My life is a virtual battlefield
complete with hidden traps,
layered atop cowardly assaults

between highly guarded spans of peace,
Inside my house
chairs and walls
are coarsely blown to bits
by verbal bombs,
and stark fists of shrapnel.

Behind that simple smile,
semblance of solid love
so easily shaken,
lies a ripened mine field

I tread on tiptoes
yet it erupts under
calloused feet unprovoked,
blasting glory to grey
as sacred sanctuary
falls to scarred terrain.

Spears lodged inside ribs
I peel myself from the ground,
shake off soot,
wait for dust to settle
before I march forward, again.

yes I lose the battles
But I will win this war.

Droplets tap the dusty windows
Tipping pleasure on the pane
Dribbles every time the wind blows
Prophesize a hurricane

Kisses linger on the backseat
Desperate to delight in more
Suffocated by the heat, but
When it rains, it starts to pour

Panic storm that quickly closes
Smashing waves upon the sand
Tension tearing up the roses
Stuttered poems, shaking hands

Though the pressure keeps you floating
And the ocean licks its shore
There's no way of sugarcoating
Once it rains, it has to pour

Stick a finger in your ceiling
Let the plants hang onto youth
Sunday jazz, petrichor feeling
Hear it tripping on the roof
Smell it shifting all around you
Leaking through your drying veins
Leave your stagnant dragonfly blue
Open up into the rain

When it rains, it pours
I'll blossom being yours

Downpour cleans the ***** traffic
Rippling madly down the drain
Paints the artist something graphic
While he's waiting for the train

Laughter echoes in the morning
Licking soil and clouds to raw
From the vision that's been dawning
Once you rain, it has to pour

Spitting bombshells pelt your raincoat
Tears in quiet pools of green
Holes inside your getaway boat
Water's sweet but can be mean

You've avoided all the warfare
But the stars rampage for more
Douse the thin comfort you still wear
Once it rains, it starts to pour

Stick a finger in your ceiling
Give the plants a thirsty truth
Fairy lights and freedom feeling
Tunes of our torrential youth
Smell it changing all around you
Bursting through the shrivelled veins
Leave your crippled summertime hue
Open up into the rain

When it rains, it pours,
I'll bloom so much being yours
We're a perfect storm, I guess
Fire has been stopped with less

When it rains it has to pour.

BELIEF & TECHNIQUE FOR TELEPATHIC PROSE
Lee Sharks & Jack Feistfrom Pearl and Other Poems

1.     Compose real poems telepathically, with mind control powers, inside your glorious brain.

2.     You are your own best advocate. Insist the world acknowledge your poems as artifacts of tiny doom. Accept nothing less. Threaten to smash yourself in the face with gasoline and set your hair on fire. Leap over the seats to aggressively stand inside the world’s personal space and get up in its grill. Take this container of Tic-Tacs and smash it on your forehead. Crush each Tic-Tac individually into your eyeballs and ask the world if it likes your poem, and if it likes your poem, then eat your poem: “Do you like my poem? Then eat it.”

3.     Always seek constant approval, then punch your cat in the face.

4.     Arrive alive. Don’t text and drive.

5.     Always write poems all the time.

6.     Never professionalize writing. Professionalism is the last refuge of responsible people looking for work.

7.     Your life is your poem. Take care to write it biographically. Failing that, invent false biographies and post them on Wikipedia.

8.     Get as much education as you can, then ****** your education in the face to save it from sloppy education. Get enough education to respect your contempt for education.

9.     Give it all that you have, as deep as it goes, as desperate and total as taking a breath.

10.  Also be pedantic mundane pig-critic of precise punctuation juggling and ruthless crossed-out darling murdering of your own puny sentences. Save every draft and revert to original after enormous work, then drown yrself in the bathtub. Remember: editing is organization.

11.  Be long-sighted prodigy of skeptically believing in nothing, but also believe in destiny, but quietly, and hit yourself in the face for naivety’s sake.

12.  You are a seamstress of words—place each stitch carefully, deliberately. Develop a series of rituals and perform them, without variation, prior to placing each word. Allow the frequency and intensity of these rituals to grow until you spend hours, each day, touching and retouching your left index finger to the tip of your nose in a rhythmic, counter-clockwise motion, in sets of thirty revolutions, in order to place a single character. Spend years of your life shut away from the world, wasting away into an awkward, unhygienic shadow of your former self, and have, to show for it, a two-syllable word of Germanic origins on an otherwise clean, white page. This word will be redoubtable, the bedrock of your writing career. Go on to spend vast sums of personal wealth and total dedication, alienating the remaining handful of long-suffering friends who continue, despite all odds, to solicit the memory of your humanity, in order to learn the arts of metalworking, Medieval alchemy, and font design, recreating a metal-cast, alpha-numeric set of Times New Roman font, from scratch, going broke long before “numeric,” and with only the half-formed germs of the characters W, N, and sometimes-vowel Y.  hat are such retrictio s to  ou?  ou are a poet,  ot a mathematicia .  ou are a creature of steel.  ou  ill  rite a  e  and better  orld, a  orld  ithout the letter   , forgi g it, o e smoki g husk of a  ord at a time.

