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

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.

So silence awaits once more
and it's quite a scene
as our confusion envelopes the hypocrisy
of the chaste *****
who says once more
'goodnight'.
solemn
genuine
affectionate
crying--
we are celeste
the virtuous maidens
of the night and cursed are we
with the plight of the folly of our ***.
the holy Mary cries for our sins
our sexuality unspoken
our faithless oppositions
our gender--broken
our identities stolen
by objects of the night
a billboard of
a cavernous hole with
satin titillating  sights.
Help us,
we cry,
to the men that are so attractive
that represent our needs
our desires and wants
by their undeniable marble bodies.
Help us,
we cry,
to the men that are so attractive,
to open our doors, to carry our purses,
to make our decisions without any strife.
Help us,
we cry--thrice--
to the men that are so attractive,
to make us feel again, to fill in a cavernous hole,
to give us children that fight.
And for me,
love me, hold me tight, kiss my cold nose in this winter's night,
be attractive, just only attractive,
for you are nothing but
the man I love,
whole with all my heart.

i need isolation, not your constellations
i'm sorry but these stars won't guide me home tonight

our ships have sailed far apart
i'm sorry for your weathered heart

standing here i can hear the cries of my melancholic ghost
standing here i can see the tides bring in corpses of our love

but if you can please forgive me dear
i loved you so with all my tears

salt water was the only thing i could ever understand
salt water is the only thing i ever needed, my friend
salt water is the only thing i could ever be in the end

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

Never will you know
out of body, out of mind
atomizing in thin air
floating upon crystal castles
dangling on wispy clouds
I suppose I am to blame
I've forgotten in the mold
folded a thousand times
struggling under pressure
bulking exponentially
until I desist at last
filtering out memories
I couldn't hold onto regrettably
kisses so deep
so lonesome
the touch of lips still lingers
flirting with my memory
an ancient calling
my rhapsody,
to harmonize, baptize
recognize the demon inside.

and lost in it's cage the fallen angel sighs
of relief perhaps
or of unshakeable boredom
knowing that he'll
never be never be never be
unbroken

just a girl with an odd skin disease
should i cry should i laugh
opera houses and speckled faces with masks on
covering your face in a banal masquerade
while you're looking like an actor with an  odd skin disease
perfect in  your on ways with glitter on your face no one else sees
as a music box nearby sings a dreamless tune
opens up the case with dangling jewels for you to caress on your skin
the last rays of the sun touches upon you from the windowpanes,
allowing the radiance within shine for one last moment until night falls
and the dangerous erroticism of the sun finally releases as it nears the horizon
like the necessary evils of the full moon as it draws in the horrors of the night
a child you once were with less worries now beckons the dark in your jewels
glittering in the dark
stranded, alone and yet free
of the banal masquerade.
maybe they'll watch you maybe they won't,
in your parade towards the clouds.

loveless
sings the bats in the stale night
--bats are often eyelashes of this night and they travel in packs--
while contending for the tender fruit
i imagine they are well fed with treasure
       but oceans love
is the wave i seek in this molded night
   to that known to be a saturated vibrancy
content is the ripe mind as my legs do unravel
wet and moist does this mind bring the most  voluptuous promises of oceans love
as these waves hit at my ankles knees hands neck lips cheeks eyes forehead
engulfed is the skin with the salt and a rush of an unforseeable force neither containable or predictable
i am so wet

dreams hang within a pedestal of lies
cactus flowered drifters
silent mouths, silent minds
I remember a night
a blue moon in Amsterdam
golden eyes, orange smiles
a hapless passerby

but oh how those nights
still scream my name
and yet i'm here sitting in vain

i'm not bitter--
but i've spent all my yesterdays
watching frogs fall from skies
dry winds still blow dust
from the paradise that
used to be.
oh those nights

oh those nights

oh those nights
so there


i guess
i'll keep wondering
keep wondering
if they'll ever be
here for me

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.

organs pumping thumping hard
against the metallic blades of your chest
breathlessly shaken
constrained and beaten
fear striking harmonious melodies
at which upon their command
oceans sweep from head thru toes
dwindling and descending
roaring and shrieking
comes the dark
vanished sanity completes the task
awash with thought
like the an exploded building
slamming onto pavements like dominoes
crumbling infrastructures in mid seconds
the glassy finish dissipating into
a winter's snowing night
your hands shaken and cold
eyelashes battin' about
some old little thing you'll simply forget about

"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.

and you'd come up again
in our conversation,
a bit flustered
wandering through haystacks in June
what else did you want from me?
it's either this or that...
words shared yet lost
meaningless and obsolete
a hazy afternoon for two

i knew a child who built houses
out of pebbles and twigs
he glued them together with honeycombs
and called it love.
those inhibitions
he tore up and sealed
for another day

then one day the wind thought
to come around to tumble
the bees harpooning above him
hypnotizing stings,
the cries within him
undulated to the frequencies,
of bright peonies in the spring.

and I saw this,
twist I did,
to bend the story wayward
like the rivers without moons
peering inquisitively at me.

