So when I had my old number, I would text myself funny ideas and stuff cuz it was easier than opening a notepad app. Well, I changed numbers, but the process was so ingrained, I'd text that old number and for some reason it really ****** the person off. So I've been texting them like once every two months for the past four or so years the craziest **** I think of when I'm high or drunk and they are like WHO the **** is this!?

lucid
reclusive
aint a job in this world
so i do this
i choose it.
abusive
inclusive
lyrics with no music
slowly comin down
from the roof its
abysmal
noctural
medical
spewing from my heart
internal
infernal
eternal.


words to an ancient lullaby
that only i can hear (and i don't know why)
flushes upon
my cheeky cheeks
it feels so queer
when i speak my speak.
hipsters and goblins
spokes from their mouths
i wanna rob them
mob them
sob them
sounds from the ether
i wanna shock them
out.


sell my soul for a dime full of emotions
peddle my heart for a little bit of potions
twist my tongue
and dab my eyes
room full of tears
but i got no cries
land full of ears
but i got no lies
body full of flesh
but i got no tries


elephant
irrelevant
beating my head
for the hell of it
chandelier
another beer
sleep thru the night
wake to the same fear


i don't know you
and you don't know me
there is no us
so there aint no we
just let me live
i'll let you be
i'll stay clear
but there is no free


toes toes
into the sand
wish upon a star
that i conquer this land
hoes hoes
i cannot stand
to nowhere i lead
place out your hand

To say the least, I am lost and confused. Lost and confused in a city that is changing. A city that is growing. And I know it is, because I can feel it is.

Some days, sometimes even several times within the same day, I want to be at the center of the action. I want to be plugged into the social pipeline. A pipeline that leads straight from and directly to the gutter.

I think I just want fun. I know I want meaning. I think I know I want camaraderie. Friendship. Love?

At some points, I feel like all of this is pointless. It drags me down and creates a groove in which I neither fight to get out of, nor have to fight to continue on in. It's resistless and easy. It's not warm or cozy, but it becomes familiar and what's to be expected.

The lines between reality and imagination are ever-increasingly blurred to me. I do not know whether these people are pretending, or trying to hide, or pretending to try and hide who they are appearing to be. Are these walls really rotting and peeling or was it painted like this to look grunge?

I can no longer determine, cliche as it may be, if art imitates reality or vice versa. Is the music these people play directly resulting from and representative of them and their lives, or are they pursuing a highly regarded, in the hep world, a less fortunate and haggard lifestyle or "scene"?

Is the music and its energy a force, a presence, a power, an entity of its own? Inhabiting the body, possessing the mind, and flowing forth from the mouth of those without an identity of their own?

I don't know who I am. I know who I am to myself, as when I'm alone. But I do not know who I am to be or who I am to others. I have always found myself being drawn to mystics, magic, and power. But this is dangerous, weird, odd, foreign stuff. This is not stuff to be dealt with lightly nor to be done out in the light. It is shameful and secret and dark.

I am afraid. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid of the power I may possess, and I am afraid of the power that may possess me.

possessed with the intangible art form known as
free flowing
  mind blowing
expanding into all
but collapsing into itself.
breathing one's breath
and skipping one's step
at the thought that you can
and are
  and shall be
forever more and eternally so.
we go and go
but step back to show
what we've found along the way.
i learn tomorrow and write today.
visions of the past are useless.
we must scope our way into the new beginning.
rush into the black mist of possibility.
of danger.
  of death.
   of life.
    of breath.
of love and tragedy alike.
we are bold as mold
creep and crawl along side the creepy crawlies
until there is no more meat to pull along with us.
but we keep going.
we take,
we consume as this world instructs us to.
only way to pass along the lines without them
  knowing why we're really there.
without them finding out
  we've been here before.
new names and faces
both them and i.
but they are blind.
we seek.
  we seek.

Hey you reading this.
Yeah you.
No one else.
Are you aware of your own thoughts?
Of others?
Of yourself?
Do you ever enter a room
And feel a swell of pressure?
Minds buzzing in and out of harmony.
Perhaps a psychic thrasher?
Yes, in company, it is a struggle.
For your mind and thoughts indeed.
How do you know
That who you think you are is you
And simply put not just me?

You see my lovely poem here,
But decide to not comment.
Is it because I tried to rhyme
The above line with *****?
Ok so I'm not a Poe I admit
Neither a Whitman, nor a Suess.
But I appreciate the ol' college try.
And I think you should too!

I can't get my mind off of you.
Cuz you're so far and not near.
Oh how I miss our dog days of summer.
Back before you went queer.
You like catching for another team.
And I understand down deep in my heart.
There's not much you can say to one.
Who prefers *** in their ****.
The Olsen twins are without their Bob Saget.
My full house is no longer you see.
I wish you'd stop being such a ******
And please come back to me.

