****
It's bad
Let me distill
A drink of fun filled hate

No, no way
With all the scars

It's how you make us wait

Let me be a boy who could
Just find a flooded strand
Instead of finding out how war works
and how to make a stand

Ever so often, someone sent food, which was good.
My god was it good, so really really good.

Out of every coffin was a sort of reprieve because of that
heap of uneaten rations from the dead who have died.

Died
Died they did.
And now
from they're dead eye's I've hidden my guilt and ridden my gut of the fat that had enacted a deal on the pit of my gullet that'd made me so sorry. To hate all the glory and feel all a sudden so sullen, so sorry, I'm not buying glory.

My Lord makes me hate killers.
Which makes me hate me.
Vinegar is wine in my eyeballs.
It's how the Lord makes me see.

Baby magpie birdies
Cluck early in the morning

Coyotes have breakfast
on all the worms and birds.

Trout gather nymphs in slurping slurring.

but the longest live terrapin remains inert.

Life never ends, until it does.

Is never fun, until it is.

It's only bad when it's not good.

And really great while eating food.

Blink.
Blink blink blink like
Light has never cared.
Be scared.
And think think think
GOD
and link together light with love
GOD GOD GOD
Lighten sorden braken broken branches into a
Tree.
Maybe you'll see that it's worth seeing the way dead seas.
If'en loaf of bread feed the flies.
Then I would happy live a soften-short life.
As long as maggots fly
and I can DIE DIE DIE.

Fashion.
Razor wire fashion.

Blessed
Brazen-fired blessing

Messed up.
Most, bereft unsure *******.

Fess up.
Make sure we don't lose hope in our unmessing.

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

Pleasantly cleared upon the break apart
was the justice of silk built imprevity

So how often should braided legs of halls
laid with willow braids and wicker built baskets.

Lacked in the edges of eve was the unforseen
take of unscrambled
unforgettable
political action.

Even while waiting for actions in order to divert it.
Let it bleed and bellow out loud.

Let blood shout and and iron bleed
Let it need, let sounds shout and bleed while life
heeds warnings of hate and hell built will.
Let it lie in state still
and it be before will
let it still
let it be
Boughs, enact a bill

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.

Just trust loneliness
Adjust to lust for fear
Loving liars, living with hate
Abate sorries. Create stories
Catharsis is a species
Masochists list pain as love
Have a content look at horrible
and have a terrific funny funeral

somehow i let a lion live in my room
somehow some beast, some bear for a way to rear its
way out of my broken water closet.
Some how.... some way I have to posit some sort of solution
some way to drown her.
some way to put her down.

Licking a leather lollipop made of dog-hide drool.

I never knew a piece of me that would slobber all over dogs.

Pick a pepper in pleasure while pylons pop at all

Is knowing the little weasel who knew where to stop and stall.


Still, the still evens
and I can go to bed.

Because In my heart, I know the road is even.

Regardless, I'll end up dead.

Yes and no,

Seeds,
grass and leaves,
then dust,
then snow.


Yea and naw

Padded with sight, and saw.
Precognition,
Patience,
Natural roles will play a part.

Snoring,
in sleep,
still stirs others who aren't you.


Storing up sins,
that don't show today,
but they show up in you some day.

Boring isn't a sin.
It's the beginning and the end of
every story.


Nothing, I'm not sorry.
Lost, that's a big negative.

But live.
I don't know yet.
I can't say unless I gave all I had to give.

Learning electricity seems like magic to someone like me.
Like learning how to be okay, and to function happily.

I make rivets in my stone steps, and they're all made for steel.
I block love out like shrapnel, I would rather die than have to feel.

While digging in my garden I wish that I would find
The hilt of an old dagger and an old ration rind
I wish I had the vigor to feel all the burdened dead
But I don't wish the destiny of those that ride the river red.

I brewed up a couple of cups of coffee before my best friend woke up.

She had wanted breakfast, but I was broke,
So, instead I'd suggested staying in.

I could make up a *** of coffee,
and put together some food.

I would take cups of whatever we had last night,
and forget them.
I'd forget them soon.

And instead we could just laugh and make
a day out of how we feel,
instead of living of life feeling how we should
wondering.
Really.

Reeling and having happy moments but never feeling food.
Goodness held in graciousness,
understanding, taking it all up like a fool.

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.

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

If you really want to be funny
Don't have a sense of hate
Take back and don't take

What do you get when you have
when you have two
Englishmen with no donkies?

A pair of assless chaps.

