It's quite a feat, walking through the
Graveyard of the Gods.
Buddah takes his time playing majong
Against Thor, his hammer near but at odds,
While Yam keeps ear near conch
Lest the Phoenicians hear his song
And pray his way once more.
They fight over the attention they receive,
A whisper by the heralds
Behind closed doors.
A hint of what may have come before

I retreat into myself
Into the corridors of me
I lounge on the well worn flagstones
Gazing on the marble columns
Arranging tapestries and paintings in
A more perfect order
I stalk down old hallways and explore unnamed galleries with a
Single candle to push back the deep
Sometimes rooms are filled with old Furniture
Sometimes entirely empty
Once feeling brave I held onto
The threshold of such a room and
Stretching out I hold the candle aloft in the chasm. Nothingness, darkness complete the light puddles at my feet pitiful.
When I recall that yawning abyss the silence of
It persists.
In ballrooms I play Chopin's waltzs' for no one  in particular
Yet I take my bow and my place at the head of a table set for a score of kings
I lay on marble steps trying to guess the riddles that my echo whispers
I climb the  towers and the spires to dizzying heights and many weeks I was lost in the labyrinth of cellars of basements of tombs beneath
I have seen strange things lately: a chair upturned or
Bed unmade, quills still wet, and doors open and shut of their own volition in the inky black
I swear I have seen before
A tall figure in a hooded cloak dart
Into the shadows, and it did not seem
Altogether human

I read for years inside my library  
And have spoken at length to Shakespeare and Plato
I have seen Yggdrasil and the seven hells
And sped through time with
H.G Wells. Of death and moon, of birds and galaxies I am enamored.
Tea with Julius Ceaser, chess with Captain Hook.
Breakfast with The Buddah
Coffee with The Christ
Did you know that Captain Ahab takes His water with a squeeze of lime? No Ice. Abraham Lincoln and Mark Twain know me by my first name, I have fenced with the Gods of Olympus and of Asgard and I remain undefeated. The divine crowd my hearth and many nights have been passed here in quiet conversation, with Confucius, with Archimedes, with Epictetus, Davinci, and the brothers Grimm
I have lived ten thousand lives and Will live another ten

-Without a single thought of you-

I wander
To my garden
Gently lit by paper lanterns
The path is smooth and heady
The amber blossoms
And weathered sculptures
Make my eyelids heavy
Monuments with fists clenched beat my
Ego ******
New flowers sprout from the ivy throat
Always things are grown but never overgrowing
I steal through the hedge maze that only I know
To the secret center where no plant grows
Pavilion and pond
Where no bird sings year long
In that quiet I endeavor
To look without fear
Into the pupil of forever

In my first life, I died
The year I turned 25,
And now that I’m in the hours before I ******* second,
I want to make it all the way to
28.27 years
cause when you divide that by 9,
You’re left with pi.

And because the universe isn’t just a
Straight line, you’ve got to use a formula to get around,
Get all up on that pi d because piety just
isn't logic enough for me, where  even the repentant
Are told they’re going to burn in purgatory, sweetheart, please.
Being alive and feeling was
sometimes hell enough for me.

In just a few hours before I’m sent through that
Tight tunnel,
I want to be judged by the god of
3.14159, the baker that made me
Mr. Blueberry Buddah
Master in the art of reincarnation.
I want to be birthed **** with just a dab of pure whipped
cream for a soul,
Drizzled sweet with the blood I never watched my
mother bleed for me
on the morning of my second birth.

But I gotta say, this bardo ****'s pretty odd,
Here the sky ranges in color gradients too specific like
“violent salmon” all the way to “lukewarm smoothie”
But once I get out, I know things will be strange,
owning a life that’s not quite mine to lose.
And even though I’ll have no answer to give, I desperately
Want someone to ask,

Stranger, tell me, how did it feel?

Theoretically, I’ll respond,
Well, I was kicked back into some ancestral dream
To meet everyone I will ever be, everyone
I have ever been and
Once I’ve met all of them,
Everyone I will never meet again.

