hyper-jinxed like an old talkie
scrap the fat off the cow!
swipe that smile off your face
to watch the sunset fade away.
batshit crazy
candidly rogue
an eventful leap from far fetched lore
gory details please spare me
a big fat ***** and a way to reap
the pretties from the twits.
but the lee-way from the stars beyond
sometimes gets trapped into hairy armpits.
then their neon pink hued blue eyed trolls
take their slippers to the snow.

Plague in body and soul
sweeps across the billowing waves of despair yesterday
while to-morrow looks forward to forgetting the lapse in judgement
made today.

they get hurt
and
no one
cares
but
yourself
and
sometimes
they try to hide
in the depths of the soul
but sometimes
with apathy
comes a
great
passion
no one
can
understand.
Which
I guess
makes them a
beautifully
misunderstood
bunch of
problems.

I can't stop gazing at you today
unfazed by the purple haze around.
the gospels of the faithless chapel
take a picture why don't you
lemon drops melts on my tongue
shadows of your fan-less art
this mars animal cannot forget
a tip of a top hat
a lack of understanding about the indie film
****. What the **** does this mean?
excuse my french,
But what if to-morrow is another day?
eux autres indulge in surreality
and the past belongs in the past
don't make me not love you
broken into pieces of china
a whispered conspiracy

Essentially problems come from our inability to stop whining and getting ****** over by our destinies.

Furnished armoire
holds my books,
that holds the cards
that write my life.
in that card
beside happy blue cursive font,
is a snowman
who says,
*******.

We hardly trust anyone
No matter how genuine that person may be.
We go on pairs throughout our lives because
we believe that we are not satisfied as one.
We sometimes believe that there is a solution
by finding other halves
in people, in stimulators, in distractions
in roles.
We have trouble finding ourselves
and prefer to believe that people stronger than us
or people who appear stronger than us
can help us
and make us better.
We come from bad places
but we are not bad people
despite what we believe.
But we keep a strong face
and solider through
blame and shame
through self-hatred.
We call ourselves names all the times
when no one else does so
so we get our usual dosage of misery.
In the worst cases,
we never believe anything or anyone
and let our hearts die on the pavement
while the sky falls.
And the funniest thing of all?
It's our fault.

meet me at the checkpoint
to
just walk away
in
fumes and all.
they are
holding my hand
through the
streets tonight.
but
leave the past behind
cause it is
siren light.
what if
whatcha doin'
makes me
troubl'd again?
i know
when i want to stop i can
but
acid rain
and
wondering about a white dress
takes me there.
it's just a cigarette
while
walkin' round
then
feet runnin like the wind.
if
a line is hard to make you stay
then
dry up on the beach
and
listen to Beethoven
while
the cracks begin to show.


-from the philosophical **** face

You'll find me among the trees running among the trees playing hide and seek,
sparkling wide eyes and eager.

You'll find me behind the rose bushes sulkily hiding my deepest thoughts
with my hair dropped over my eyes.

You'll find me at the sturdy, shady bench under the eucalyptus tree,
being chased by Frances with his arms that sweep me off the ground.

You'll find me at the patchy sunny part of the garden,
where Frances and I love in the grassy fields during the day.

You'll find me faced down here in this grassy field,
with the comfort of a thousand butterflies but no one.

And then I'll find you one day too,
hiding in the shade with your goofy smile and your bald spot
with your beer gut and your odd love for ugly sweaters
here in the garden.

The day shall come when you too shall become a formula
a jumble of this and that
and bit more of limes.

you and I are all formulas.
Cause and effect
Birth and death
Growth and decay
Yin and yangs

And while we're in the middle we
become questions
like why, who, when, what, how...

like
closure?

blip bleep beep boop
santas gonna watch me sleep
slip sleep seep soap
mommy wants to have a feast
avocados, bathrooms, teaspoons, menthol breath
so very special to watch you seek
bread, seven elevens, toilet paper, adjectives
the way you'd never see.

I love heroes.
They make the world a better place.
After the bad guys,
they save the day
heroically flying in the bright blue sky
shining in their pride and grace.

It makes sense if the world has heroes
to give the weak hope
and the evil a conscience.
but heroes,
the very ones that
save my cat from the high tree,
rescue the feeble from their fears,
and save this horrid society of it's
the omnipotent ongoing evils,
are nothing more than heroes.

for heroes,
as they glow and glimmer
in all their glorious ways,
being the big brother
judge from one side of justice to the other,
don't exist
to save me
to exist to try
to save me
and make me





they leave that to me.

that's why

What do you want to grow up?
A StarGirl!

