the preacher never wrote a poem
about dahmer's baptism:

1.

he leaned across
the jail cell table
and his eyes were honest
when he said he believed in god
deeply
his eyes were honest
when he said goodnight honey
and gently draped his body
in a tub of sulfuric acid
his open jaw glistening in the moon
dissolving in the dusty noontime soliloquy
of crickets outside his apartment window

2.

can an honest man
bathe in those kind of wounds
and be allowed to ask
for a penance?

3.

for two weeks they left
his baptismal robes in storage
they asked if he really believed it
if he could believe in all this

4.

“when i was a kid
i was just like anybody else”
he had said
he seemed to think
being like anybody else
could dull the bloodstains
reduce the skeletons
still tucked into his closet
to powder
make his wishes into holy water

5.

yes jeffrey, anyone can drink it
but getting drunk on holiness
isn’t enough to repent
all of their fingers are wrapped around
your heart
doesn’t forgetting seem foolish
to the brains in your refrigerator
isn’t it just useless
to the spare ribs, in your bureau
drink all the holy water you want
you will always carry their bodies
on your chest
have you ever had a heart
other than the ones you collected
and did you ever know
what a soul feels like?

6.

and that day
they took him to a prison tub
and his body
glistened under the water
like a drowning animal or a martyr
jeffrey doesn’t float

7.

as he opens his eyes
his mouth wide
he looks just like him
suspended in white
ripples curdling in currents across his pale skin
a solar eclipse
covers the sun
as he comes up
for air

Feminism is not a bad word
It is more than four words
If you are a woman if you are a man
If you believe that gender equality
Is important, if you stand by your mother
When she shouts, “I am equal!”
Then you are a feminist.
And I’m tired, I’m tired and I’m frustrated
That the patriarchal society we live in
Would rather demonize equality
Rather than let it stand tall as the statue
It deserves to be.
All it means
Is you believe that women and men are equal
That they deserve to be treated both fairly and just
And I trust-
That the only image of a feminist in your mind
Is one that hates men, that burns bras, that simply get in the way.
And sure there might be a few of those, yes
But I would like to ask you
Since when did one represent the whole?
Since when were all white Christian men
Devalued, dehumanized because of Jeffery Dahmer?
If I were to follow your logic
If we were all to follow your logic
We’d have to lock up every single one of you
All because a few of your fellow men
Perverted an ideal that at the heart of it was good
And please be good
To your feminists please know that it is not a movement
To strip people of rights but to grant rights to those who have been denied
Feminism isn’t a bad word
It’s a word that holds an ideal
That genetics that genitalia do not dictate
Whether or not a human being is held to the
American standard of equality.

When you kiss and nible a loved one you tap into the desire
to consume a loved one wholly, or wear them as attire. The
darkest side of human thrills is being without restraint & doing
what you want to her without a single complaint. Dominance
has always been the ultimate form of aggression. The urge to eat
another person is buried in obsession.