Fashioned air had fell apart.
Passion showed me her flag on the hill when I started.

Before I parted from being a frail little fish,
I started to miss how hard she had been on me.

That's why.
That's seems to be why I'm ******* all the time,
there usually is very little at the end of the road to be had.
I haven't felt so bad in winter wear,
but winter's here and now heat is what I've got to make
a part of my life.
Bearable things are what turn strife into fun.
Making runs onto lakes and fields.
I try to make the words sound like real leaves on puddle piles
Endearing doves mourn duck rapes, wild berry patches, thistle thatches.
So, twirling into a spiral.
Sinking into cones.
Pine trees stay sticky,
and climbing the big ones gets me home.

It turns out that gobbling up gaggles of desperate souls is a perfect way to con humankind.

I really don't mind being wrong, and occupying the space of the poor.
That's nothing more than asking me to be who I always was.

What does bug me is offering hope from the top of Olympus, and then patting yourself on the top your back,

when in fact,
You're the weakest.

Finding the slightest pimple on your face in the morning would set
you back so many hundreds of years,

It makes sense how selfish and petty people can be.
Because life is so hard and blinding, it would take a chosen person,
so special, so real.

It would take a real human being for us to realized what a human should be.

Green lights can turn frost into emerald glass
At last the chill had finally stopped deciding to breeze itself in
So finishing the rearrangement of my furniture became
less of a blustery chore and more an assured
passage into a brand new page
I haven't had the pleasure of having yet.

Well you never bought a pass,
and we never asked permissions
But tonight we've permitted ourselves to indulge in our mission.

Out of all our stories, we had found a few
that dig into your psyche, and set your soul astew.

So tonight, and tonight only, don't go to bed really late.
Because we perform an hour show, but it'll last all life if you let it.

Only three acts, just like you learned. but we act like it's forever.

Please eat before, so you're instore, for our hedonistic endeavour.

Glassiness of faces
would make me remiss
of the pace which
Would rather I breath straight forward.

Lordness,
lordy lordy
gorged me in a intestine filled

Gizzard gritted grated grop
of drops of sticky sweet silt
Held in our hand with self hated pigment
sewn upon on salts colored in summers
and others
but even still
Built, on eversnow evenings
bereave me and steal
please believe still
Believe
that I'm not unnerved by that fact that i'm
a person.
it is certain.
Just like you.

A stew of free seed words.
It's absurd.
Blood.
And words.
And painful shields.
words,
and thoughts that you would
kneel for.
Some shore..
some ocean.

Some place
Some face that is worth the world,
Some face worth falling in love for...

With a feathered breath heaving out of his bright red chest,
Robin lifted higher.

Afternoon had worked its way into the daylight after the long haul this morning the
Sun had had over the hills.

This time of day was always great as long as nothing bad had happened to get in the way.

A few days ago, gray light skimmed across all of the grasslands, garlanded buoyantly about in a better effort to make it damp.

The afternoon, that day, had made the air hang heavy and warm.

It stirred up a storm in the dirt that made the worms stuffy.

A stuffy, well-watered worm is much less alert.

Globbed all up

Knackered about and baked into

an overdone buttermilk biscuit.

I hate getting up,

Not caring is a sin too,

I'm not sure either, but I will see if I risk it.

Make light of sunbuilt notions

Mealy motion could have gruel in her veins
I've abstained from all forward action
Because it's my heart that she reigns.

Coolness sent shiver down a pain killed nervous column
Section of spine dealt with ***** and filler
To **** would send spiller space messages
out to help in order to assuage
all the speculation and guesses.
So now it would seem better, much better,
much better in deed
Much better indeed to **** my fire with greed.

I've eaten fire food.
And read a sad story made of soup.
I remember well the boy who tried to sell me some salt goop.
Good food is good medicine.
It's sinful cake in carrot broth.
It's cheating without cheating.
Showing a story of love and hope.
But if you eat garbage,
Then a ***** of sadness bears on you.
It's a sullen sorry stew.

And unhappiness will not do.

I'd be blessed if my favorite person could craft me a masterful desk.
A nest of self-respect, and pickable tidbits, pulled apart.
Not thwarted, not bad.
Not sick or covered with warts.
But the sort of self inspection that's about
touting my lack of malfeasance, and
my transient, nascent notions
who've showed up and overpositioned my person.

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.

Chitters, shivered chatting teeth pitter-pattered when the heater had burned out last night.