"A StarGirl you shall be",
they said giving spraying neon paint on me
and letting me stand in the night.

But when I stood there
they asked me again,
"Are you happy?"

I couldn't answer.
I was too busy shining to know.
They washed the paint off me
and painted the earth all over me,
lying me down, pined to the ground.
"Are you happy, now?"

I couldn't answer.

happiness is overtly overrated
But we can't see it yet
as also we cannot see geniuses among our midsts
and the other amateurs.
"make it last, make it last" they say
I say"**** my ****"

Take what is left of mine
Something buried and something wound
a jarred melody
of a song most dear
and hang it upon a river of self-doubt
to let it float in a pond of that overrated emotion.

          They had always said
                                                         in LOVE
nothing should really matter.

Never told us about the different ones.
                  don't they need it too?

To you across a sea,
I’d always hoped you’ll be fine.
But now you’re definitely not,
and you're just a person
to remember in that  Goyte song

So all I can think is now I can’t ever talk to you
not the fact that you don't exist anymore
or I can't see you anymore
And that…
bothers me most
more than the fact I can't cry.

running on autopilot

and no one knows

oh i'm running on autopilot

and I don't care

let it take me away from this

sleepless dream

take me away with that

breathless stare

with that grinless glare

to the timeless fair

somehow i know

it'll make me stay

a little longer

running on autopilot

and no one knows

oh i'm running on autopilot

and I don't care

----epic guitar time---

take on 1,2,3

can't you see?

it can't ever be

what you need

what you neeeed...

---pause---

somehow i know

it'll make me stay

a little longer

somehow i know

it'll make me stay...

let the sun char me,
let the waves devour me,
let the winds move me,
let the stone chain me,

let them fabricate my being into their masses of
pity and self disgust
possess me like a vigilant being
paranoid at approach
attack attack attack
searing the iron fist of true BEAUTY
into a trademark on my skin
washing away the pain of mindless hate,

let this be art.
pure art.

and let the world see the
rage rage RAGE
right on and
leave to die in this endless battle of
you me
and
everything.

Why aren't we perfect?
on this boat in the taihiatian sea
amongst the gardenia planted pots
smothered by it's heavenly fumes
and surrounded by leaping dolphins?

1) you'll mess up my bed sheets
2) I'd make sure everyday you'll have is ****
and 3) because change is hard for both you and me.

but why is it harder to being all alone
-
wild


-
wild



-
WILD




-
with


-
freedom
-
than being with you?


so don't write about me,
when I'm dying and shriveling
and not here
and
this premonition comes true
and
I've
given up.
Write about me now,
alive and well,
desolate and passionate
imploring you to go
exploring with me
in both our
wild

-
WILD


-

ways,
perfect in our imperfect ways
being both brilliantly terrible
and both terribly brilliant.

I'm so tired.
Of living
Of knowing
Of caring
Of bearing
Of lying
Of trying
Of flying
Of avoiding
Of repressing
Of oppressing
Of buying
Of understanding
Of thinking
Of writing
Of acting
Of running
Of analyzing
Of sleeping
Of being
Of drinking
Of *******
Of snorting
Of laughing
Of smoking
Of loving
Of feeling
Of dying
Of being tired.

Oh Darling,
don't sanctify me as a higher being,
your salvation out of your rut.
the world is a green moist sponge,
and I am just another dihydrogen oxide molecule trapped
in it's fibers
crying for salvation
screaming for baptization
waiting for nothing
and although you think in binary terms.
I think in decimal
and yet
we are the stigma
of the guy
and the gal
in this dream of dreams.
a heiress of confession
I am here
surreal and every single inch
made out of stardust
to remind you...
Remember Montague
and the frosted lake?
where we built the blanketfort
among the trees
for the child
and lit her world
with dazzling LEDs,
as she stared in the tent
higher than fools
talking nonsense words
about the world
and her feelings
because she's so sad
and because she's so mad
because no one cares
except her
and her watering eyes.
she says.
I have no one.
And you can't do anything about it, starwhale
because that's the way I like it.