13.  Turn over a new leaf. You’re not getting much done like this, anyways, let’s face it. Break the chains of your censoring, conscious mind; tap into the spontaneous well of unconscious human brilliance that springs from the source of dreams. Thwart the stick-in-*** tyranny of your internal editor by making a commitment to write constantly, without ceasing, editing, or even thinking, no matter what, ignoring the anally retentive quips your brain will no doubt make. Make a further commitment: you will not only write, irrespective of internal censorship, but in a way that is unconscionably terrible, on purpose. Your writing will be, by turns, embarrassing, infantile, automatic, and marmaduke poppers—or shall we say, antagonistic to the indoctrination in repressive concepts such as “sentence” and “word” of your reader, who is always, and only, you. Let your writing be a spiritual discipline of Bat-a-rang pancakes and lightly alarm clock, ding—your toast is done.

14.  Always Alka-Seltzer eyelids all the time.

15.  At last, you are ready to make it new, to ****** your darlings, to first thought, best thought, to your heart’s content. Your adverb will be the enemy of your verb, the difference between your almost-right word and your right word will be the difference between your lightning bug and your lightning. You are ready to have a spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling, then censor the s**t out of it. You are ready to turn your extremes against each other: Unlearn your apple pancakes and burst through the mental barriers; then slow the flood, let the lovely trickle out & edit, edit, edit. Capture spontaneous gem of native human genius, then marshal vast armies of technical knowledge & self-discipline to ensure it glimmers and cuts.

16.  Believe in things like destiny. No really—the path will shatter you so many times your shards will have splinters, your bombshells, shrapnel. By the time you get there—which you probably won’t—even your exhaustion will be tired. Exhaustion of mind and body will have passed so far beyond the physical, and through malaise of spirit, that it will emerge on the other side, as physical exhaustion again. In the face of this, nothing but a little Big Purpose will do. Besides, a little ideology never hurt anyone. Feel free to be all Voltaire with your bad self, in public—but don’t give up.

17.  After all of this, when your will is finally broken (again), and you have given up for the final time (again), start over. The former model wasn’t working. Refashion yourself and your writing. Lather, rinse, usurp your noble half-brother, and repeat, until you get somewhere, or die in the trying.  

18.  Achieve consistency of voice; it is the signature by which you will be known. Your “you” should ring out clearly from each individual letter. In this, the writer is like the salesman. Like a new car, neither the writing’s merits, nor the reader’s needs, will be the final, deciding factor. Ultimately, the deciding factor is you.

19.  Unlike a new car, it is difficult to drive a poem, to use it to get to school or work. Unlike a car salesman, a writer does not wear enormous ties.

20.  Be so consistent that your writing consists in composing the same words, in the same order, creating the some overall voice and style, consistently, over and over, an eternal return of the same. Maintain this disciplined drudgery over the course of years. Let years become decades, and decades, an entire life: You will have “found your voice.” Variety is the spice of life, but consistency is its signature.

20.  Be so consistent that your writing consists in composing the same words, in the same order, creating the some overall voice and style, consistently, over and over, an eternal return of the same. Maintain this disciplined drudgery over the course of years. Let years become decades, and decades, an entire life: You will have “found your voice.” Variety is the spice of life, but consistency is its signature.

21.  Then again, consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. Throw things up a little bit. One day, put on your hobgoblin hat, the next day, your small mind.

22.  On second thought, re: #16-17: Stop here. You don’t look like much of a writer. Save yourself the trouble of a deep investment that is sure to yield no returns. The prize is big, and not many take it. The Iliad showed us that the prize of writing is life eternal, and taught us to long for that promise; but the Odyssey taught us not to bother. There are many suitors, a single Odysseus. While the husband wends arduously homeward, Penelope weaves impending glory, an evaporating glamour, enchanting them, until he arrives. We are in for a bad end, if we chase another man’s wife, or a prize not rightfully ours. There are many suitors, a crowd of them. They begin as a chittering swarm of bats and end in the very same manner. You cannot have what is not yours. What is yours, no man can take. So, like Emily says,

I smile when you suggest that I delay ‘to publish’—that being foreign to my thought as Firmament to Fin. If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her—if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase—and the approbation of my Dog would forsake me—then—My Barefoot Rank is better—

23.  Therefore, take these Sturm und Drang commandments to the trash heap. Return to step 1, as the only useful piece of advice: Compose real poems telepathically, with mind control powers, inside your glorious brain.

