you want pretty pictures?
i want ugly.
i don't mean i want to be ugly, or that
i want a woman which is ugly,
or that you are, or that i am.
i just want that sick sad truth
told by lies. it can only be told by lies.
because the truth is what you leave out;
those whispers, little insignificant
details you "forgot" to mention;
those colours and smells that burn the
back of your brain, the shapes and sizes and
faces and flavors you savor and
forget as a favor
to yourself. the truth is that we want the
best, but never give our best,
you can't accept embarrassment
so it's denial, which tastes somewhat
sweeter.
so does scotch from orkney.
i write a lot, and get tired of sharing
because you must get tired of reading
about a drunk punk with
motionless ideas
who questions himself
and you
and your motives
and the everything in between;
craving solidarity, craving connection,
craving clarity,
craving does nothing until you sleep it off,
wake the godfuck up, and open your skull
to today.
therefore i sleep some more,
you turn the page,
and the globe
fits like
a glove.

Please,
do me a favor:
stay out of my dreams.
i'll be beneath sheets, silent.
her love, even love for another
was a flood through my mind
at 2am.
you blend, spirit to spirit,
the ghost that i never catch.
the hope that lingers
like garlic breath.
swimming the lake,
it's slow-motion, it aches.
it's filled with possession,
money-drug manuscript
and reaching out without a grip.
she wears clothing, i wear internal
organs on my sleeve.
she wears lipstick, i wear warpaint.
i melt plastic for fun.
i melt into her, miles at a time.
she fancied displaying
naughty pictures of herself; hell,
i fancied looking at them.
angel wings, or what was imperfect
becoming so very perfect.
now she taunts me without
knowing it.
i wish for a long moment ago,
i wish i had closed my mouth
and made myself stay still.
i wish 50 weeks hadn't gone by.
i wish i had closed my eyes and
woken up in bed after a bad dream.
it was her halloween photograph,
that was the moment i sat in the
dark diningroom, staring, and
feeling my arteries bursting
through my sternum.
many nightmares later i am no longer
alone, and a noose in name is my
favorite false memory:
i electrocuted myself, three times
as a child.
once, using metal scissors,
i severed the cord of a radio
plugged into the wall. hurt like hell,
my arm went numb.

in the wrong place. i was released,
and ran like a fool back into
the trap.
i wanted to be trapped by
you. and NOW i have to force
myself to close my mouth
and stay still.
every day i stay away from you
is another ******* costume.

dance, climb me like a tree-
stump.
rip my heart with sharp teeth.
Tth-thump. squish.

pick apart my embarrassments
like you'd pick apart my bones.
like vultures would.

i get to watch my own slow death,
you get to kiss me to death. slowly.
it's all the same.
distance suddenly makes sense.
Vivisection: i'm
sporadic neurotic
erratic ******, i'm
the smaller wheel on a tricycle, so
we get to go in circles.

i'm the fungus you can adopt!

cutting myself open, i can see what
makes me "frrrrrick."
heartache hopeful, i'm walking into
what i know are traps, what i know
is sure to hurt. i tell myself out-
loud, eyes closed, "THIS is gonna
hurt."

and i'm right. and i want more.
any and every relationship is more
and more masochism. it hurts more than
it ever heals, winds and wounds and
it musics me back to melody. hold me
hold me
hold me like
the car's gear shift, you only use me
sometimes.

Reminded me of that night:
from the 30th floor of your eyes,
your tears lept, committing suicide.
I shaved my head in the hotel bedroom
while you curled up in the shower.
When I heard the water turn off,
the bathroom lights were off.

I tried to calculate how many bedsheets
I would need to make a noose.
Then I decided you weren't worth it.

Sitting on the floor with you, I
watched your hopes collapse. You blamed
me for what I did, and a little for what
I didn't do. What I did do was hurt you.
I slammed the back of my head into the
wall I was against, you elbowed me hard.
You sobbed and I felt weak and I was. Weak.
I just wanted it to be over, for you to
stop crying, for me to have an explanation
that could wash this mess away.

I'm still trying to piece together exactly
what I really meant to say.

Using spirits to drown demons,
using every excuse in the book to avoid eyes in the mirror.
A surreal, septic,
self-destructive narcissicism.

I want to be saved or see the dream
played backwards,
like antichrist orchestra, like
outside-inned extraordinary,
exploring your heart, veins,
no more pains;
held to your face
by your guiding hands.

Two evenings together;
there are large chunks
of conversation that I
will never remember
because we were both
******.

You told me a couple
stories that were hard
to hear, and even
harder to look you in
the eyes after hearing.
And those were the good
stories.

You were vague, but I
used my imagination to
fill in the gaps with
grace.


I shied away from your
glances. I forced myself
to look away from your
****. You did have nice
ones, though.

You let me kiss you, you
kissed back. I pulled
away, silenced, finally
begging your eyes to meet
mine. You kept them closed,
or when you opened them you
let them dart, keeping a
peeping tom from seeing
into your windows.

Maybe you had worse stories
than I could ever invent.
Maybe you found someone else.
Maybe I was too *****, too
gentle...
Maybe you realized you were
too close to a madman.

I'll never know, and I'll
never ask for you back.

Understand me: it's okay to be scared.
I need to buy baking soda and soap.
I have hope. It's good to be prepared.

I want my home to be clean, I want to
be trim and trimmed like a landscaped.
I want to be beautiful to you.

Hold me like you hold your breath,
behind your teeth and in your chest.
Exhale me, I'm nothing more than carbon
dioxide.

Underwhelm me: don't hold weave into my
fingers, don't basket me to bread.
Or please sweep me off worker's boots.