And they'll ask,
Friend, is that why babies take so long to be born?

Yes, its because they’re shaking hands with the universe
On the way out of the womb.
At least, the one who will reach nirvana
After this life cycle circles through.

Lover, if I were to meet you again, will you remember?
Does your soul still have my story
Etched on it somewhere,
Or will you be washed clean of me,
The tabula rasa upon which Locke never wrote?

I won’t remember you, but
I have faith that you’ll find me,
Even lifetimes grow apart after too long.
It’s all about the company you keep because
They never stay.
And if that should happen, well,
We just met each other in an inconvenient life.

I dreamed I fought Buddah
Again. The fat ******* was a
Slippery one, but not as
Heavy as you'd think.

He laughed with every punch
I landed. So disarming, it
Bordered on cheating.
When he finally tapped out,

I lost. I crossed swords with
Christ some nights ago.
A testament to surrender.
Flat slaps against a thousand

Cheeks, I guess crosses and books
Of poetry -alike- are made from
Wood. I'm the son of a carpenter
Too, I yelled. But it was Mary who

Had a little lamb. I formed a spear
With my hand and drank the
Water it revealed; thirsty as sand.
Like fighting a holy ghost. Air.

I punched at unbreakable mirrors.
I gave up faiths I never had.
Then Odin came up from behind.
Took out my left eye and prepared

To render Blood Eagle, dagger in
Hand, coil of Man; as mortal as any.
We whispered in unison: Finally
A fight worth ending.

Nothing is
Holier
Than
Flesh.

Bleeding In my own wold
 I am serene
I am ******* buddah
An exemplary  exhibit of how
To be calm in a storm 
How to stand on my own in the waves
That crush my shoulders
That smash my chest 
That bring me to my knees
**** the rules
And I defy the gods of this world
I raise my voice
In a defiant hymn 
I rebel
I exist through my will
And I will not be brought low
I am flesh blood and bone
I am because I am
And my thoughts roam these 
Unsavory waters
I will fight these demons
I will become what I may
And relentless I will purge
My soul
I scream till my eyes bleed
And I know what it means
To eat the heart of my enemies

Temple
               gold
sky
       blue
Buddah
                dwells
inside

you.

__
Photo:
http://beautyineverything.com/5054754830

Thinking of him
She asks
What she should do?
I ask the gods
Ganesha, buddah, G-d and Allah
I think of him and she’s angry at me and it’s my fault
I don’t know if its something I can afford
Now I don’t know what to do
I saw myself cross out the graffiti in every city
Should I figure it out and decide
This other guy tells me something red so I play along and he gets mad and it’s my fault
Unfair and cruel
He just tells me to look at the moon
I take back every wink it stole
I see the beauty before my feet
I’m testing the bounds of reality
Are you angry or man?
I’ll be allright
I’ll be safe and yet I’ll go along with the lights

Red eyes on the morning train
Heads bobbing
I ask myself
Why do we do this
To ourselves?

Then I withdraw
And smile with
Buddah

This too is
Poetry

Two minutes to midnight.
All my windows open to the gentle
Scents of Summer, and the invation
Of winged insects drawn

Towards the single candle
On my living room glass table.
It's as if a pine stripper is dancing
On my lawn,

All perfume and movements that
Sound like breeze and innocent
Lust.
I want to make love to the outside.

Be inside it. Give something back to
These two magical months between
Winters, and at the same time
Worship; move with tears in my eyes

Within optimal actual love.
I smell green; hear dark blue; look
Into the sunset iris of night time
Posing as evening,

And pull words like aces out of my
Worn poetic sleeves, but this is my
Winter coat, and all I can think of is
Snow creaking like doomed souls under

The heel of Anti-Summer Herself.
Meanwhile, Odin and Buddah swing
From a tree in my garden.
All battle muscle and fat carelessness,

And I look out at them chatting
Like little kids on a playground, about
Everything and nothing, and how that's
All there is.