Opulence surrounds you, overconfident in your approach
the golden lust of your ego projects
itself in the driver's seat with that tiny smirk
here as we drive on
at a adrenaline inducing speed
the sunset caught between leaves and branches
of these trees.
I am
baptized
in a hypnagogic state
dreamy
but
still here.
"let go"
I say to you
oblivious
to what is right in front of you.
"let go of the wheel"
because
it's too beautiful
and because
I think I love here,
as I close my eyes and
letting the wind toss my hair about and
letting the stroboscopic flicker
tease the petals of my face and
forgetting about what matters and what doesn't,
more than being here with you to be honest.

Merge me into a sea of your emotions
to this end you can find what you want
or find why he left you
when we needed him most.
I know you hide for, hiding is easier than finding
I know you,
for who you aren't are,
and how limitations are how you define yourself by.
good god
I know you,
because at the Prime Meridian the light didn't hit your retina,
because you were too afraid to stand in the sun.

The single green light,
of that lighthouse cries out tonight,
crying
alive with a exuberant shine,
yearning
and pulling a child from his swing,
closer
to that barely visible, minute and faraway siren call
swinging
and yet somehow, sometime, somewhere, the child begins,
falling
into
that might have been at the end of the dock.

The ocean isn't really beautiful.
Even Bukowski said so.

Stop treating things like they need to be
happy gooey and awesome.
In fact,
the happy gooey--or crunchy if it is preferable-- awesome,
isn't real because it
oozes alacrity
and therefore adds some sort of undeniable blandness,
like the way they add unfavorable GMOs in food,
to reality
that makes happy gooey awesome all the more not
perfect.
The sun isn't always magnificent is it?

There will be bad days,
where
people are strange
and do strange things
that  you will not understand
and you will do strange things
where people will never understand
or when **** just starts to fall apart
like life lacks forward momentum
and nihilism runs rampant in your lungs.
But it's not always night is it?

And then there will be normal days
when this place seems to let you breathe for awhile,
inhaling and exhaling
filing up those voids of the "bad days"
and the "good days",
allowing you to enjoy the small pleasures of this
world.
Allowing you to fit
and conform
into boundaries of your own
self-made contentment,
ultimately restricting you
into your self-made hole
with you and your conquered beliefs over the years
from good situations or bad situations
or situations in between.
But
and don't mind me for taking that long to reach
a small point
the entire universe isn't that small is it?

"Why do you hurt?"
I just do.
Stop asking
because one day
when you hurt too,
you'd know why.

I've always said I hated corniness.
Truth is,
whenever I see someone
like you
being corny
I love you even more.

Coke at the fireplace,
sitting in a crowd
It just doesn't stop.
Doesn't quit.
"As long as there's that tic tic followed by that bump"
you sway your hips.
red dress shayshaying against your hips.
soft satin rubbing on that skin of an angel.
it's a black night
in a white light
You don't know what this means quite yet,
but the pulsating beat
tapping on your soles
in the distant city
it beckons for you,
to come out tonight
and dance your way back to it.
It's a white light
actually it's a white light in your eyes now.
that's what happens when you're destined for this part
equip yourself
on this ride
satin feels like a itchy grip now don't it?
but all is better ain't it?
many a hour later
you shall
share with us this splendor
blinding magnificence
for we are the peons
and you are the the great inquisitor
of the abstract blue
slanging rocks,
on the mountain tops.
Should we know better
or shall we know less?

i wonder if i should embrace the life expectancy of a snail slime-ing away
along the sidewalk,
it's sanctity already ruined,
it's guts spilled out in a portentous manner,
showing all what it once was
and all what will inevitably happen,
in an odd manner
somehow
filling in the void of this world
by allowing the stitch of the patterns stay put.
but i digress.
there ought to be much more.

It's just time,
a universal and society accepted measuring device.
two lines moving pass through roman numerals.
What comes
will come
when fate desires it.

Leave the horror here
and
go to a knotty hill.
We can fall amongst the lush gardens
staring at
the black monogamy
to find the gold bits.
Let us drink champagne and toast
virtuous sin in this white light, but
allow our eyes and lips and hands speak our emotions
or of what is left of it.
We are what we are,
moonchildren,
yes we are.

"we are the papillons" we say.
we march and prance
about in and about out
these shadows of the great oaks.
they look at us sternly, concerned.
but we smile,
these teeth as my
silver hair touches the bottom of the blue ocean.
I watch your
searching eyes find the neon starfish and
my
green sequins glisten amongst the corals.
yet I can never just know you just yet
as we dance here screaming
"we are the papillons!"
blobs of purple glitter surround the dance floor
and the tintinnabulation  rings in my ears
only a millisecond later.
hold my hand then
and lead me across these explosions in the sky
to take another breath, holding me in this haze of smoke.
tommorow-day just doesn't matter
when the papillons flutter here.