But they were only fictions
carved by ancestors and
ancestors past,
whichever way to get their point across
to hold my head in their arms.
it was
folklore I'd forgotten to let go
the impossible book held deep in my chest
the anomaly I'd refused to relent
the searching for paradise.

You don’t seem to remember a lot
That’s okay, I’ll hold onto the memories for now
Like an old picture hanging on the corkboard in my room
You’re there when I wake
Illuminated by the morning sun’s gaze
You don’t mind hanging there on my wall
An unexpected visitor lingering in my mind
Catching my eye when I least expect it
But I’ll wait, as I always do
As morning turns into night, and night into day
As the sun shines through these windows
Ultraviolet waves upon my memories
I’ll wait for your colors to fade

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

enormous elephant in the room
his fat *** blocking the shrooms
i can't see the ******* moon
ahh this is that
finger that tap taps at the scaled skins
on the shapely layered fins
of the crated barreled tins
of my dainty figured limbs

that cross bows into the muscle
that beats a hollow hustle
a rhythmic monotonic tussle

that in which keeps this alive
this thing i call the enigmatic tide
this wussy like mind
this funk-du-funky found
that that idiotic lice that lied

in which I figure is the only thing left to ****
the mind that is not the vicarious blinds
that cover the truth in various skills
to which I cannot shallnot reveal in lines

Every now and then, helium
fills up and expands the entirety of the bottomless soul,
a beat drums ferociously deep in the heart
like a du-*** du-*** du-***,
engorging the fruity pulpy flesh with a
bu-dup bu-dup bu-dup,
flushing the skin a satanic roar
(always mechanical in it's clockwork nature),
and juices flow outwards unable to contain
an inedible inky fickle black
an explosion, compulsion, revulsion,
as it
spills consumes conquers
this too often naive heart.

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

Words never set reality in stone.
and sometimes
people
places
and
things
pass and go.
Nothing can be captured
caught and possessed.
All the better
to learn the facts.
But today was a yesterday again.
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

In our hormonal civil war
I found myself a samurai
warrior
so I sharpened my sword
-- there's nothing kinder
than the blade of possession.
lady killer,
flipping off the switch.
and in the darkness
I am you.
all
of my organs and whatever else,
becomes you,
to bleed your blood
to sing your verse
to clip your ears
for the music you haven't heard before.

but with our glands exploding
heads colliding
we fall backwards
onto our own swords
defeated inept.

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

Lackluster in spirit
pearls twirl in the midnight blue
like ballerinas on a frozen lake.
these swans make up for the moonless night
as your glittering eyes spark a glaze
behind the burning tip of your joint.
Last night I had dreamed a million dreams
of a million lights flashing
reflecting off the lake colors of red and purple.
The swans fly off sometimes when this happens
For a piece of pie in the distance.

your body is pure divinity.
buttresses stately and hidden,
ribbed ceilings magnetic and holding,
pointed arches lend elegance to your statuesque theme
lines are your soul and here i can trace them to heaven
a secular being sometimes finds themselves in your stained mosaics
pilars have become your outlines
to hold the delicate stained glass.
prayers are here
and I am transfixed by your
transcendental symbolism.
light shines through your windows and I myself
am drowning in this
gothic beauty.

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.

it's so beautiful*
*******.
it's a heartless ***** that luminates the dark sky as dreamers lie to themselves
romanticizing and influencing young everywhere to love dream and hope alike, when it stalks upon the sun.

despite all this,
the red on your white pants
makes humiliation sound a lot better than the repulsion of a custodian finding a used **** pad, soaked in red
clogging up the toilet.
dear.

it's a ****** that flaunts upon it's charms
while lingers in the blue sky staring up at the sun.

the red in the sun,
burns eyes so that the neurons in the optic nerve
die and somehow gives you a miraculous squint
but it's far more better than the repulsion of the custodian finding "lady" napkins  clogging the toilet hole.
dear.

someone's always got to be a custodian don't they?

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.

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.

