The mirror stained with our memories, pictures
I am not in many of them
I count;
four pictures, we look happy
The bleeding sky was the only thing that gave  us release
Like the winter would fill our bones
and cigarette smoke would ignite the fire in our eyes
that had long since burned out
we lay on that floor on the balcony till dawn
talking about how
we will never be good enough and
life is pointless
I show her my scars apathetically
nothing effects
me anymore
My bubble cant be burst
surrounded by static
scream
want to scream

Man I miss those whiskey kisses
Thought that, babe, you might become a Mrs.
But a Mrs. of what a bottle and a gut?
Here on the street just a buzz means a lot
City of Angles
I think not
No one to trust
God tried to save them
Then Disney sold it out of lust
What a ******* *******
Can't believe my first morals
Came from a ****
But those whiskey kisses, they just got me
Look at those dark, giant, robotic towers
This is where dreams happen
This is where I get wasted
But that black granite
And tarnished stars
Made me remember who we really are
Just two mad children
In love with just enough
Caught up in the night
Intoxicated bliss
Man, I hope she'll miss me
Everytime she drinks whiskey

Hey, *** me a smoke
I can't smoke my lucky one.
Could you ******* it, too?
We didn't last in the long run,
but I used to ******* you.

*** me a smoke,
I'm a broke bloke
What's your attitude about?
Don't *** me out.

My grandma won't hug me
she thinks I stink
My mum bugs me
when I get too much to drink,
I think.

My friends think it's cool
we stand in the bike shed behind our school.
The girls are looking,
I just wanna look good.
Can you please *** me a smoke?

Now picture this... I communed with chaos and conjured up an ancient conquistador by the name of Quetzalcoatl. He called me a chickenshit coward before grabbing 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 fucktarded fantasies, or that she believed in batshit lunacy like 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 that muthafuckin' wall.” After guzzling a gallon of ***** Putin ****** in, he gave Ol’ Ron a wink with a glowing goat eye of iris framed rectangle dark... lowering his headgear he ran slowly while singing a slurred ***** polka rendition of possibly a ***** Riot song. The chorus went something like "******* the Bolsheviks with 11 inch strap-on *****" to which Ronnie replied, “Ewe can dew it to Nancy too!”, as his horns hit cement setting off the biggest supernova block party this side of the galaxy. When the dust settled, everybody was gone and all was right with the quarks and the gluons. The quasars aligned and spun in a symmetrical dance inducing this trance that gave me the vision of which you are reading and the bliss about to unfold here on the shores of Château de Event Horizon, my own private island. As I watch the goblin goats manufactured from the genes of Gorbachev graze the galactic grassy knoll, I’m soon seduced by the song of a sidereal siren... KA-BLAM a ******* shipwreck I endure. When I came to, at the end of my rescue, by whom I suspect to be the same starry-eyed saboteur. She whispers somniferously that to be saved I must partake in her hedonist holy communion. “Drink this neutron star wine in remembrance of my taste, distilled from grapes grown on gamma ray vines representing the lust-laced blood of salvation.” I, a blissom blind bavian obviously, find myself beneath an altar awaiting with bated breath and baculus bombé, bewitched by this bathykolpian beauty of absolute perfection, it’s made clear from my enormous ******* that I’m eager to worship betwixt her exquisite bombosity. “I come to you… er... and on you... with this sacrificial offering of byssus ******* and baptismal borborology... but before I implore... first, hit this baetyl of brume and breathe in a Big Bang **** hit of some killer cosmic kush grown on Kepler 452…. *******?”

“What if I were to bind you up with a sash? Byssus bound with blindfold, and belayed beautifully as can be. Blissom confinement is liberating when not meant to abash. Bestowing to you a masterpiece in *******, a most exquisite ligatured apogee.”

Exhaling miasmic veils of woven haze blindfolds she blows, until we are unable to see. Instead we let our lips caress each others flesh in search of the treasures buried just below. The ritual begins when I go down to taste your nectar of the gods, feel my fingers scrawl spells on your flesh in hieroglyphic haste, Anubis awakes when I invoke he to weigh my heart and become Osiris resurrected, manifested as broken pieces tossed and lost by the tempest of temptation. To traverse this tribulation and emerge triumphant, invoke Isis and find the 13 to complete the puzzle of my psyche. But if you want your toes curled and that shaking sensation, it’s 14 you’ll need to complete the capstone of my ******* obelisk. Then we can transcend by the touch of the tongue, ******* ritual recitation through unspoken glossolalia until we complete our journey to become the Gods of our own creation. Why should we not manifest through sensual sidereal sexuality? Orchestrating a galactic glowing mass of groans from groins grinding in tune with the pulsar powered music produced by Love, Lust, and Longing. Our libidos vibrate as sine waves in harmony with strummed string theory, for we are the Cosmic Conductors controlling this sonorous ****** symphony riding gravitational waves that will forever ripple throughout the fabric of spacetime. Cosmological carnal knowledge collapses and condenses our atoms, coalescing to produce photons of pure light to illuminate the encroaching dark void of loneliness which desires to devour it all.

I wanna facefuck your pulse
and ******* your breath...