Their words sing to my ears like the
Up-beat hummingbird pulse
Of a newborn's heart, to a young mother's
Own.

playing clue and sorry on the same board
singing into a fan
with a semi-blue tan.
looking at a broken poster board.
with broken tile in your hair
you think the moon has hair.
like james blubierre
making a wicker basket to hold scented pinecones
using guitar strings
with a bad marker scarf.
looking at elenor rigby's doctor
having no sense of direction
you sung a wrong turn
buddah says die
while ghandi says hi
while typing nonsense letters
with the hopes of a secret
though there's only a secret for you
The Typist
he makes a pie that's flavored like pie
and looks up to the sky
to take a cloud and ride it
looking upset
and in the rain he's wet
he walks solemly to his apartment
to type more nonsense
though the crazy get it
and the sane don't
he types for a secret
he doesn't know
he scans the words, jumps the letters
makes them dance in his mind
he wants to know more
out of less
he makes it all up
right on the spot
to sing in a song
for singing the sung
the sung are singing though the sun is hung
looking for their lovers
though the don't love back
they look at the sky for the cloud they will ride
to take them to their lover's side
though his life was in peril
he knew right away
that in the end
it would all go away

We stand on the bluffs above the breakers, watching the sea foam swirl like the madness of our broken world. We linger. The dense feeling of fate pervading us. The unbreakable diamond line tethering us to the crystalline moment, frozen in a picture, put in a box, never to be seen again. The wind blew and a pinprick shift in movement, insignificant as an eyelash, brought down an empire made of ash.  We walked those charred triumphant streets, riddled with rotting bouquets of flowers from yesterday’s parade. It was time to take comfort in strangers. She turned to me, “I want love like the ocean, it always comes back”. I think of her floating on the Adriatic contemplating our blossoming love, croatian street art, and holding her body close as a baby in the floridian waves. Now a million shards of glass laid lost on the savage sea floor, mirrors reflecting a thousand truths, hidden from her eyes by the churning tide.

Words don't matter anymore. I scream in frustrated contempt, “Why are you acting crazy! Why are you disturbed? Where is redemption here?” It is gone for now, a dog running wild in the woods. I wake up and try to explain the unconsciousness, but it’s like singing to a self possessed crowd in a run down karaoke bar. Grasping at cigarette smoke.

My last act of friendship could be to obliterate you and expose you for the liar you are. Instead I will let silence settle over any righteousness I feel, any angle of truth I claim to possess, letting the birds sing their songs for us, and the thrum of the world will hold me in its arms.  I will release the great burden there alone. “There are things I can tell you, and there are things I cannot say, I hold nothing against you, I forgive you.”

“You are a child, I do everything for everyone, I give everything, and everyone just takes from me!”  She viciously hisses in another’s voice, a harpy sent for blood, *****, and sacrifice, lashing about with claws meant to tear out the heart of man.

“I may have a child’s heart, filled with infinite forgiveness. I may be a flawed man, but I won’t turn from that truth, in it is wabi sabi beauty. I’m not seeking to rationalize or justify my actions, the past doesn’t interest me that much anymore. The feeling you give me now is a toxic one, like a ****** hitting rock bottom, I want the poison out of my veins.”

More screaming. Rampage, wrath, hell fury and doom. An **** of anger directed at my peaceful countenance, an all out assault fueled by brimstone, baiting the Buddah under the bohdi. My murderer is my muse. The citadel is overrun again by the Amazonian hordes set for the massacre, spear point to throat, mutilating the glinting marbled halls, painted red. So **** me now, my quiet pride and solemn truth are unassailable. You lob bombs at an iron sky. One built after years of hellish wildfire to bring down Zion. Yet the walls drip with life, you can taste it in the air. The overcoming of emotion, like fresh white clouds drifting above bloated bodies floating dead on the burning acrid water. And maybe only a dry heart pulp remains in the humid sun, but I don’t think so, there is juice here in this soul, the nectar is still sweet, tempered by age. I bite my tongue and laugh at the helplessness of love gone wrong, a faux pas matched only by a priest farting at a funeral. I wink at death, clapping and singing songs with a final gasp, we die like Hector dragged in the dust.