NOT SO 500 WORD STORY
​My next victim was a little more challenging than all the rest. When he asked me to go get coffee with him I was surprised, I didn’t think I would ever get the opportunity to claim one like this. His eyes were blue, they taunted me and made my mind dance over the idea that they could be mine. He wore a backwards hat and had the kind of speech that reminded me of my brother. He was confident, sort of cocky, just the type that I needed. I hate those types, the guys that think their better just because they have flowing blonde hair and big arms. I really can’t stand them. We decided to meet at the Starbucks down the street from my house, convenient. We would meet on Friday at 6:30 pm.
​Thursday night, lying in bed, all I could think about was the ****** up **** I was going to do. I thought about the blood; blood has always been the reason I did this. Not like men, they always want ****** gratification, or to eat them or something, ******* Dahmer. That’s why girls never get caught. We’re not in it for the trophy, we don’t keep souvenirs, we just want to ****. I mean I love the blood, I but I don’t keep it or anything, I’m not that stupid. I think how the flow and color can change, like if you cut an artery, steady fast flow and bright red. But if you cut a vein the flow isn’t as fast, and the color has a slight blue tint, due to the oxygen in it. When I first started doing this, I wasn’t very good at covering my tracks. People sometimes questioned why my bathroom smelled like bleach, all the time. But I got better at the cleanup.
​Friday came and I don’t know why but I was a little hesitant. Why was I having second thoughts about this? Most of the time I can’t wait to get the show on the road. But now I really didn’t even want to show up at the Starbucks. I wanted to let him go, but that little monster that lives in my lungs told me to keep going; so I did. I got to Starbucks and sat down, I didn’t see him anywhere so I waited. He showed up and ran over to the table and sat across from me, he seemed genuinely sorry for being late. We talked and for some reason I couldn’t stop staring. At his eyes and lips, and his hands; he had nice hands. I wanted to hold them, I never wanted to hold anyone’s hand before. The more he talked, the more nervous I became. What am I doing? I can’t do this? Why did I even start doing this? But it was too late, the monsters were screaming too loud for me to ignore.
​He was in the middle of a sentence when I interrupted and asked if he wanted to come back to my apartment. You should have seen his eyes light up. They all got so excited when I asked. We left and walked back, on the way there he did something, he held my hand. Why the hell would he do that? Did he like me? That would be pretty ******* stupid on his part if he did. And it was pretty ******* stupid for me to like him back, but I guess I’m an idiot. I took him upstairs and I wanted to cry. This has never happened before, I’ve never been afraid of myself. He sat down on the couch and I nervously excused myself to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, the tears came, they came like I was cutting an artery. I couldn’t stand the sight of myself, I wanted to destroy this monster. And in a storm of rage I ****** my fist into the mirror. The glass shattered like a deafening thunder and my blood dripped into the sink. I fell to the floor screaming and he came running in. ****, I forgot to lock the door. Now I’m sitting there crying and screaming with this beautiful stranger trying to save me. It was a mess, I was a mess. His hands around me, he kept trying to help me up, but I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore, no more death and destruction, I need peace. So I told him to go, I begged for him to leave but he wouldn’t. “Please don’t do this”, I thought, “please don’t try to save me”. But he wouldn’t go. And then the monsters screamed, so ******* loud. Looking up I could see his mouth moving but there were no words coming out, only the demonic shrieks from inside me. And in one involuntary move, I picked up a piece of mirror glass and cut his throat.
​Watching the blood wasn’t like before, it didn’t bring a smile to my face and it didn’t stop the screaming. There was no calmness in watching the life in him die, there was nothing. I did what I was supposed to, what I always had done. But still nothing. I felt nothing but at the same time I felt the pain. All the pain of everyone I had ever hurt filled me and I knew what I had to do. I took my phone out of my pocket and called the police, I told them what I did. So I sat there on the floor next to the lifeless, beautiful, stranger, and waited for them to come. I looked at him and new it was over. All the hurting was over.

Hello, good sir.
How dee do?
It sure is nice to meet ya.
I think that I'll have *** with you
and then I'll prob'ly eat ya.