At night, lavender seeps into the room with it's hypnotizing scent to formulate the words.
But loose lips attract the honeybees
divvying up the compassion that we might see.
And petunias may have costly fees
that you and I cannot foresee.
Do staple this poem onto that wall you put up,
so long ago I've noticed I might add,
and maybe use it as blackmail against my future self.
Know that I tried but failed,
and that truth, freedom, beauty and love cannot stomach the pressure
of being the right
words between you and I.
So to Tortuga,
I will say.
to Tortuga!
The place we belong
among the snivels and the ******* and many more.
Where sand granules snakes through the straw-like hair
to fly and be no more and some more among the stars.
We can connect the stars with imaginary lines
and I will draw you a spider with hairy eyes
and you paint me a fish with silky fins
in the dotted blue colored sky.
******* another purple smoke ring
from this lovely pipe of hooka,
pour me another glass of this tantalizing elixir,
and we shall forevermore be the ones we always were
you and I, nevermore.

From Aries to Pisces,

herein lies the golden-orbed saviors,
grunting and hustling
across the globe
to find
a pious zealous man
and bring him to
visit the Dark Angel below the sea,

herein lies
a dead leader
in a red country
inhabited by sunken cheeks
and the optimism and fear
in their
hollowed eyes,

herein lies
a dead inventor
of overrated gimmicks
men consider wonders
and substantial of life

herein lies
the tragedy of a man
starry-eyed at the red blinking lights of the street light,
having the jovial thought of a
fat jolly white bearded man leaving gifts next to his
pink plastic tree near the garbage disposal where he resides,

herein lies
life taken...
and
life given...
and
never noticing the forward momentum of which time goes by

Golden feathers
dipping, gliding, sliding,
soaring, diving,
flying...
in the bright blue
abyss,
among the veils of compressed
water,
above all,
gloriously free
and yet
so
alone.

Today,
I wake with a fire,
burning through the gallows in this heart of mine,
searing the cavity within, and thus
churning the blood into a vile silver mercury,
throbbing through the aorta, veins, and
into the legs, arms, hands
and finally the mind,
into a madness
--and in madness a confession--
I yearn.
I yearn, so much and so much more,
than just a gaze,
than just a kind greeting,
than an accidental touch.
But I am
a beast and no more, eating, sleeping and watching,
as be it societal acceptance,
a self resistant machine,
that renders me a master of
the art of acting indifferent at your gaze.
Blame me not, my love, for this act is  to ward off
the seductive aphrodisiac of which vibrant colors  glows in ecstasy,
(being anything but)
in which I believe love to be.
So leave it at that, and nothing more,
thoughts of unrequited love
and thoughts never to become actions.

At
the time
of a late day,
when the sky has
diluted colors of burnt sienna, lavender gray, ecru and blue bell
and it's clouds are a haze of purple that seem to transcend into the other worlds,
the specks of light below these black, black boulders, so-called mountains,
become dots of light to thy eyes behind the thick glass of the moving vehicle,
reflecting
all but
life.

It is a fragment floating in the wind, compelled by the magnanimous winds to move in it's spontaneous fashion. Tossed side to side, up and down, forwards and backwards, it's moving so fast it is blurry. Then, as the playful winds stop for a second, it falls.
Falling. On the ground, it lies. I see it and see a piece of trash, huddled up in the corner with the bazillions of crunchy wrinkle textured brown leaves--withering away in decay. Dead. No longer anything to anyone, not even me. Nothing.
I suppose that's the way it's supposed to be.
But the wind--by god, the winds and their shifting moods--gushes back. Shaking the darling buds of May, it roars once more--picking the trash and flinging it in a motion once more. Filing in it's vapid cavity, edifying it with it's passions, pulling it back once more to defy gravity. Pure beauty drawing in, ******* out, taking, giving. Dancing.
Tossed. Up. Down. Left. Right. Around.

Anywhere.
I suppose that's the way it's supposed to be.
I leave it twisting in the wind.