Days later, she writes a mixed apology. Staking a claim on humanity. Can she see into her own eyes? Does she know the past as I do, can she own her duplicity, her renunciation of all that she claims to hold dear? We were one once. Symbiotic, duads, all I did, she did, all I was, she was. Blame still taints my heart.

I want to strip off my clothes and howl in the rain, as the forest sends thunderous chamber hall applause to my release. I want to howl for the toil. I want to howl for the ecstasy. I want to howl for all the unrecognized love, all the unfulfilled expectations, the selfishness, I want to howl for the sacrifice, and the collapse of return, I want to howl.

Somewhere, does my scream still echo? A voice on the radio answers.

“Those things you keep, you better throw them away. You want to turn your back, bury your old ways. Once you were tethered, and now you are free. Once you were tethered, well now you are free. That was the river, this is the sea!”

I walk around a drafty room, hugging myself like a crying orphan seeing all the doors closed on the last day of autumn. If I can make it through the biting winter; holed up somewhere in an abandoned hollow, hands in ratty brown clothe gloves, patched pants and ***** scarves, spring will be beautiful, and I will lay in fields of burgeoning new blossoms. A thousand times Odysseus.

A fatal imbalance occurred
Speech slurred
We are only capable of using small words
And God is the only thing that's pure

A foul stench in the air
But not even Judas could find a care
A paradox bouncing off the snare
Deranged and confused but definitely not aware

Muslims morphed into Hindus
Buddah didn't know what he got himself into
ravaged by the dominated Jews
The star of david was everyone's tattoo

We didn't know what we believed
Atheists were the only one's that could see
They believed in themselves but not very clearly
Religion was the beast and faith was the beauty

I'm a hack of all trades.
Fondler of the sacred.
Like a roach,
Who turned into a human.
Metamorphosize that Kaf:
I'l have you spinning in your grave.
While darkness ***** on the sun.
Oh Clouds!
Clouds of blue, Clouds of grey!
Mark the evening sky,
With Buddah's laughter
Nature's secret,
What it has to teach:
There is no universal mind.
It's laughable and cyclical.
No wonder the smile...
Simulacra overload.
My mind is a toad

a sliver of
         moonlight
causes the buddah
to cast his long shadow
     across the garden


amid blown down
          limbs
of ancient maples
bare against the
     winter chill


the obituary
appeared in the Saturday
and Sunday papers
          with a picture
and a name
     i knew

I'm looking for something else, you call it negitive
I call that reflection of self, why you make it out to be so devilish. If I shall perish I envision consumption of wealth. True wealth, the kind I once faced, embraced in darkness, a mothers womb, peace my soul did consume, forced into this world n told to bloom. No one knew they were sending us to our own perceptive doom.

We create it then debate it, because collective reality is to real to face it. Drop bombs n schedule cases, ******* it I hate it but I love what made it. Our own creations n we stand to em. What are we but all the same faces created at different paces. Humanity is our sanity, n we destroy it with vanity. How has it come to be that we no longer see, hate is enough to separate our forces that be. Sun Tzu's divide and conquer, history from a forefather but why bother? They never birthed what resembles your master, direct questions to your pastor. Who's the real parent, at times its no longer apparent. No lessons in direction, off to school cos no time to bother. A system not meant for blessing. Ancestors we fester out of regret of what we neglect, truth in our own history, it truely stays a mystery. Science made humanity defiant. It all Resembles truth in the message, if we could only make each other get it. Stop the ******* and teach the lesson. Its all the same message, only changing to keep us guessing, U'd get it after a smokin session.