My life is a brilliant and vivid mosaic of failures. If depicted horizontally, it would span countless walls, each with its own tapestry. Intertwined in each image would be a visage of myself in yet another battle of me, metaphorically David, and the vastness of the woven problem, here named Goliath. The only difference however, I don't succeed. My slingshot, as it were, isn't good enough.
     "Almost" is a callous and cold word, however it is the most veril word I know. It shouldn't just be something on my body like a tattoo, but rather etched painstakingly into my hardest bones. Always. Always "Almost" is not a fulfilling way to live.
     My Father once said something along the lines of "The only way I wouldn't be proud of you or that I would be disappointed in you is if you did something or made choices that lead to your unhappiness." With that, I feel as though he couldn't have been proud of me in quite some time, and further, there is no evidence that it will change. I am unhappy all of the time. I am disappointed in myself.
     I am afraid, fearful, of the hatred inside myself at times. I try and use it to my advantage, to prove my "worth", to try and do better at the current task (whatever it may be at the time). But as it usually happens, I get so angry, even vengeful, with no explanation. I sit and think about it, come to nothing, and am scared of what I am becoming.
     I am breathing, organic garbage that, because of sentience, assumes too much of, and from, my existence. I am a ******* paradox. I am realistic but full of wishes, longing for what I know does not exist; I am pessimistic, yet full of hopes, or false hopes rather, that I know fullheartedly are hubris and lost time. Whenever I need logic, emotion takes control. Whenever I look for my heart, my mind conceals its help.
     I believe in absolutely nothing but who I think I am, but I doubt myself to my bitter, black core.
I have achieved nothing with what I have been given (everything) and therefore deserve nothing that I have.
     I Am A Fake. I Am A Lie. I pretend to understand, to know, to help, to listen, but I have no idea what the **** I'm doing, who the **** I am, or why the **** I'm even here as undeserving as I am. With that, what right have I at all to "help" anyone else when I, myself, have no idea where my words will lead them? That itself makes me worse than half of the people that have killed others because at least they know who they are and what they were doing.
     I find it hard to believe that I, personally, was crafted in the image of God because I can't imagine that I resemble (in spirit, mind or matter) anything like the Perfect Being that I love and pray to. I am handcrafted debris, trash, attempting (out of place) to be something more.
     I was once told by someone I truly loved, "How can you love someone if you don't love yourself?" It's pretty easy. You first look at them, think of all the things they do and all the things they represent that lead to them making you happy, and you fall in love with that. it isn't a choice, you just do. I do nothing that makes me happy successfully, in the end, I try and fail consistently whereas someone I love is victorious repeatedly just by being them self. Why wouldn't you love someone for making you happy, yet love yourself in spite of your inability to do so?
     I don't believe anything I've ever encountered or experienced in my, as of yet, short life has prepared me for the utmost feeling of loneliness that creeps like the most dark and shadowy oppression. No cigarette is long enough, no vat of bourbon deep enough to escape that thought. Even in upbeat company that fact lingers, and of it, I am afraid.
     Why must I settle and "stay the course"? Why hold onto a sinking ship? I don't mean in terms of living versus dying, I mean in terms of living in insufferable struggle versus changing the reality. Why is this made to seem so impossible?
     Why am I in constant debt before even being old enough, experienced enough, or brave enough to even make decisions with that debt as a possible outcome?
     Since I was old enough to formulate my own opinions of the world I live in, it's been the epitome and meter of one resounding conclusion: "I will try my best and fail, suffer, but in doing this, I will have no choice but to think one day it will get better, and I can hope in my time of struggle that when that day comes, I Might Be Able To Be Happy.
     I'm in love with someone who is half a country away. She even knows, She might even feel the same, but it is for naught. I justify this by telling myself every "writer" needs a Muse.
     I lack the natural talent required to achieve my dreams in this current world. I was born with a gift I should have kept the receipt with; something I could have traded for something more realistically useful.
     Those closest to me have no idea who I am. They are the only thing that glues my sanity, and I'm fearful if they fully knew what I am, they'd leave.
     I've condensed some of these thoughts and feelings into spoken words to those I trust the most, hoping and praying they might say this is normal, that everyone goes through this, that we are all fighting the good fight. Their deaf ears betray their silent mouths.
     The rhythm in music, the voices in plays, the words to poems, the flow of my pencil, are all I have to escape this solitary confinement. But upon realizing the only things I have to help me feel "normal" are inanimate and incapable of understanding, it only further drives me into the chasm.
     I have become everything I hate. A petulant, assuming, and undeserving child ******* about his life when it's not even fully begun, and worse, has been given everything along the way and pitifully has done nothing with ******* any of it.
     I look at my Father and my Mother, and mouth agape, am stunned at their character, their perseverance. Compared to the two people who made me, I am grovelling ****, with absolutely nothing to complain about.