(c) 2014 lee sharks & jack *****

from Pearl and Other Poems:

http://www.amazon.com/Pearl-Other-Poems-Crimson-Hexagon/dp/0692313079/ref=sr11?ie=UTF8&qid;=1429895012&sr;=8-1&keywords;=lee+sharks+pearl

He's singing
Bergdorf Blonde
Conde Nast Traveller
Rude or ****
Explode Bombshells.
He's singing I'm getting
married
Such a Pushover puppet?

Slave over the silken magnet
Oh so swift and swell let
the show begins

Those ritual love sin's
Miss Polly String smile say cheese
He's the Maneater enticing grins
His Trump Tower bell?
Oh! Hello Poetry
People like twin packing
Playgirl smooching
her lips pillow talk

The puppet stalk
their suitcases, but surprisingly
she falls down and trips
Play up your string's
Love act of rings
Her killer lace went into his face.
They all had a puppet inside.

A daredevil ride
Nowhere to hide
Las Vegas Nevada,
Like no other place.
She was in her prime
Diva,
Donna so Dollie, he had
a craving bank her they all
had to thank him
The foursome the Follie's
Do him
Torn to be so trendy
Such a spendy

Walmart of walnuts
Two amazing dollies
She's the magazine of
Italian Fendi.
Pulling her hair more flair
The whole shebang cashew's
Pushed by his split so
picky pecans.
How it went to her
Big little liar nephew's.
Like puppet curfews
  Hello, Poetry New.
The white wedding blue's
Magnifying big lip's.
He needed a Holly-doll
The next clue?
Silk strings taped up
That puppet took a mighty
long trip...

Did I say plastic puppet is real porcelain skin faces?

Playgirl's cries needed
a dominating diet
Hefner smoking jacket suit

What a demonstration,
pulling on hemming mini
skirt trims chances
dangerously slim
So condemning
caused a riot.
The other crowd what
Oscar Meyer Wiener.
Going to the Vet doggie collar he
was tied to be fit silk suit
Las Vegas show trainers.
Who got caught with the puppet
Honey tricked peanut butter playgirl
Puppet show went all hobbit
over "Twitter" mixed whirl
        
What a nut sometimes you feel
like a nut
sometimes you won't and she
knows you don't

The rest going to H---.
Must I B dreaming?

He's singing I'm your puppet man,
Elephant nose cleaned out the planter's
Such a big spender and tipper.
Brooklyn his name Lucas @ the circus!

Like a physic knows your inner thoughts,
hanging on a string.
Everything that comes out of his mouth is two!

I have a puppet surfing the internet
wrapped her around
Felt an undercurrent_ it was
like pieces of glass
soundproof,
his crafty fingers.

Is he doing the best he can?

He's pulling her madly
Puppet computer search
Penny the dreadful
He expects us to jump when
he's oversexed active
looking for his puppet chair,
in the back.
A ****-day puppet!
He's the pig face twilight zone
muppet's
Well doing the can-can two
Playgirl's
hit the fan
The puppets became
the Gentleman

  Playgirl's shuffling "Rose" deck
   Hollywood screen bedding
    Puppets skillful  making

        The Poem Day.
         Puppets pray
         String cheese display

Obsessed stories Puppets.

Playgirl's color gypsy Rose Leah  
Miss Natalie from the woods preach
Silken Marionette.  
So wrapped like someone's gift
But used thrifty bed
He's in his red-hot Corvette.
Instead of roses, his thing french brie
Stock market up and away tie
I rather have my pasta bow-ties
Swiss, the air she's the playgirl
  Swiss Alp's skiing
he ripped his pant's Swiss Alps hole.
Marilyn Monroe playgirl presidential
dancing on the Christmas pole
Love tropic Pineapple dole
  The bed red hot Corvette. console

Instead of roses, his thing was cheese.
"So Swiss" with holes of lace my face
I hate to burst your cheese,
He dragged his shirt open

Twice the fun playgirl she eloped
I became his string cheese pet!!
I'm not your string cheese.
Hello Godzilla, puppet collection
Bella bella Genie mozzarella

"Puppet overpriced sales
All your friends are a puppet male.
Make a wish blowfish

In all the year how I tracked men's nuts,
she had to string together nut job's,
eat a string cheese.
Polly didn't want animal crackers,
Groucho became like a ******.

The puppet master showing
his game piece
and pull on someone else's

Driving down a small country road.
The year is 1946,
Brand new truck,
fresh off the line.
A warmth embraces my hand,
My fingers intertwine with hers.
A spiderweb of emotions and flesh.
Golden engagement ring rubs against my knuckle.
The newscaster on the radio telling us about another day without a glimpse of humidity.
She turns the radio down to where the muffled voices are barely audible.
"I love you." She says, observing me from the passenger's seat.
I look ahead at the road still.
"I love you, too." It took me a second to think about her French accent.
Desiree, her name.  
Flew over to America after Paris was bombed by the Germans.
I was the only person who took her for who she really is,
Wonderful.