If shame was an issue, making momentary thought an issue maybe we wouldnt have to tell our brothers we'll miss you. Send em off to battle, with out facts to go through. They're souls get burnt too. Blood for corporate greed, the same creed that feeds you your feed, controlling the source but ofcourse the conspirators make it out to be worse. All motivated to keep ignorance in our health. Feels like its programmed in fate to prorate hate to make you un equal to a few, who couldn't care if you be Christian, Muslim, or Jew. Buddah never asked to be praised but the love from his words made him more than he was. Spiritually enlightened to a perception, and that's my personal lesson. No judgment only my own interpretation, of what I am and we all are. People created equal.

I remember sitting in
Numerous wards
And clinics
With all the madmen
Around me –
Wondering if they are dying
Or whether that
Scratch has turned
Septic.
I think people enjoy
Thinking there’s something
Seriously wrong with them,
It gives them
Something to do
With their dull lives.
But it works both ways,
Doc can feel a hero
And he can tick a box.
God incarnate,
Allah, Buddah, Jesus.
I am called in
I’m sure my diastolic is up
After nabbing a handful
Of pear drops.
“Right, Mr. Hinton, please sit down –
Are we feeling okay today?”
“What can I say, I’m in a
Practice when I could be writing?”
“Ever the pragmatist... Now let’s
Have a look – your blood pressure’s up.”
“You just stuck a rod on my arm
And contorted my arm, I’m sad
It’s not through the roof.”
“Now, you take it easy on
The beer and the women.”
“You know I won’t, see you in
Six months time, John?”
I shake the Doc’s hand and
I slink away.
Immortal for another day
*******.

our grasslands,frantic Jiving,Jiving Jiving  carries     the full moon  
things you know ,under stilts- day/&night; /\are off ,,,, raspberry,
discontent,  its in  my winter,  / in  my seasons/  mother  fuggazii a neatt blueberry /trimed, neat
  

  ,                        
,bespoken// man off the hour Onegin \Gerianne- ,,twitches  .Onegin \Onegin \Gerianne-
astute,!!! many many-floors up, piping- cleaning,every quarter the clouds/masquerade ,this is cat______
to,,, through ,,through,,n,moved, a-blue,, temple a bloom,a ,temple a rook a trek a stoop now
Buddha, a simpleton/buddah geriane
evn more, man , means  pristine,adhoc ,reminisce wt i was wt wht wht ever i was
end-knot, end knot yet waas itt it was probable most likely
immeasurable , -penetrable the - wild/man go take a look beckons/you hey  the  ribbons the  knots
knots  the wrought what for/wt for noww  door to door
tropic tropic endemic you hear wt you see you lurch you b you b you believe sort  off  
on my sideAusual-revival A rendition again  again and lifee-like -ride
and whatever moreover all oveer the leftovers rose swells . fine
inn smoke  -reels/ ncapabl,,indecicve ne more dayy nd through
th moors,,a week goes
mayb a month a long intention  itt- sooths./all the more doggs
onegin \Gerianne- ,,twitces  .astute, many floors up,pigging cleaning,every quarter
the clouds/massquadre ,this is cat to,,, through ,,,,,moved , a-blue,, temple
a bloom,a ,temple a rook a trek a stoop now Buddha, a simpleton/buddah
geriane droggs onegin \Gerianne- ,,twitces  .astute, many floors up,
pigging cleaning,every quarter
the clouds/massquadre ,this is cat

to,,, through ,,,,,moved, a-blue,, temple a bloom,a ,temple a rook a trek a stoop now
Buddha, a simpleton/buddah geriane
,, miniature lamps,,blizzards all that can in a man/rigour
all that hula hoop possibly a merry christmass,,dayys spent ,,,  full you  are all that is
sire a \all the pleasures off a small room full off all the kool tools an art decoo sire by now you know it all thecrystal fairies in blue crystall *****    
,pretty slick,,,runs ,piping hott ,, undone &the; buddha, the-rider,, the- boxes,,,layaway
the glistering the beaming, all  the book keeping a philistine, if i mayy

impeccable, and  free glitters all  the hourrs,a\ repliccaa just a beguiling  taste ,\
,sire,,little empty purposely,, masterfully done,,,sire beefy ,,sire,and, plenty-full
surelyy the nectar bequeaths
( projected .mediocre , mister faires in ferries  shimmering  dearest of stories
  / wings/reminising      buddah     buddah.    
  an artt decoo sire,,,a purple tea *** in which we drink our tea,