.
Pinocchio has told this tale a thousands times
oh what a feeling
he says as he marches to the wonders of Pleasure Island
where ****** and games are galore
begging distraction he couldn't seek
.
lilies took her far into the woods
her dress brushing amongst them,
as she sang a swan song,
a prayer of her last will
to find an empty grave worth sleeping in
.
then appeared, on charred faces and knees
five hundred mothers, sisters and sons
carrying a man of burdened soul on their shoulders
in the scented night
screaming.                                                                                                                             thank god i'm alive
                                                                                                                                                thank god i'm alive

one is too little, two may be perfect, three is too much.
four is hard to keep track, five my head is spinning.
six i wish i never had that much to drink, seven i watch the clock ticking.
eight, is that a tape recorder? nine, i wish you were here with me.
ten, it's too late, too late i guess.

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.

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.

Your days of becoming an arrogant ***
are far from my days from being a condescending *****.
But in the end
we're all stupid ******
who ****
and marry
their cousin's cousin
from a long time ago.

creator destroyer is but the same
till death do we part lazarus calls our names
taken prayer taken fault
taken love to which we sought
demons cradling youth that barely talk
a family of three cherishing what i fought
the crawling the falling of it's golden age
the players love to take upon it's stage
acting role upon role upon role
till no one actually knows where to fall
so clumsily we go tripping down the stairs
taking those who'd loved and loved us so
becoming the demons of this too often naive heart.

So many boys.
What to do.
my head hurts, my wrist aches, and at the end of the dance, i'm walking backwards

It seems so long ago
When I think about it now
Like watching an old VHS in my mind
A tape constantly rewinding to the parts
I don’t care to remember

But tonight all I can see is your thumb tracing my lips
Your hungry gaze upon me
Seeking an answer almost
An answer I can no longer give you

Tonight all I can see is
My hand holding onto your hand
Feeling your warmth on that cold night
Similar to tonight

It seems that I am the only one
Who has locked apart of you forever
In the hidden depths of my mind
It’s a habit of mine, I am sorry

But over time, these memories
Hurt less and less
Feel less and less like they
Were mine to keep
It’s become an unfamiliar picture
A distant hazy feeling
I’ve learned to let go

But tonight
All I can see is this VHS
A part of you I have kept
On the darkest of nights
To keep me company
For to feel this momentary pain
Is better
Than to feel nothing at all

Yeah well ten years from now
I'd be dead
I'd be dead and withered
Skewered, hair hanging wet from red wine
Eyes gouged out mouth eternally fixated
A wide O with small maggots crawling out
They say they hang the prisoners on the walls of their kingdoms
They hang mine between their index and middle fingers and dangle me
Up and down they clasp and release my head with their palms
Hitting me continuously on the cold dark asphalt
They hang their victims the same way they do their enemies
There isn't any way out because who knows anymore which way is east or west
And so, when you see me as you near your haven of freedom
Be careful to close your eyes shut
Hold your ears tight they'll fall off when you start hearing
The cries of those you step upon

Most of the time I just feel like wallowing away and dying into this murky fog and it's okay because even with a moment of clarity, still still still adrift is my head flushed with the peach blossoms from the trees, still tender washed upon the shore

she says that she's been scared a long time ago.

that pink dress only gets worn in special occasions, mary lou anne!
so lost here, in a crowd with my fingers crossed behind my back, talking to a wall of pictures
--what she means is she's a queen of Chopins, the queen of *** covered mountaintops--

the hair dresser shall pin your hair up later at four, dearie.
she says that he was a man a long time ago.
mother mother, is lost in Kuwait. father father, is troubled with apple turnovers.
if this isn't right, then nothing will ever feel right again.

madam, please stop fidgeting with your dress.
a kiss has been seared onto her breast,
making the tissues underneath
smooth and strong.

darling, you look beautiful.
but somehow she's been buried there, with her daughters, her sons, and 200 families.
in a sundress by the beachside.
she says the Ripper tore her ******* open a long time ago.
music boxes tells her otherwise
that in his arms there are no more pink tomorrows.

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.

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.

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?

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.

altho
                  ugh i push y
                                         ou away, yo
                                                u have alw
                                                             ­        ays see
                                                             ­                       med to kno
                                                             ­                                               w that
the truth of the m
                              atter is, i will alwa
                                                            ­    ys need you more
                and yet
                                                        poets are flagra
                            nt wastes of space
hem      
                   ming the edge
                                                  s of this society
                                                                                                               confining it
                                     with hed
          onistic needs and wants
                        and all t
                                      he ridiculous feeli
                                                           ­                               ngs assoc
                                                           ­              iated with the fu
                                                              ­                                                          cked system of
                  emot
   ional intelligence
                                            emascu
                                                           lating the blac
                                                                                          k and wh
                                                              ­                        ite i des
                        ire of



Alas, Alas
I seem to have drowned myself into Kool-Aid.
"Poets are shameless with their experiences; they exploit them" said Nietzsche once.
I wonder how you are today.

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.