Bombshells are strewn about,
Thames Riverside, England, 1943.
My leather war boots are poorly placed on top of a landmine.

Hospital beds are more comforting than a mothers hug.
"Sargent Jack, you're going home." The nurse says.
Off I went, that night I was sent back to Missouri.
I bought myself a new truck.
A 1946 ford.
Fresh off the line.
A warmth embraces my hand.
I look down,
Memories are slipping between my fingertips like blood from an open wound,
the wound being my mind,
not my head,
my mind.
Thoughts strewn about like bombshells.
Disorganized,
Written off,
Buried and left on the battlefield,
the corpse of my sanity awaits for nothing.
I'll never make it back.

comely, maybe
but not beautiful
my features are as round as vowels
and I carry the moon in my hips
I am an unpolished beauty
smooth pebbles resting at the bottom
of a cold clear stream
with an empty purse
imagination
my only currency

in this world
I am a shrinking violet
occasionally a rose
february-white
caught in your button-loop
long-stemmed red roses
stalk runways
hollywood bombshells
are bubbly as champagne
and full of flesh and light

but *** sans love
is still an empty bathtub
whatever happened to pin-up girls
long cigarette holders
and muted photographs?
I am distorted
in the fish-eye view
of the modern lens

in my fantasies
I am no longer sand and loam
I glow like a tall slim candle
though I am often numb and dumb
and my girls are as absent
as long lost unicorns
I am the bohemian princess

I travel through foreign lands
clothed in exotic costume
a jewelled headdress, and
indian pyjamas coloured sapphire,
turquoise and cayenne-red
my feet are near bare
and my hippie hair
is a mass of blonde curls

I take a sojourn in
southern california
warm desert air
soft against my skin
I surf in the salty sea
held buoyant by the waves
a sunset stains the sky tangerine
the palm trees
black against the orange light
click teasingly in the breeze

And as the bombshells of
my daily fears explode they
hurtle into me with the
exact force of
her fists and leave
bruises, invisible (this time) and
knock me down until I
am drowning under
the waves and I
can't breathe under
the weight of all
these memories because as
the bombshells of my daily
fears explode I know how to
trace them right back to
my youth and I am
scared of still
being young.

Needlepoint threadbare caucus with an instant Kodak box camera filled nitrite
Like the sun-kissed barely lit beaches over Normandy
Stormed into the kitchen with a missile and an avalanche to overpower the pirates
With their long-forgotten and ill begotten flagship armada
The flowers hang low and the nooses lower with ever-present danger of going over
The needle hits skin puncture left right down touch your toes uplift like the cross
Arms hung low over the alabaster sky with a long trench-coat and wary eyes
Cloud cover start to blow the cover and touch the roller coaster coffee cup sitting
With an eye to the glass and the telescope lens flare catch like the door latch
Down to the basement with the worn out sofa sit alone like the bedraggled soldier
With his dog tags hanging like a sign of the times down to where his feet locked
To the floor in an instant with the bombshells all around and a seductive twist
The ring and fling the pin out count down begins to the gravity shift consciousness
Like the cancer patient under the knife the tumor’s removed the chemo begun
With the bulb burning down over a hospital bedside and the white sheets lingering
Smell of a machine gone bad turned tail like the redcoats running down the chute
With the mail to the end of the day the laundry’s out to dry on the steel clothesline
Their bolt cutters damage the elderly couple hanging from the tree with the cymbal
Underneath like the gong of the undertaker the dam’s release
The water runs down to cleanse the disease and carries the pathogens to find their caprice and restraint held back on the man in the chair with vacant eyes and half
Muttered prayers to an unknown God with long white beard
Sitting alone under a payphone like the cold-dead wires of a long gone bee hive
Mind pictures play off the words on my tongue like an over-told rhyme
The nursery songs and bells and whistles come together to form an indignant sound
Like the steel clap trap of the boot black against the pale white walls of the by-gone
Era with a viscosity of ancient monolithic capacity
Sourdough rising like the falling red sun over the horizon sit and contemplate the weather-worn-battle-torn visage of man remembered yet never met
Till death and earth turn and burn in the ascending light of the pale moon
Wolf-howl over the distant city lights like the mournful wail of a banished soul
Away from home for ever so long with a comb to the palace in the heart of the beast
It sings for summer and faraway places of the corporeal magic in an elemental fashion show sip the martini glasses ***** and break and shatter like popcorn
In the kettle boil over the levee let it sink down into the visage of a man in the underground coat around the tails of the whipped dogs running like hell.