So, I covered myself in my blanket and brewed hot tea, but it's only lasted an hour or two.

Or three or four hours at most,
but before I knew it, the sun showed up and sparkled.

Light beams brewed out of me and my coffee cup,
and before I knew it, I had breakfast loaded in my belly,

and a tote bag full of new stories to share all of my
hung over friends after our brutally long
weekend covered with ***** and losers.

Flecks of salt

Clumps of flavor.

Sealing sound.

I'm Jesus' Savior.



Make it last.

Just so you know.

Life takes water.

And needs smarts to grow.

Spit.
I spit out hell speak on my ponder railing.

I shrieked out gobs of porrige hate
that would abate all of my sailing.

I clicked my teethed and thrash about,
and abandoned all my food.

I stomped a fire, flesh and all,
just so that I would feel good.

Squiggly, giggle-painted patterns.

Nature curing writes offs,

licking life off moons of Saturn.

Totally tanking,

Making way

Ruminants in mood.

I learned that I'm handsome if you like
a mud-caked stud.

Little fibers.
Little tiny pieces.

It's dirt.
It's called "dirt."
It's earth and inorganic matter.

That's true.
And it's called air.
And it's really there.

I stuck a butter knife into my childhood tree.

Just to see.

Never. Not ever would be me.

I'd rather die that gleem a glob of hate after a shaft had held us fast.

I'm Sorry.

I'm boiled water that would never last and stack us upon stale oxified office keys.

Please. I'm sorry.

Just send me to bed.


I'd rather be dead than answer a question that held my soul in remission and stuck me on a hickory sticker post caked in hate and held up with stagnant sand.

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.

I created a new condiment out of jelly, ranch, beef jerky, and lsd.

It's really salty and cost as much as a buttered popcorn kernel cover with the mist of the perfect potato chip.

It's as sweet as a ramen noodle prison driven in an uber lead by a giant ketchup SUV.

Brazen molten filigree sorries
Shelfed themselves on the edge of a shore made
of stickers and shapely woman.

Before I begin my crayon scrawlings,
I have a question.
A smart one that knows to gnaw on the back of my head...

"How do we know when we're alive?
And how do we know when we're dead?"

Stacking packs of yellowed pages,
Withered with age in soiled cartons.

Blacked nails,
caked with oil,
baked in chalk,
Flaking and boiled in old ox-hide.

Knackered,
Naked,
Shaking.

Festered featured screeching and fiend for oil.

Scrapple, rotten-apple, boiled rinds.

Moldy, fuzzy golden; rhymes with
grey and old.

Deluded in a brooding pit, I brewed a bowl of noodles.
Steeping in a steamy ***, with veggies and egg milk
What made me think I should go on what the
lack of sense of ilk...
So sorry for the lack of pay
So sorry I can stay.
Cause the fact that I eat noodles
Means I can't eat gold today.

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

Sent in shred was flakes of obsidian and jade
It'll be weird to sell it
but I bet it'll get me
laid because I'm handsome and brown.

I frown at the lack of respects all the liches and hoes sow in our corn fields.

Build me better people and I'll send you hell in a sugar built steeple you can sell and ride while you send us to hell

I feel like I've blown my brain to bits
A blitzgrieg of what's left of it
The corpse of a dove I still keep in her cage
It's outrageous the pageant I put on the stage
Softness meets a ******* rampart
Flying in fire air
Blowing me apart

I peeled off a *** of chewy nonsense (dough!),

and I needed it to feel alive.

I kneaded it,

and brought it to life.

I turn grass into pizza, and seeds into sauce.

I lay it on an iron fire and watch what fire causes.

Fire is pure energy,

fire-baked lives can be understood.

Understood much better than raw people.

Because it is time that makes life good.

Captured on the blue lined edges of paper
Was an envelope, wrapped in parchment.

A sort of stipend built in jelly
and telling me how to feel
about supporting systems
at the same time as
stacking and ticking time
off of your belly
Melded out of celly made systems
The rhythm is the joke of it
stoke in fires
the lyre of arhythm
a prism and animal
happy trap built apathy
a rapture be some sappy he
turnabout into a ninety three
under the knee
how bout it be

I checked out how well the stew was seasoned from all of my advanced students.

I knew the recipes and rudiments only hold fast after hate hadn't held and wouldn't last.

So, after education had made real mention of how hard life can be,
That's when I wrote my book of what I actually see.

Woody  1m
*******, *******. Your poetry’s lame ****. I wouldn’t take your money to read another line of yours.