,,mirrors,,, the very best in the pristine the mannequins,,all the more
the -buddha,the-rider,, the- boxes,,,,sire iff only i may evn more
from wt i was endless immeasurable the - wild/beckons/ ribbons and knots
knots what for/ door to door  tropic
day/&night; /i was i would on my side
Ausual-revival  Arendition again  again  and  lifee-like -ride
and whatever moreover all oveer the leftovers  rose swells . fine
our grasslands,you know , stilts  frantic Jiving,Jiving Jiving
in smoke  -reels/incapabl,,indecicve  one more dayy and through  th moors
are off ,,,, raspberry,discontent  / neatt/  mother  fuggazii ,,
a week goes  mayb a month a long intention, itt- sooths./all the more

coldest,yet An ongoing black screen, then you came   colored coldd eminence  at al times
around me,   the birds,forrow Here burning,  Orange yello/blue brigand
In a lot, and  the cloud,  the grasslands to let me in,  dollor man
a board, a bloom Buddha, a simpleton ,  slanted/ forever possibily
  glistering/the ice cones,gingivitis floating away    /balloons
Above//   before beyond   half  half ,exciting  Elicit, , derelict,  
,  /never closing  a fantasia what i mean when i need  
   rerun .the chapters <retort>     there's a god  today in this moment and i can feel  it  .
   "jessica"\    ( the drudge   ducks   dips digs more and more
     won't stopp)       diners too many  tea  
  <>>>>\        stays afloat,        dispels /beaten /scowls   scary ,all-of jiggling/kepp bouncying
     ><weeds out / >minuscules         ripes/renders
         <jessica>>>>jamboree          come face me.
     the grandest / all  the oddities     one magic invention i was missing all this time
    transgression/ kindda may be timid /    my jive /our rruby/mouthing
a last supper if you will .something akin    reasons /acuity/  th more the merrierer
   my bliss/slits    till-kingdom comes .   / & the black space everywhere in
   them the/many minds    all the more    \><citadel.come and go touch of gold
   see to believe              &&&&  <    deep blue lakes that  never end
their rune and it  returns  a ship on her chest
that i will reach places un dreamt of   will   returnn  > there. everyplace
                        
                  
   still passionate  though    /frothing/foams  "jeddah" "a simpleton, gives wayy too ".
the landscapes.an excerptluxomberg- along the /tumultus ,dry  the same dayy footing it foams  2 itt noww,,a cold..trance ,, embezeled !! forr ,regressed. ,thoseof us VISIBL- Keene
it is finally-plenteous breathing!a more juniper  . . cold. \ invisible,grooming////      
  turns outt_..... ) .same dayys, for ever,evoles the delicate, the muffin menin muffin coats
/,/renders the arc  dayy 5 on the road is lunch  now ............
along the heavy points 4pm same dayy a brown tea *** so nicely preserved but off no grater utility just a brown tea pottt  37 -38 ..........just likk thatt
.... kindda winds up ,,wry now ....the fckig landscape.an excerpt  luxomberg
alice springs.carrie. chapter 1,the landscapes 2.pm preemtive.the-blue-acron in chrome  i-would know _ -as forr a while  ,(radio rahim....) for you ,tic-trackks,tic-trackks viggelntees) a vigill,


step1 : sudo apt-get install xserver-xorg-input-all step2 : sudo apt-get --purge autoremove xserver-xorg-input-all && sudo apt-get install xserver-xorg-input-all

14
( projected .mediocre , mister
faires in ferries  shimmering  dearest of stories
  / wings
/reminising
  
  
    __

    buddah
    
     buddah.
    