     I have never made a serious decision in my life unless I fully knew the only outcome before the decision was made. This makes me a coward. Logically it might make sense, but this is real life, you shouldn't do that, and **** logic.
     I always have an excuse, I'm not a real man, I'm afraid to take a fall because it's just another piece of the prosecution's evidence pointing to the guilt I possess in relation to my long record of failures.
     I'm cast outside "normalcy" because I don't believe in society. I'm not afraid to die, death actually intrigues me, a lingering curiosity. I adore the macabre because I believe there is truth of humanity in the darkness that everyone ignores exists. We profit and capitalize on procedures that **** thousands, but because it's not us they target, and usually not until the long run, we pay no mind. I believe that more than half of our so called "society", myself included, are no better in most senses than Dahmer or Panzram. At least they were honest about the monsters they were.
     I'm obsessed with thing that don't matter; theories that wouldn't make a difference in the world if proven true, questing for a Love that I rightly don't deserve and that likely doesn't exist, searching for acceptance of anyone but at the same time and equally, in paradox, caring about none of it, especially myself.
     Most nights instead of praying to God as I intend to do, I find myself wondering if I deserve His forgiveness. I know, on some level or another, if the Holy Father, Himself, came to me at any time during those sleepless nights, I would not have an even close to decent answer arguing for His forgiveness, but rather, a full of tears and chopped up, pathetic plea for it anyway.
     I dream of someone to love romantically just for the sake of being able to love someone for exactly who they are and because doing so makes me happy. It has been so long passed of this being even close to a chance of reality, that the thought of ***, or even intimacy, without that love does not even interest me anymore.
     I'm twenty years old and every job I work wants one-hundred percent of my soul and time. Is this normal? Am I not allowed to be a responsible but stupid kid for a while before I have to settle with the reality of a mundane and mind/body numbing job that takes so much of your day that at night you can only imagine the freedom of sleep rather than having a spare few precious seconds for thinking that dying has the upside of never having to show up to that ******* place again? I have no problem with working at all, in fact, I appreciate anything that has a general task and goal that is monotonous enough to keep my mind focused just enough that anything I've written here, the things that upset me, don't leak in and ruin the day, but realistically, how can I give my soul to cutting lawn? To stocking a ******* shelf? I am part of the worst generation on Earth so far, I have potential to be better than ninety--nine percent of the drooling unfortunate vertebrae we call "society", and this is what I'm supposed to wake up for? If this is what I need to accept and I'm just going crazy, fine, I accept it, but in doing this, you need to accept that if I'm crazy, you're batshit ******* nuts.
     I find myself not ever wanting to wake up. I'm not even close to suicidal, I don't want to die yet, I just can't see a logical point, or an emotional reason for any of this nonsense to continue. Can anyone identify with that? Don't misconstrue and worry yourself with me being honest with myself, I DO wake up. I wash my face, but I look in the mirror afterwards and ask "Why?", and I get the day over with anyway so I can hurry up and get home to get ready to do everything over again exactly the same the next day the exact same way, the only difference being the date on the calender and the minutes of the one life I get slowly building themselves into hours and days that will now be an empty black void of memory in my head that could've been used for something worth remembering. Why? Why settle to sulk and squander in ***** and depression when you haven't even tried to bathe in gold and happiness?
     I hate almost everything. The way things are, have been, will be. I hate the faceless sheep that complain yet attempt nothing to change their circumstances. If there is one thing to look on with pride, it is at least I'm better than that. At least if I failed, by default it means I ******* tried.
     I lack the capacity and the capability to voice these kinds of thoughts. As well-spoken as I am, I choke the hardest when I try to speak about any of them. I have to scribble and usually type them, and further, put them in a format a possible reader might be able to understand. Alas, I have failed at that as well. I put my heart and thoughts into my poetry, but anything resonating from within me that I've pounded into the countless pages I've written is lost in a sea of meter and rule-abiding rhetoric as well as aesthetically and audibly pleasing metaphors and rhyme-schemes rather than just blunt structure. No one reads anything with nothing left to the imagination. And justly so, why would they? Why try to decipher someone's heart if it doesn't also apply to you? Why read an ending if you know you won't like it unless it has "happily ever ******* after"? Why not emulate the thoughts and endure the cramping in the thumb an forefinger if it's not something you already know or something you clicked "like" on to impress the friend with the independent mind that was the one who told you to read it in the first place? I may sound bitter, I am, and hateful, but at least I am not a liar.
     If I had one absolute thing, one pure thought, one controversial heading, one cry to all who have ever asked me and I have failed to explain it better; If I can leave you with one thing; If it were possible for me to speak one line to the empty church at my funeral when I die someday and move on to peace, it would be this:
The Words I Seek With Which I Wish To Express My True Misery Elude Me.