I dreamt of a field of flowers
Where white crosses are planted
Families still together
Content with life
Genuine grins covering faces

I dreamt of full bellies
On the dark continent
Soccer ***** rolling between feet
Of children who also dream
Of lives as happy as theirs

I dreamt of fresh air
And clean water and growing forests
The cleanliness of nature unrivaled
As animals mingled around the watering hole
Roaming freely with homes

But I awoke and saw war
Fires melting the lives of millions
Dropping bombshells of grief
Destroying homes from within
And children dead or weeping

I awoke and saw despair
Fat bellied greed hogs
Rollin in muddy money pits
While babies died without food
And an entire land stripped and sold

I awoke amd saw nothing
But smoke stacks emitting poison
And the homes of the forest creatures
Being carried into lumber mills
And brown water filling drinking glasses

Four walls and one door
maintaining (perfectly) in-tune
with the outside world,
countless libraries and braver
brains in court, fingertips
away.

Too much sometimes, too much
noise and sleepless racket,
no need for hotel wifi or
roaming minutes, change nowadays
burns faster than
relationships.

I woke today to find
bombshells exploding elsewhere,
slaughtered innocents and
captives in bright silver fences
until the next time I
read about it.

My brain is spent running in
slow-motion. I have glasses now,
my vision once was perfect but
staring at screens beat biology
to the punch: a most frightening
revelation.

The world is like sandpaper to my nerves
Raindrops seem like bombshells to my ears, and well
Every touch by my own hands is met with an internally antisocial taint
Heartburn and headache are my companions now
Light burns my eyes like sulfur
I need someone to **** me senseless and wake me when its over

A tavern built on misdeeds and insurrection,
House of rascals, whisky and imperfection
A hideaway for rebels and racketeers,
Where drinks are served to outlaws and mutineers,
Where the pianist plays for pirates and privateers,
Where the wicked and the wayward can be served,
And are respected however undeserved.

It’s a rag-tag bunch of outlaws and anarchists,
A cavalcade of rough revolutionists,
So come on in my dear insurrectionist,
Welcome to our lawless little band,
Welcome to the Tavern of the ******.

Come and join our banished battalion,
Join our cause, oh revered rapscallion,
So calling out to nature’s abominations,
We’ve got bourbon, bombshells and indignation,
Come and wait for imminent and sure damnation,
No matter what your deviance may be,
Come and join the drunken reverie.

It’s a monument to lost souls and deviants,
A shrine to every small disobedience,
A riotous, cathartic experience,
Where radicals are safe from reprimand,
Welcome to the Tavern of the ******.

Welcome back, my worshipped renegade,
To the place where freedom’s sweet as lemonade,
Where skanks and outlaws, sing so intoxicated,
The anthem of the unkempt and agitated,
The mantra of the evil and of the hated,
Laughing as they sing their merry tune,
Unified by their impending doom.

It’s a testament to chaos and anarchy,
A haven for the worst of humanity,
A house of lawlessness and profanity,
Welcome to our lawless little band,
Welcome to the Tavern of the ******.

Army Men exploded into
green plastic pieces
on the dull, gray
comforter that made
up the battlefield.
Rubberbands flying
back and forth
through the air
like so many bombshells.

Days that I long
to fall back on,
where super heroes
had crooked teeth,
hunched backs,
and tattered t-shirts.

She is like children’s shampoo you had at age four.
“Tear free.”
But when in your eyes,
The tears still stream.
She is like scented markers from kindergarten classrooms.
Foreshadowing when you’ll be sniffing things that will make you lose yourself,
And maybe lose everyone else, too.
She is like sidewalk chalk you drew with in the first grade.
Entertaining for the weekend,
But easily washed off with the rain.
She is a 9/10 on a second grade spelling test.
So close, but not enough.
She is the inflated stomach you had in third grade,
When all the kids would call you names and picked you last for kickball.
She is the time you threw up in fourth grade,
Because being “Fatso” wasn’t who you were.
Or wanted to be.
She is the countless sleepless nights in fifth grade,
Wondering if you were running away, or running to something.
She is the blood stained sheets from sixth grade,
The time you named a razor after your ex-best friend,
Who left you for the blonde bombshells.
She is the time in seventh grade,
When suddenly the sleeping pills your mom took looked more like candy than meds
So you had a few,
And ended up in a hospital bed.
She is everything you wanted to forget.
And yet somehow,
She brings you solace after a life not well spent.

