vision

Stigmata lives on in our stitches

Who would stand to live longer than those who live off over others?

Who would survive in a world turned upside down?

Is is the tiger or lion who only eats when they're hungry, and lays about the rest of the day?

Or is the scrapper?

The raccoon?

In a world that can only serve scraps,
courage and valor only take you as far as they go,

In a world that can only serve scraps,
what are the eagles in store for?

And what of the scraptakers before?

The pigeons, rats, and raccoons will soon inherit the earth soon, they will be the only ones that can stomach it.

Lovely little silver strings strown in long night gowns along midnight hallways.

Hovering into bitty livered beings known in **** lights owned twilight stalls.

i'm a bespectacled onager ivory hilted outsourced claw digger.

I cleared my crusty eyes with Visine after a half hearted attempt
to better clean up the mess made of my glass ***** of heart.


Stammered pockets of red hot sauce have been ladled into our
signature oak-barrel bed spread.


So, in everyone's best interest, breakfast has been rescheduled for tomorrow morning, and we will be happy to see if you're not dead.

Shoved off our red hot suffered shackle

back brazen stripped out spine bits stack higher than I can see

Bleeding out of wood grains are sandy strips of solar flares that stare back at me with a stupid grin.

I pumice ****** off the grimace writhing, then stained with lye the burning heads, severed without cleansing.

Stuck with a red hot poker made me skin burned and sticky,
and it ripped from me my whole world.

Shivering, I stirred.

Numbness makes sense when life's absurd.

Ratifying nasty little ugly

Atrophying fleeing itty being.

Maintain out yourself.

Face masks, take place and set pace for fast track nastiness,
so hold fast back, and pass your soul only onto a whole heart whose focused,
and not the fast track that send my gut reeling everymorning.

mourning over my quaking oaks in an haphazard effort to weather the storm.

Cramming little boondoggles along long ladden trails makes missing pain and loss a love; makes it a lot like other efforts pretend to  matter because if the potato fields thought they didn't matter, we would rather have a foxhole shell be a dud, that
Auntie Helper revive a dud.
Wet fire responds with "Thud"
Our life fire lives in mud.

A mud of fear and hate,
with a net that cannot shelter.
Abated by billions sounds great, unless you cannot eat.
Auntie helper puts them to bed.
But, her machines can't cloth you. Nor make socks to clothe your feet.

Cold.
Uncle helper reminds they're not dead.

One time.. I helped my uncle build a bed-shaped casket made for the dead.


Reading red as luck of fortune only made me much more mad.

Because, I bet (even though I'm reckless)


I am not the only one with a

mom

and

dad.