There is a man from my city that spent his nights
killing and ******* men for the hell of it.  Sometimes I worry that
his blood might be in the water like 160 year old cholera
or 30 year old cryptosporidium.  Sometimes I worry that
I breathed in the stardust from which he was made, that I
swallowed the ashes from which he burned.  I do not think that
I will ever be American ****** enough to fit the bill, and
this might be my one true happy thought:
at least I am not a serial killer.

I closed my eyes in August and saw the dried up teeth of my
estranged grandmother floating in a pool of blood and thought about
how the phone works both ways.  I opened my eyes in
October and thought about spitting up the chicken bones I had
been choking on since second grade, when my father
helped prepare dinner for the last time.   (I think I might have
                                          sacrificed a couple people to the devil
                                                        without actually meaning to.)

I find the numbers
             13,               16,               and               18
to be unlucky and I am beginning to fear that the pattern
will continue, that 19 will be the year I finally get bitten by
poisonous snakes outside of my dreams.  God whispered in my ear
and told me that a different Helter Skelter was coming.  He told me to
keep breathing easy, to trust in his light, but when I
asked my Magic 8 Ball if I should quake like the Earth in 1960, the
day after Satan released Dahmer from Hell, all I got was a
bright blue, “Better not tell you now.”

The séance I conducted last year in a blackened, decaying cemetery
did nothing but rattle ghosts, and the four-year-long pity party I held prior
did nothing but chain those ghosts to the floorboards.  I have
never been good at abandoning my thoughts and feelings.  

Some mornings I wake up face down in the Green River or
with my head severed and on display in a refrigerator of a house that
is not mine.  Other times I awake buck-naked in Death Valley—
sand coating my tongue, my tonsils, my esophagus; burning
and scratching into my flesh—and I know that I will never
be able to forgive my father for destroying everything
he ever made or his mother for turning into everything that’s
just      out of                     reach.
There has never been a time when I have been
good at letting go of grudges.  I am far too aware of my own existence.

At least I am not a serial killer.

Buddha belly, rabbit’s foot,
how much luck can you get
                                                    from touching the dead?

(Maybe that’s the reason behind Jeffrey Dahmer’s slaughtering of
                                                                ­                         seventeen men;
maybe that’s the reason why we break wishbones—
to remind ourselves that this bone is dead
                                            these hands are alive
                                            do something with them.)

In some cultures, it is socially acceptable to
                             eat your child’s placenta—
there is good fortune in it, power in it.

(I wonder if this is the reason why cannibals eat their victims.)

Number seven.  Cross on the wall.
         I wish you good luck.