Yuh Dig?

Tell me if I intensify or ratify or eclectically
de-sastisfy or ******* lie or
**** me and stratify artistically mortify
I wanna cry and bend this whole **** thing
over to arithmetically magnify
geometrically articulate and situate
the intensity of the diametrical
opposites
******* the whole ****** thing
claim the reasoning as my own
when it came from
my muse.
Say with me...
Is this real?
can I prove one theory
one thing I know
is I am
deaf and dumb.
Just seemingly
revolving waiting
numb.

I need a car
Maybe it’s so I can run myself over with it
Maybe it’s because I need a beat up machine
That’s in as bad of shape as me
So that i know if i care about it
Maybe one of these days someone will care about me
Maybe I want a car because it’s less poetic and
I’m just tired of catching the bus

Kinda wanna get a car to run you over
Kinda wanna run myself over
Racing towards my future and new responsibilities
But flooring it to escape just that

Open road baby, in the smallest space I could possibly choose
Maybe that’s the whole point
I get to choose which way to turn
To follow maps or to get lost in ******* nowhere
I can take care of myself and replenish when we’re both running on empty
My fingers are itching to wrap around something
And This is the most legal option
I can stare at the road and not the empty passenger seat
I need a car to personify myself
Because I don’t feel human anymore

why do you wear a mask?

it it because
you have a face that wouldn't justify the artificial madness?

a pretty,
clean face,
devoid of lines and sorrow.

a coddled existence.

no it wouldn't suit
your
******
*******
gonnorhea
swill
click-clack
that I can do blind-folded-

so you hide.

well I'm right here junior,
and I have everything on the line.

I've long become estranged to the world,


who are you?

can you please tell, what is it, that you're talking about?! i know i can comprehend english, but the english i'm hearing is hardly classifiable as english per se, there's something in the language, some sort of additive, that i can't quiet comprehend.

i like this motto:
   speak the *truth to power!
     huh?! when did a shadow of a person
speak to power, let alone speak?
i simply can't see it beyond
the adequate framework of:
speak "truth" (i.e. comfort)
  to powerlessness -
         i too have my "idiot" category mind
you, they're not useful "idiots"
they're just gnats... ****** me off watching
these protests...
          keep your mouths shut,
and keep your head down:
look at the grace of the inverted ceiling,
you never know, you might end up
like me, finding a 20 quid banknote
in a puddle...
      speak truth to power?
w'ah? what will you get from that,
   why not speak comfort to the powerless?
men = ***** = will
   women = ovaries = stability, a home -
a catching glove -
you invert the women into will-enabled
men you can start freezing your ovaries...
there come boundaries, and there comes
caviar... you decide upon the boundary,
but as every drunk, i have an opinion,
never really holding one sober,
curse me,
    bless me,
            whatever, i have lizard skin when it
comes to approval or disapproval,
i can be your surrogate *****-father for a bit,
which is why i french kissed a bottle
of bell's whiskey saying: i missed you
brother...
          but something really
authentic did catch my interest,
why women are unhappy and žižek:
it's zee-zek - and you didn't exactly
eat an e, but malformed it...

(me, verbatim):

men have the cushion (metaphor),
i.e. outlet of being "interesting"
when they don't or "can't"
achieve happiness...

  women? i've never met an interesting
woman unless she was psychotic...
never mind...
   women are too reactionary to be
interesting...
women can only achieve the zenith
that's happiness...
   women can't be interesting:
they talk too much...
    the only type of woman that's
"interesting" is a happy woman...
   an unhappy woman is anything but...
unless she turn psychotic,
well? then you get the parade of clowns
and acrobats to dazzle you, and keep you
preoccupied with what men hate most:
drama.

          i don't mind drama of a father and son
looking for a lost tool-box with the father
having sentimental value attached to it,
having inherited it from his father,
but a transgender person (more likely "thing")
looking for this lost emblem after
the transition period, is hardly a shakespeare's
worth of writing a play...
    
women can't stomach misery while
morphing it into being curious -
    sexist? whatever, i don't mind if you actually
call me an SS-man,
no qualms: you have a cat i pet for a month
and then gouge its eyes out? the current ginger
i own i could do donation free, no problem...
annoying as **** -
he owes me, given that i once fed him
dead fish eyes, and he gulped them down
like harrod's oysters.

women are funny, i give them that,
but they can hardly turn into interesting creatures
when they are not cushioned by happiness...
unhappy girls are only interesting
when they turn psychotic...
   i guess it might be every girls' dream to
craft a psychotic sylvia plath narrative,
which has to include "daddy issues" -
         every girl must dream of that sort
of kafkaesque moment in composition...

given? a love unexplored, tactful in theory,
and never in the empirical muddle of mud
and mistakes,
     idealised in theory, perfect, undisturbed,

as will ******* yeats wrote

   turning and turning in the widening gyre
    the falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    mere anarchy is loosed upon the world

- as someone also wrote:

   - hell know's not of a woman's scorn* -

call it what you will in your head & rhyme -
but just wait for her to discover the real
world, and the casino of ***.

in summary?
i've never met interesting women,
   i've only met women... i could stand.