    
    
    
  an artt decoo sire,,,a purple tea *** in which we drink our tea,

,,mirrors,,, the very best in the pristine

the mannequins,,all the more

the -buddha,
the-rider,, the- boxes,,

,,sire
iff only i may

wash it wash out wash it wash out
let it turn
hoot and a holler
bottled up all day
and like bubbly bottles burst
take my toll
fierce, almost fictional
but never hostile
transcend your barriers and let your impulses take you towards the next side of the room
and then back again
its over and over and over
hear the trumpet whail its sorrow
circling, round, round, round
love, a mist, love to die for
unseen unconditionl surrender
ooohohohoaoh
e,njoy a gin and tonic, and ,dress that ,was fash,ionable at ,som, e point b,ut is in deeper,ate ne,ed of ,recur ,,, , , , rence
the glasses are thick and so is t he smoke that lingers above conv,eras,--------tions and weaves be d,, tween the textu--------res of the deep green trees and their abundant philosophical relatab======le language and you fall into their ro000000000ots, you drUUUUUug their holes and youuuuuu lOOOOOve the earth the same way you love a compliment
Ahhh yeahhh!!!,you're looking the best you have in your life
there is a melody somewhere in the background but your attention is on the person in from of you, the enthusiasm in their voice, and how quickly you are able to agree with them
anticipate like disneyt, tpoets businesses, bartenders, bar menders, cleansers inspectors interpreters judgmenters allocate the spenders reaching out for new vendeor whose the best the lesser??
LET ME GOOOOOOOOO
its warm man, you have a smoke?
swomen, lights, some monument sky high lithe buddah lights little u[p with orange with luck on straight spinnings what was that? take another drink, hey whats your name? I'm from california you like surfing politics I odn'tk know I need to meet my friend
fix fix fix do I need to finish that paper? fixixixifiixx what will my mother say????
you met another guy who is dancing with a girl and he is cool and he is gesturing towards you with his glass of champagne and you
tilt up ystaree he cbottole of beer, but his kindness lingers as you stare into your glass andI smile when? wrong time go away fog forward gly He cracks a really funny joke about your smile
HAHAHHAHAAH
The movie, the movie, those time when I am removed from things and the

My mind balloons and its... delicious

We have been there
That space between fore-thought and post-thought where you think a million things per minute and you don't know if you could explain it even write it down
The empty dry heaving silence when the person you're talking to is at loss for words and you're gasping on the other end like that nothingness is a black hole ******* the oxygen from your throat cavity
Holding a bottle of Tequila or *** or wine or any poison that never makes it to a cup let alone the table top, thinking its some elixir like the 1900s where they thought it would cure you of syphillius or something
Maybe they weren't half wrong, it's to forget yourself for a while. The biggest disease there is - you. And you're ******* down this bottle hoping to be alone hoping to be somewhere else hoping to be someone else in a different place but no matter how many seconds you can chug after pulling an Ace you still feel like the Joker - and we don't even play that card.
Standing in front of a mirror, turn left, right, lean forward, **** in, pull grab and tug at sides thighs bellies too full and too blatantly open. Buddah is plump, but zen does not come in size 10 or up
From my knowledge you can fill your life with empty faces that you know their name and how much ***** they can drink, and challenge them to drink more, and have them think so positively of you for an alcoholic personality
Laying down on your bed early evenings with plans cancelled plans never made and it’s only Tuesday. Wondering what else you could be doing with your life. There’s people jumping off cliffs, hang gliding, booking a plane to Amsterdam, and you’re sitting here fantasizing about the far-fetched possibility of leaving your bed to be spontaneous and have a cup of coffee.

I won't lie and say I trust myself because the truth is that I don't.
I will lie and say I'll be there when, but the truth is that I won't.

I don't know what you want from me much less to what extent.
Most days I just push it through when other days I'm spent.

You may or may not have said those things believe them I just can't.
It's hard to pay attention when my mind it starts to rant.