.
                               Zodiac
                        Killer Tsuomy
                      Miyazaki   T e d
                      Bundy Saeed Ha
                       nuel Robert Pic
                       ton Robert Mau
                       dsley Robert Ha
                       nsen Moses Sith
                       ole  Mary  A n n
                       Cotton J e f f rey
                       Dahmer  Huang
                       Yong   G regorio
                       Cardenas Herna
            Dez Gary Leon  Ridgway Eliza
         Beth  Bart hory   Dean Arnold Corli
           Pedro  Lopez       Mary Bell Louis
               V  a. n                  S c h o o r

Inhumane was said  
Six million dead  
Gassed,slaughtered  
Degraded  

Inhumane we dare  
At Jeffrey Dahmer  
Kidnapper, killer
Evil embalmer  

Inhumane it read  
Black man dead  
Dragged by his feet  
Decapitated  

Inhumane we say  
A young man who's gay  
Found bound,beaten  
Left dead in the hay  

Inhumane we cry  
As so many die  
In crumbled buildings  
From terror in the sky  

Inhumane  
I hear say  
But only humans  
Act this way

Planets align in the black of the emptiness before I drive back sixty miles an hour into the mouth of the storm to face the rain on my own terms
My sister's voice cracks the radio static in a haunting southern ballad as my brother's drunken affections get the best of him again
He takes his penance where it is due and so must I
And if this be thy will then I go before history with inkwell lips and kiss the lines of our memory onto the grayed out page,
I kneel at the feet of a misused culture and offer my humbled blood as sacrifice - take me for your poet and I shall serve my sentence in full
From the scraps of suicide notes I will cut a deeper manifest, and I'll be honest about it this time,
Of the rise and relapse let me preach candid and cutting, of the love and the rage let me speak grateful and true,
Give me the bent form and let me keep it free, give me the blessed spirit and let it keep me warm
Give me the final movement and let it **** me, as I know it will someday
Keep a locket of my ashes for luck,
And do with the rest as you please
I am humble servant to the human soul,
Just let me rest when I am done
And allow me this, a humble prayer-
Blessed be the madmen, deformed seekers for a deformed truth,
Holy Crosen Holy Williams Holy King Holy as the bughouse patron saint on a throne soaked in red wine and deep rooted hatred
as the blondehairedredblooded fury of fire made flesh
as the ***** haired waste inhaling spirits by the dozen
Watching the slow death of the mind in star spangled entropy, as a nation weeps its forgotten angels
Serotonin drought to misfired synapse meltdown
To end times propaganda on the evening news
Wake the dead in the streets and do not ask them for mercy
Blessed be the wicked, castraters of moralities grown weak,
Holy Creager Holy Dahmer Holy Gacy Holy as the evil woken in the black soul of the tyrant
as the unmemorialized graves of the systematic slaughterhouse
as the twentyfourhourtwentyfourhourtwentyfourhour news coverage seven days a week year ******* round
Burning the ghettos and taking to the airwaves with implacable outrage at the stylized fall of the West, The South cannot even lift its arms up to hold a weapon let alone rise again

Blessed be the fire with nowhere to burn but within
Blessed be the prophets powerless in their pulpits, and you may count my shaken voice among the paralyzed
Blessed be the ****** engineers of this brutal destiny -
This is all we know to do,
May we do the best we can with it
Amen

"If i was killed in prison, that would be a blessing right now."
-Jeffery Dahmer

november twenty eighth, he prayed
to god, to mom, to sun and shade,
gave thanks to all the boys he ate;
november twenty eighth, he laid
and thought till his last ***** breath:
"well, this has been my life, i guess,"
as scarver beat him blissfully
into his deliquescing death.

he thought of all the things he did
while down came scarver's metal bar
(and not because he'd killed those kids,
but '*** his pranks had gone too far).
the guards went home that night and slept
while someone, somewhere, soundly wept.