People don't hear the true ****
They hear the pretty depressing ******* I feed to you
In stanzas and well made lines

I hide a-lot in these pill pockets of truth of mine
Like the fact that I undercounted my attempts of suicide
I've failed attempts at home before, but no one would know

Or I've been sexually assaulted more than once
But no one could know the real ****
Because I'm sure it's a turn off

No one gives a **** about the unraveling poet
No one would notice if I stopped posting
It's the curse of writing

The world tries to sweep me under the rug
Even on watt-pad, if you notice, there's no tag for suicide
And the depressing books, get swept aside for the Romance and Fantasy

I can say my work helps others, but that's not true
I can say my kindness makes a difference, but no one notices me
My actions don't do ****, and it's evident by the way people treat me

I am invisible, I am in hiding
I am lying to myself when I say there is hope for me
I should have known from the beginning, people like me don't get happy endings

People see a boy dressed in all black, and suddenly, he's up to no good
It doesn't matter if he always smiles at people and says good morning
It doesn't matter if he works hard to get a good education, and puts in effort

He's dressed in black, so he's not good enough
The world doesn't want to change, and it shows
Why try to change when the world just doesn't care?

I am a statistic, a grade, a number; I am not a person
I am not a friend, a son, or a brother
I am just a name written on paper, I am just a word

There is no hidden meaning to "Gray"
There is no meaning to the word
There is no meaning to me

If I don't show up today, would anyone notice?
How long would it be until people started wondering?
Or would I just become an urban legend

If I die today, would anyone come to my funeral
Or would it be empty, with just my body waiting to be buried
Would people bring flowers I actually like, like a Nymphaea nelumbo, a cherry blossom, or cacti

Or would I just get carnations, the boring ones
Would people give fake speeches about how they knew me
How "great of a person I was" when they'd never spoken to me

When I die, this poetry is the only thing that will suggest the truth
It'll be my defensive to the "I had no idea" argument people love to pull out
When you did, everyone did, I'm kind of ******* obvious

Yet I'm still holding onto our secret
I'm still shut up about your crime
I'm still pretending it never happened like a good little victim

But no one gives a ****, I doubt you even know my name
I doubt you even remember what you've done
And I hope my death makes you feel guilty as ****, well, if you remember me

The world doesn't care about "victims", "survivors", or "warriors"
or whatever else the world decides to call us
They care about making a quick buck, and getting a bit of fame

Shove us into the spotlight to make you look good
Use us for attention, money, and publicity, but I'm sure
It's all out of the goodness of you heart, right?

The truth freaking *****
But I won't apologise for speaking up
Cause I'm the one no one notices anyway, right?

Bullets, bombshells, boots,
blasted buildings, broken bones.
A blitzkrieg bombing.

manipulate and mishape, mold and miscommunicate
conversations with words like bombshells
wrote a letter with words i'm sure hurt like hell
bit the cap off my sharpie like i pulled the pen from a grenade
wrote beautiful words but they were filled with hurt and pain
i might find solace in lament
so i'll serenade you tonight again
but tonight won't be a love song like i sang you then.

Jesus, lord above
We got a bus full of Christ’un girls here
They got rose perfume and windswept hair
We got blonde bombshells with **** glasses.
Jesus, why do you tempt me so?
I bet they’re all off to pray.
All off to do some good in the name
Of our lord. Raising their button noses in reverence.
But I think God was having a ***** joke
When he made girls so good looking.
Pearl white teeth, plush and kissable cherry lips, Salvation T-shirts
With the Good Lord Jesus Saves belt buckles
Man, oh man, I go to church and light candles
Praying, lord please oh please
If these girls are going to Heaven
Save me a place in the Pearly Club.
So that we can dance the night away
Watching those saintly hips swing...
Watching her play with her pinna earring
Watching her ****** with her Ichthys ring
All those lovely girls,  up from the Bible Belt
Nibbling on their pink-chipped nail polish
Driving me crazy, torturing men forever.
Just my luck, I’ll bet I’ll be in Hell
While the party’s going on.

the clustered up foggy breath,
my molded basement, my solid
brain teased me.
I ran, I ran further than
I thought I'd ever be found.
The worst part, I turned
myself in. I know it won't be long,
until i fight this feeling once again.
This is a Hell's Winter.
Remember, tip-toe and watch your back.
Speak less, and you'll remember the
name of the game.

In my dream, the Nike Corporation
set flame and fire to the development,
cookie cutter, ****** houses.
I raced away in car full of hopeful and
***** kids, who knew a better place to
call home.

And even home can feel like a smothering
mess, so what then?
Will there be a day that this paranoia will
resist the simmer setting?
Pick up your swords, don't forget your guns,
and please wake me up.

These dreams scream for a louder life.
school-books, normality, sobriety,
gravel underneath my skin.
And just when you thought
puking until you were thin was enough,
you're kicked in the gut.
Bleach-blonded bombshells, breaking
barriers, crossing borders, barring resistance
to breeze through your body.
When I die, please bury me
with my brighter side.