"It's all absurd, listen not, for these words we hear are lies!
She doesn't love you she doesn't mean it, don't look into her eyes!"

Alas though I'll hang my head, to look into my drink.
Thank Buddah it isn't empty, this scotch it helps me think.

The amber cloud of liquid courage I've captured in this glass.
Brings to mind I'm out of smokes and these thoughts can kiss my ***.

**** the truth there's nothing there but misery and pain.
To soak a soul in smoke and scotch lest he go insane?

The illusion that I'm living I think will suit me fine.
I don't know how the story ends so I refuse to wait in line.

No materials that I want so much that I'll sacrifice my time.
When I could be here hoping you are reading every rhyme.

Well I've sorted all my quandaries relating to this matter.
Whether or not they give a **** could only serve to flatter.

To know the truth will woo the ego or feed my self loathing.
Another lie to tell thyself a wolf in some sheeps clothing.

I thank you though for hanging out as I wrestle with myself.
Choosing which illusion to pull down from the shelf.

ive seen, believed, loved and felt,
cried and lied, broken dreams ive held.
ive longed to find, that which is mine.
all i know i have is that which ive held,
that wich is holding my own, for now it will be called a belt
god, allah, buddah and ja,
will hide me.from the hate, and all of the wrong,
i share with them the beauty ive longed.
so wake me up when i have felt my own.
love is what im looking for love is what i hold

to recite something
to let it be in your bones
to let it exist outside of yourself
to let it mulch to let it dwindle to let it begin
and to let it roll over
and to let it slip
and to let it die
and to let it roll around in a ditch
and to swim and scream and roundabout
and to control and to gag and to conquer
and to mistake and to make gate and to stand on the top of the curb
to be ahead of the game
to be moxy, merry, maybe just stay the same
imbicile working for a penny a day
while another man in the corner makes marmalade
I’m bouncing, happy, glamourous gratitude
going on around the stratosphere making my own career out of solitude
masked in a gag of reddened retina on display with buddah
large intensinal malfunction on the way towards the retina
the eye, the eye, the eye, the eye
and some may type as quickly as I
and I do dare to challenge them to a duel
as I will take them into the second round
away from it all, away from it all
and down the dark ages crawl, crawl, crawl
and make it work for others to do the draw, to do the draw, to do the draw
and make copies of music on top of another musical entrance music entrance music, entrance, music
make a case out of stereotypes and continue on your own way
inventive and invigorating and invested and afraid
loving and simplifying and hating the mystery
the beauty
the absolute majesty
keep me in check and keep me more for the moon
and I’ll go along to the race track with old hank
and swoon and swoon and swoon
ride the horses
on the way to nowhere
and they will glisten
in the evening sun
and lay out on their own
and lay out on their own
and become what has never been done
and become what has never been done
the ****** is full and perfect
and then the fall is back down
and laughter is part of the question
and it all goes down like that
boom, boom, boom boom
and then peace
easy thought process
a deep breath
growls
beautiful growls
and laughter

i swallowed half a bottle last week.
tell me when the ***** will be enough.
tell me when i'll be enough.
i die a little more each day.
a little piece used to erode away from my flesh when i cried,
now there's no more to go.
"Oh, how rude of me to bring my thoughts inside your bedroom."
i am only a Guilty Sadist,
waiting for my soul to float back into infinity.
These problems are only in my imagination.
"We don't even exist anyways."
That's what i keep telling myself but,
this pain seems so real.
The emotional things are becoming physical
and these cuts and bruises on my body aren't fictional.
I am ****** to hell,
but it's not a physical place.
Heaven and hell are only states of mind.
maybe i can escape
and maybe not.
Don't ridicule me because i don't believe in god or allah or buddah or satan,
i have killed myself enough for the both of us.
i am in a whirlwind of emotions and heartbreaks and tears and screams and ghosts and demons and
music.
let the music play.
hear the gentle strum of the guitar and it will all be alright
... but it is still here.
help me
.
**please