I've felt it down deep inside.
For how long I just don't know.
It clogs up natural function.
Drives me to seek it out, to show.
To dig.
To pillage.
To plunder.
From the onset of the morning sky.
I lie and I wonder.
A vibrant mass of warm air
Becomes overshadowed
By a green devil of no affair de coeur.
Of salty and putrid flair. Pure evil I'm sure.
I blow and blow but away it does not go.
Fighting and scratching and snorting and spitting.
Plucking and pulling and pressing and fitting.
Oh here it comes, such a wonderful feeling.
Yea tis truly sweeter than sugar.
Guess it wasn't some existential, angsty feelings from a relationship gone sour.
Nope, just a ******.

in love, in lust
in bed, in dust
we lie together
blind and deaf
mere sheep
till the day of death............

tell them i'm government
that i did came
only peace and virtue
flow from my name
and if you don't listen
it's a god ****** shame
far from fame
i cure thy lame
the youth i'll train
to die
to fight
to pillage
to plight
with pen
with knife
from darkness til light
to believe and receive
to **** that which you conceive
with anger and greed
an unstoppable seed
drug and arm these streets
the bass and the beats
under the cadillac seats
next to the stamps with which you eat............

god is online
a friend of mine
in a lighted box
with airwaves of angels
joining both you and me
why can't you see
the ******* they feed
the bulletins and tickers
lollipops and stickers
flashes and flickers of truth
but we don't see
for our eyes are covered
when we are mothered by them.

Blood. Lust.
May our green GOD rain down upon us!
For many are not worth for such a note!
Our souls may be bought by such soles of dispair.
Dirt in our eyes, grey in our hair.
Now please pass out and fit yourselves in the straightjackets.
For we are mad!
Mad to not live to work ourselves to death!

Such a mad whispering wind
The breath of two lovers on the street.
The city groans and growls
From the depths of its bowels.
A beast---of infinite appetite.
It swallows up and consumes the light
Shrouds the girls in velvet night
Lures with nibbles until it bites
This city is mad.

i have a strange tongue disease
i speak as i please
i freeze
in the wind
in the breeze of the trees
the thunder of a storm
the beginning of night
of a dying day
i'll show you the path
but i dont know the way
dont lean on me
i blow through trees
blow out my knees
from skipping
and falling
from tripping
and stalling
in life and in love
sent from above
phallus in the sky
impregnating young stars
******* virgins
popping out suns
and im...
im just stunned.

My colic weighs heavy down.
The space between it and gravity.
Me.
The pressure.
The loneliness of (my) skin
Sitting upon my face.
How ****** are the nerve endings that must go out unto this world
With me at the wheel.
Muscles writhing into a smile
Like snakes on fire
Or slugs in salt.
My eyes roll up in a possessed contort.
My body, no longer.
My own.
I think I have figured out how one would...
contract. such a disease.
apathy. such a powerful thing.
such a powerful thing
that has haunted me for three hundred and twenty days.
and twenty days before,
It was the same.

red and blue lights stream down from the lifeless black ceiling.
the mumble and grumble of people
actually enjoying a conversation with one another?
i can't remember the last time (if ever)
that i've related to this crowd.
i'll sit next to you because well i need to sit somewhere.
i'll talk to you because well we're both stuck here for awhile.
shh we gotta keep it down, but really i'm just tired.
i'll get to know you
go through the routine,
the weather. astrology. favorites. books and tunes.
i dont fantasize either way.
i dont dream of the back of your head.
i dont dream of shooting you dead.
i dont.
i wont.

Mount Fever burned bright
that night
while the beasts and creatures alike
roamed about the countryside.
I in her
and we entwined
combined
aligned for once.
i entice
and she divide
and we collide
that night.

every line
a starting point
to take and run with
to the edge of the sea.
and we see
and we sleep.
wake anew with the taste
of the words
of the ideas
lingering on our tongues.
empty bottles strewn about
jumbled like
the perfect sense
that was
but is now
simply webbed about
my mind like an attic
collections
artifacts
scars and such.

I hate poetry.
I think it's a waste of time.
Trying to think of ways to say things.
And then to make them rhyme!
Some poems are dark and artsy.
Some poems make you laugh.
Some poems make you think or cry.
And some poems are plain ol' crap.
Some poets wear thin mustaches.
Some poets wear fancy hats.
Some poets make up their own words.
Some gilberty hilberty crat.
But I'll tell you this my friend.
That there's nothing in the world more truer.
I'd rather pick up a pen and write.
Than pick up a shovel and move manure.

This is america.
It's a one of a kind.
You can buy **** at the store.
You can bide your time.
Voting red or blue.
Is a favorite pastime.
Doesn't really matter which side you choose.
Like it doesn't matter if a poem will rhyme.
Hell you could write freestyle poetry about nothing
and that's accepted.
Cuz this is america and you're free to be an idiot. Inspected. Suspected.
Slot machines and credit cards
Stop lights and go-go bars
Social security and national debt
Red white and blue baby
We're the best!
Patriots of olde
and punks of New.
World Order abound
The olde ways are through!
By and by
Time after time
Woe are to those
With woman and child.
Times is tuff says the country station
but be the 5th caller
to win this Ozark vacation.
Skoal and Miller High Life 40s.
Marlboro Reds, rap music and shorties.
Sorry shawties but midgets are better.
What's more profound
than talkin bout the weather?
I forgot the original point
that I wanted to share with ya
but **** it, you know what I mean?
This is america.

This **** is hot
bundled up in my bowels.
Oh how it boils,
how it makes me howl.
Bran muffins and coffee,
they do not mix.
Stuck here in traffic,
I need to drop these Twix.
Oh how time drags on
when you've got the runs.
I need a hole in the earth
to place my buns.
I've held in these turds for so long,
I was actually sad to see them go.
Goodbye brown buddies. Just go.