It aint hard to tell
I excite those who dwell
In my presence my foes be hesitant
Deliberating debating and hating
Welcome in the sons of satan
Watch my gun get blatant
Belligerent despairing the hearts of
The innocent
Most people dont follow rules
I refuse to be a mule  
**** youtube rules and the punk
*** trollers move over
There a new sheriff in town
Shot the da va and deputy
Now whos wearin' the crowns ?
King of the original jew whoever knew
I would be born inside of a jail cell
Made from hell learned the best from sniffin' yeyo
My pang couldnt even hold on whale scales
Take short of the  L then inhale
Turn spectators skins pale
When the reporters try to yell
But cant escape deaths bail
It aint hard to tell



Know i got haters
Following me like Jesus
I resurrected hip hop
Im Lazarus disastrous  
My crew wrecks only
In guns we trust til our barrels rust
Wipe out the must
Got keep a clean mind when i grind
Looking for the ultimate sunshine
Middle fingers to one time
The narcs hidin' the parks
Im lightin' em up like John Starks
My mid range is wicked past sadistic
Just being realistic
So if ya wanna be a statistic
I advise ya remain un Belligerent
Broke the mental shackles
When life started to tackle
I got curious as a jackal
Laughin' at my enemies all the way to the bank
Mis the feds foes to hoes
And pop open the drank blaze the pounds
While ill count my franks
That means my money banks
Ill leave ya mind stiff as a plank
When i drop these lyrical bombshells
Yo it aint hard to tell


I wonder if you decided twenty years ago
That this was the life you wanted.
If heartbreaker was tattooed into your
DNA ink flowing mixing with blood if this
Was what you wanted your legacy to be:
Fingers ghosting down girls' throats
Lips planting promises into their brains
Where your promise is a distraction
Where you start to lose traction on
Everything. But her.
How long do you intend to break them Down while you wait for her to
Say something that matters to you.
There is a war path where you step
And it is littered with crushed beer cans,
Cigarette butts, hand grenades and
Bombshells.
Is this your legacy?
It precedes you.
I should have known when we first met
That your smoke signalled fire
That you would burn everything to the
Ground. No village is safe around this
Destruction.
But go ahead, because this means nothing
To you.
With your fingers inside another girl
If you close your eyes, she'll feel the same
As the girl who's ******* with your mind.
And if they taste like cheap ***** and
Regret, if their skin leaves traces in your
Sheets, if their feelings leave traces in your
Brain, well, that's just a consequence of
The no-strings theory.
I'm sorry I'm so bitter because you're
Always in my thoughts and you don't have
ESP so you can't know this and I can't tell
You. I'm sorry I'm so bitter because you
****** our friend in more ways than one.
I'm sorry I'm so bitter because it
Wasn't me.
I would hate myself for being another
Tongue you wish was hers,
But the closest I can get to you is through
The heat of your skin, and I want to know
How to twist you inside out.
So I'm sorry this is messy and confusing and emotional but
I read what she wrote and
Threw up my heart. You did this.
You'll keep doing this.
I can't stop wanting what I'll never have.

Happy ******* birthday.

Unscrupulous, surreptitious, and without a doubt, unnerving! This innate dissonance, have you ever encountered such a vile thing? Like a rainforest of such beauty and tranquility only to be interrupted by the bombs of war! Thundering amongst the hail of bullets are massive planes accompanied by perilous sounds from tanks and  agonizing death screams! The disgusting noise pollution of such dissonance within this imagery is just too much to bear!

You see, this world is filled with contrasts. Black and white, night and day. There's never a boring moment once you've become insane yet there's nothing to do when you're sane! It's highly implied that life is incomplete without death. Like the fingerprints on our fingers, life is diverse and unique, yet in this instance, everything's a mess!

The ears can see and the eyes would hear, and I'm driven insane by this sight! The heart can think and the mind can feel, and I would bitterly claim that I do not think to feel these types of things. These bombshells called emotions has destroyed my tranquil mind space. It has been filled with the shrapnel of you, setting me ablaze and injuring my inner confines like say, my gut, for I feel butterflies in my stomach. I feel as if I'll be plucking up daisies from that grassland I've once sat on. You've ruined my orchestra with dissonant notes.

I couldn't ask for more.
You revel in the ever-changing.
In my dissonance,
I'll then hand you this note:

*"I thank thee for the chaos one hath brought upon me; I crumble down as I am rebuilt. Like the earth born from planetary collisions, we've collided. I hope to be amongst the stars, like the earth, filled with life."

I see the world in bombshells.
I see the world in pastels
Dripping down the stairwell,
Feeling bittersweet.

I bargain for my time awake.
I bargain for the past mistake
Clogging up my mind’s intake,
Feeling obsolete.

My plans were lofty, my plans were grand.
But now I’m drowning in a sea of hands.

I **** my idols because I can.
I **** my idols to be a man
Shredding my hopes inside a fan,
Feeling incomplete.

