do you see the pain in my amber eyes?
as they drip with gold tears
learning of how your demise
was all my fault
as the salted caramel tears melt down my cheeks
i cant help but dread the weeks
to come
i look down at what ive done
ive killed them
theres blood on my hands
but this time it was no fun

My teenage years flew by,
and not once have I experienced
the quintessential rebellion
that movies portray.
I've never smoked.
I've never drank.
I've never been to a real party.
I've never snuck out.
I've never kissed anyone.
My teenage years have been
uneventful,
and I'm not sure if I should be
grateful
or upset about it.

Life isn’t enough.
I want 10 more
I want 10 penises and 10 *******
I want 10 guns and 10 crosses
I want 10 children and 10 homes
I want 10 friends and 10 enemies
I want more of everything and now
The gamma rays and the cosmic nothingness
The icy chill and solar flares
The Big Expanse and Big Crunch
I  CRAVE the universe
ALL of it
To funnel through me
Like water through a hose
Or electricity through a cable
Or sunlight through a magnifying glass
I am wired
With LIFE
With music, and wine, and kisses
With silence, hangovers, and wishes
I want to consume
Like Horace
the very sun, the very underworld
Engulf dreams, nightmares, and mortality between
Like plumes of obsidian perfume
Sacrifice virgins and assassins
Dig up graves and wheel them into churches
Dig up stones and throw them at CIA vans
I want to rage
Smear my blood all over eggshells
Feces on W2 forms
Give me more thunderclap and ******* wailings
Charge me with the ravenous gasp
To breathe, to bellow
To love in bolted totality
To strike and revel
I hold the goblet out
Shimmering and trembling
For you

A waif on this earth,
Sick, ugly and small,
Contemned from my birth
And rejected by all,
From my lips broke a cry,
Such as anguish may wring,
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


By Wealth's coach besmeared
With dirt in a shower,
Insulted and jeered
By the minions of power,
Where — oh where shall I fly?
Who comfort will bring?
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


Life struck me with fright —
Full of chances and pain,
So I hugged with delight
The drudge's hard chain;
One must eat, — yet I die,
Like a bird with clipped wing,
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


Love cheered for a while
My morn with his ray,
But like a ripple or smile
My youth passed away.
Now near Beauty I sigh,
But fled is the spring!
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


All men have a task,
And to sing is my lot —
No meed from men I ask
But one kindly thought.
My vocation is high —
'Mid the glasses that ring,
Still — still comes that reply,
Chant poor little thing.

Filling my buckets of red—
I promise you,
I don’t have enough yet.

I don’t have enough anger
to paint the hands
of every man
who ever dared
to be a traitor.

It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.

don't I know it? I
answered.

I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night

nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.

I walked down the stairway and
into it.