“YOU’RE JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER!”
screams the judge,
wielding a whiskey and a weaponised Women’s Weekly,
as I flare inside but choose instead to smile meekly.  
Was my Dad the spawn of Jeffrey Dahmer?
Or the bloke who used to watch Kojak, on a Sunday, in pyjamas?
In fairness though, the absence of the villain of this piece,
last seen clubbing in Ibiza with a girl who’s not his niece,
does nothing to lighten this affair.
Especially with his crimes bequeathed to me, his heir.
The charges apparently too ignoble for repentance,
I brace to bear the brunt and bile of sentence.

Her glib-gab gores each guilty glance.
Each chapter claimed by circumstance.
Her words a whip, envenomed lace,
lashed out anew upon my face.
It matters not that he’s elsewhere,
I stand accused for the genes I wear.
I’d serve notice now, demand redress,
if he hadn’t eloped to a vague address.
The urge to silent scream? Repressed.

Repeal rejected, defence disbarred.
Appeal affected, mis-trial marred.
A deafeningly dead deal is on the cards.
I pause perpetually and play the clock,
Until “New Witness!!” echoes around the dock.

Youngest courtroom entrant in our history,
identity unknown and gender still a mystery.
“Oh, look how wonderful this is!” coos the judge.
Now as sticky sweet and seasonal as fudge.
“Of course this cherub must approach the bench,
with the defendant as mouthpiece to represent”.
“Pray tell, sinner, its testimony loud and clear"
*Cue a minor mandate that only I can hear *
A pause. A private parley.
The pup's prose presented without palaver:

“I will grow, just like my father”.

I bet you're #$@&%! other girls
who don't brush ***** out their curls
the type that rides santander bikes and
can't fall for people their mate likes, who
play piano when they say they will,  
and write about romantic things, like walking tightropes
blowing glass or #$@&%! in your room in spring

I bet you read to them in Latin, bet
they think you're chatting... utter #$@!
and that there's fairy lights above their beds
where you've cuddled all their friends,
it's almost poly, am i wrong? platonic head, you all get on
yes, and they sing
and look like disney when they're close
they're milkmaids, pornstars, near divine
no plasters needed, they shave fine
;
anyway,
I bet he'd love to #$@& them too,
because they're handy with their hands,
they have craft tables or play the bass in some punk band
and when they go to galleries they understand
why some artists are grouped with others when
to me it's all whatever, i'll see them all whatever

oh and bless! their kisses mean things
and mine are ill-thought-out and grime
they remind you of the time, with me it's always getting late...
i'm an r/truecrime date-  ​
i think that dahmer's in my teeth
not great for someone scared of meat...

and when you, when you, when when, when, um, i

i bet you're #$@&%*! them and more,
i bet he'd love to do it too,
his ice clear veins like Finnish waters
your endless thirst for Athens' daughters
but i don't really want to know,
don't need you randomers to call;
no cigar shops, sketchpad summer,
not the clash or prop-up vogues
what i really need is sunlight
and myself
i miss her most

Will He
Will he go down as the best,
or fade away like the rest.
Will he go down as a god,
or just a man rolling sod.
Will he go down in history,
or just another flesh for fantasy.
Will he go down as the man,
or just someone who tried what he can.
Will he go down without defeat,
or just another piece of meat.
Will he go down on a girl,
or will the smell, make him hurl.
Will he go down and rise again,
or will he die before he's ten.
Will he go down as a king,
or just a man with no wing.
Will he go down with great honor,
or just another Jeffrey Dahmer.
Will he go down as a winner,
or just another angry sinner.
Will he go down, wearing his crown,
or will he just go down.

Rollin’ and Tumblin’ on Farrington Road
Who could have known future-foretold?

In Corvallis it started
Marijuana was sold

Been drunk just one time
Victor quite bold

Jeffrey Dahmer, she threatened
Then God bless you, she told

Weird mystic madness
And still I grow old

Don’t know what it means
But the moonlight - Behold!

Incomprehensible life stories
Ponyboy, stay gold!