I see the world in pastels, bleached and beautiful.

Now picture this... I communed with chaos and conjured up an ancient conquistador by the name of Quetzalcoatl. He called me a chickenshit coward then grabbed me by my cranial consciousness container; and with a chiropractic crack, just like that, my chakras connected and I channeled the grizzled ghost of Ol' Ronnie Reagan. He gurgled a “Hello” and grumbled “Just Say No. Did you know my Nancy fancied ******* fantasies, and that bedlamite believed in astrology and necromancy? ***** better know, it's bros before hoes cuz this ghost with the most is about to get gangsta with my ***** Miki-G... Yo, Gorbachev, you old goblin goat, wipe off that **** stain on your head and tear down this muthafuckin wall.” After guzzling a gallon of ***** distilled through Vlad Putin's ego, he gave me a wink from a glowing goat eye of iris framed rectangle dark... then lowered his headgear and destroyed the blockade like a supernova midnight pool party for Gremlins and grenades. When the dust settled, everything was gone and all was right with the quarks and the gluons. The quasars aligned and spun in a symmetrical dance inducing a trance; showing me it was gonna be a great day here on the shores of Château de Event Horizon, my own private island. Where I will watch my goblin goats with genes of Gorbachev, graze the galactic grass while I wait for a companion to come. Another cynical cosmonaut to converse with through this and partake in this holy communion. Where neutron star wine made from the grapes grown on gamma rays represents the life force of beautiful bombshells of red, brunette, and blonde. Lust-laced blood we bathe and become baptized in; breathing from the baetyl of brume taking Big Bang **** hits of killer kush grown on Kepler 452. The haze making it hard to see, when we feast on the flesh force fed to each other; for we are the Gods creating our reality. Leading to a galactic gathering of groans from groins grinding in tune with the pulsar powered music called Love Lust and Longing. Our libidos sing the sine wave sounds and strum the string theory, for we are the Cosmic Conductors created from stardust now streaming the vibrations of this ****** symphony throughout the fabric of spacetime. Cosmological carnal knowledge collapsing and condensing, the coalescing creates pure light from new stars being born to illuminate the darkness dwelling within us all.

All cased up as new as can be
Women are not the only one
With their cell phone's
Like men are the only
Wild Thang
How her heart sings
How it brings us
to move us
Or slows us down
Always he is mighty fit She's the case trim

The cell sun yellow chevy-rim
Cell baby racing the American flag
Way over our 100-speed limit
I have 90 days to claim
Another dream that cell

Go-Hollywood don't be a nag
Sunset Boulevard lights hit a snag
What claims do I have security
  heavy tears of his weight

Those chicks to be raised on
Animal farm jumped neigh
Mr. Mcdonald E- I- am E-book
I-O  U your cell phone please sigh

I summarize everything
That rings us like a childbirth
In a crib now men all hub teeth
Or the millionaire mansion their cribs
This isn't a game like ((Women lib))
Smart side sunny side
Benedict Arnold bread and eggs
Jet lag what conflict's

No luck not even Mike and Ike
My expensive cell phone took a hike
I met Chuck Titanic ship- cell-tip gift
of gab  talker those homewreckers
One decent sip Cyberbabe streaming
Her web-  Pirate-eyes stole away
Starbuck's became Lil Deb cell phone
falls in-between ripped car seat

The erogenous heat his fingers were
so caught in your middle ring tunes
Only the lonely the one song
Gave her the ******* just chill
Hot tune Billy Idol White
Paper embossed the wedding chaser
That day he was dreading every voice
sound loser
So mind blowing falling phones
silver tarnished

She was singing it's my party
I will cry if I want to
He picked himself up vanished
You would pry too if this
happened to you the devil
But it has been a long cell ride
With ((Johnny Angel)) how she loves
how he uses her phone destroys her
The Joker of I- ringtones

And she hoped one day he would
feel the same doing voice overs
But her cell phone caught
his fire flame
He was head cocked
Two jailbirds wherever we go
whatever we do we will always be locked
Together or even when we're through
The virus of germs mouth to mouth
Those higher-ups techs flying south
Memories dates and text intertwined in both

The ******* ****** talks like Goth
Addictions and love claims
She was ******* clammy
Those grassy moldy mummies
The negative side effect
So foreign in his pocket
Positive pants far from intellect
It slips out and falls

He is reacting from the
Blonde bombshells
The island some Liberty Bell
No man no God no lover
will be claimed in my
phone rich soil hand
Arrowsmith songs were locked
Dream on claim whats yours
Comic Xmen who claims
The crawling phone creatures
spiderman

She has spider veins features
Total recall but cannot recall
All my important number
where flushed down my
toilet jail cell bowl
And he is so mesmerized with
the Super Bowl
I had nothing left to talk too
Not even my cell phone
I felt alienated like all clones