He is a piece of art,
of visible colors, lines, curves on a canvas,
a mosaic for all too see--
and yet he hides himself in a Picasso painting.
He takes love and drains it dry
******* in the souls of hapless saps,
and not caring.
He has no shackles that bind him to a corner,
his power limitless,
unrestricted,
crushing and more destructive than all of the surges of Poseidon's seas combined.
He watches me,
from afar, upfront,
making sure I glimpse him every now and then
but my mind tries to fool me otherwise.
He is...
fear....

sweeping and carrying me off my feet,
into the sky,
bewildering and bothering.
And he reigns over me,
his omnipotent power lying
there
(this the most blatant truth I can't obscure)
in the fact I can't let him go.

Today, on the way to dinner, I saw a church. "Worship at 9:00", it said on that board, standing vigilant and possessing an refined temperance to it. It was next to a KFC and a liquor shop.

The warm soft coral petals on the face,
sheltering the delicate eye tissue underneath,
no longer flutter open,
to see
the many signed divorce papers on the mahogany desk in the home office,
the Bon Jovi tickets in the right hand pocket of the J.Crew pants,
the facebook profile of the attractive girl online whom were predestined to one of those tickets,
the letter of resignation hidden in the black briefcase,
the guitar that was pulled out of the garage hanging in his office,
the numbers of old bandmates on the coffee table,
the disappointed faces of the family and friends, and
the lengths taken in the pursuit of happiness.

And yet, he lies there knowing that, he misses
the sky,
the sun,
the stars,
the moon,
the variegated leaves in the fall and spring,
the wheel in the front lawn tied by a rope to an sturdy branch,
the cerulean colored house that was painted by cheap labor,
the fat cat lounging in the parkinglot of his workplace,
the boss that threatened due to an inferior complex,
the punk the daughter was infatuated with, with the waned colored skin and dyed blond greasy hair,
the plain-Jane daughter and her defiance of his authority,
the stepford wife and her arguments about misplaced toothbrushes and
the co-worker and his chiseled face with an inquisitive smirk of all knowingness.
And he realizes that now.

Sometimes I fell disorientated when I wake, dreary from my sleep. I open my eyes, sit up in my bed, and stare at the darkness of the room, thinking nothing at all. It is during these moments I feel a wave of deep unknowing wash over me and then my heart ache begins. It is small and barely irritating at first, and then, as if my heart has been stabbed by a knife, the very reason for the existence of my being seemingly disappears from my knowledge and it as if acid has been poured down my esophagus to slowly torture the inner linings of my viscera. It is in these moments I feel like all I want to do, is think about myself and concentrate on this unexplainable emotion that I can not exactly explain with over dramatic words. And then, I realize that it probably doesn't matter and I have to move on, for myself, and for the people who need me to move on, so they won't feel the burning sting of the acid in their own viscera. And I guess, when I realize that, that everyone is connected to everyone else in this crazy insane universe-- a symphonious euphoric ******* orchestra of relationships where people intertwine with one another in a sporadic motion, to create beauty--so that that deep infinite unknowing void is filled up, it is this. This is it. It makes sense. Everything does. Life. Makes. Sense.
And there is no hole. Only

Methinks he doth not have compassion,
as his gaze strays to the waxed floor, and into the blinding florescent light
in four brief moments,
never once trying to reflect a sense of empathy.
For the petals of all flowers does wither
as does the strong winds eventually lose momentum.
And into that dark place,
where one's heart is discarded into
the deep Caribbean blue mass of water
--floating alongside the millions of seawater wonders--
empathy flees the best of mankind
elsewhere.
And who's fault is to blame?
A question even the most intelligent of beings
and the most worldly of people
cannot earnestly answer?

And he is here.
his words unthinking
and "free-willed"
scorning the self-piteous.
whilst he refuses to acknowledge
his own state of being maudlin.
and this fine youth trods on
unknowingly
stepping closer to the seawater wonders,
lost.
and a little bit more.
and a lot more less.
but inevitably

The girl had seen too much.
She had traveled to Iceland
Berlin
Amsterdam
France.
At the mere age of four.
She had visited China
Russia
Australia
Belgium
At the mere age of eight.

And at the mere age of thirteen,
she met Pandora.
They became fast friends.
Pandora opened the box.
They became fast enemies.
There were no "blue pills" in Pandora's box.

And so the girl went on.
She had seen too much.
Knew too much.
It didn't even matter.

She went on and composed poems
metaphorical pieces of ****,
that meant nothing
yet everything
to some misguided soul.

It bored and amused her.
Still didn't even matter.