I've been here,
Walking around,
Looking for a place,
A place that I can call my own.
A place that I may no longer feel alone,
A place that I can call Home.
I've been wandering around,
looking for something that slightly resembles it,
but still i haven't found it.
When will I find it?
When will I be able to feel it,
its warmth?
When will I be able to see the people in it?
The people that I call family.
When will I?

But then I realize,
the thing that I have been looking for,
the thing that I have been longing for,
the thing that I have been waiting,
craving,
dreaming,
and fantasizing of,
was here.
In where I have been standing on all along.

I made it!
This is it!

This is Home.

Compassion is a distraction
Leaving butterflies and still question marks
While I'm smiling, groaning, and thrashing
Swimming in a cesspool filled with cruel sharks
Not used to kind remarks and the complimentary excess
So I hashtag fallacies and clever messages to make them all perplexed

Then
Come the moment of truth cross them out wave goodbye
And slash every last dime a dozen heart
If what they were saying was genuine. . .
I'd find a way
To be disappointed from the start
Pixellated picture frames hover play over dull space
When it's the only real way to me I ever get to see your full face
And when left alone in the confines of a necessary moment
I'd lead with retrospect and waste time wondering what it all meant
I forget to taste and touch. Too busy while I preach and rush
To enjoy a moment in the sun and all that noise seems to hush
The day I forgot to stop and think was the day I had some fun
Until I rewind the reality tape and press play to watch it come undone
The tale I spin runs with parasites that perforate dripping abcesses
Ravage rats ravenous and infected blood flows through cordial asepsis
Fantasizing of better times while right now passes by.
I close my eyes and kiss the sky and wish that I could fly
Fish for stockpile rhythm and dive bar singing blues
Sizing up and dicing up and slicing up the clues

Sometimes it can be as simple as simple: me and you
Until I **** that too and habits bloom I'm just a fool
Who thinks on wasted talent
The words I write don't render sight so I don't bother myself
A single dent.
My cup has run over wild amok. Belly up. Superfluous in extent
I'm not certain whether to give a **** or pray to God my soul is sent.

RE: :) Wow. My Gawd that is sooo hot. You're really so tlented! Hmu 2 c wat's up. Or better yet txt me #Spent xoxo
Until next time
Let me kno wat u ment.

...

It's guys like you who remind me to taste the world. Guys like you who hold the fork so dangerously close to my lips. Boys who remind me to love blindly with eyes open wide as to not miss a second. Men who remind me not all will be there to catch me when I fall. Those who leave when complexity shows its perplexing face. This is for the guys no matter how hard you or I or anyone tries won't be able to keep us together.  Or even the boy who knew that from the beginning.  No lie, I hate you. Leaving me hanging for more, fantasizing for weeks, crying, falling, stumbling so close to the edge, crying. But I must admit without you those in-between's would be trill-less. Thank you for making hell a whole lot more interesting.

I stumble through my days
planning
deciding
reacting
guiding
leading....

I stumble through my nights
thinking
hoping
dreaming
fantasizing
remembering...

Where­ are my feet
underneath me?

Why do they no longer
provide me balance?

I want to walk a straight path.
A righteous path.
A committed path.

But I just keep stumbling
over you.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017 // 6:42 PM


Five One Seventeen,

First kiss, that perfect moment.
Fleeting seconds of happiness,
of pure enjoyment.

Even though you could taste the loneliness
that it all lacks commitment,
I am still willing to sell my soul for you,
Even though I need fulfilment.

But for that moment, that one enjoyment,
everything was quiet.

I saw your lips at work, it was mesmerising.
They felt so nice, so hypnotising.
They were meant to be, they were synchronising.
The rose was rising,
Everything was just so appetizing.
I did my thing, tantalizing.

Five One Seventeen,
It’s Five Nine Seventeen, & I’m still fantasizing.
But I’m only fantasizing cause you’re love is so tantalizing.
I play it over and over in my head,
When I zone out, I’m tired
Every time I lay in my bed,
Every other thought has expired.

It’s just you.
I love you.
You say it too
but do you mean it or is this some sort of deja vu ?

Pathetic.
I am pathetic.
trying to be poetic,
it’s pathetic.

Regardless, I love him
For 10 months and 5 days,
I’ve been trying to figure it out.
Why I’m so in love with him, why I’m so zoned out

Simple; It’s quicksand.
I’ve fallen, I can’t stand.
Hold my hand,
I love you.


Five One Seventeen, I’ll always love you.

I should really stop
Writing poetry at 1:43
and fantasizing about pouring alcohol in my coffee
And fantasizing about making love to you
and fantasizing.

I should really stop
Spending too long online
and going to sleep 2 hours before my family wakes
and going to sleep (just to wake up a few hours later)
and not sleeping

I should really stop
reading Cummings late
and pouring over Byron late
and pouring over Burns late
and late night poetry readings

I should really stop
listening to death cab sleepy
and listening to brand new sleepy
and listening to la dispute sleepy
And listening to perfect lyrics sleepy

I should really stop
dreaming about love
and dreaming about those who don't love me
And dreaming about those who might love me
And dreaming about you loving me

I should really stop
but I cant seem to stop
any of it

I was born in a time of veterans and freedom.  Or was it killing, like when we left Eden?
I was born in a time, of oceans and salt.  Or was it destruction, Atlantis had fought?
I was born in a desert, a place with a lot of hot sand.  Cleopatra, Aphrodite, Egypt, all Seeing in the Land.
I was born in a Television, Hollywood starstruck was my name.
Classic, Modern or Hipster, craving fortune and fame.
I was born a telepathic, a mind reader of such.  Seeking and giving out energy, requiring you of much.
I am deep, I am wide and I am always by your side.  Loyal, Obedient and Giving.  Taking, Fantasizing, Living.
I am quite the comic book laughter.  I comedian of sorts.  
I am quick to judge the living and cover up my warts.
Back to 1960, or was is 70 and 2?
When I was born a Scorpio, and no one ever knew.

Where a love song can't explain everything I feel. Where I try to write down emotions you make me feel.
but ..
can't get the right words coming out like it should..
Where should I begin?
You got me fantasizing you and me
Going on dates going in love and deep just you and me.
Not gonna lie I never thought I would hear myself saying these words but you got me sprung got me in love flying in the sky like a pure dove.
I never really knew what to say just knew I was lucky to say lucky to be your one and only future king. Maybe I'm just jumping the gun enjoying the fun but from the heart I just want us to hold hands and run.
Run into a never-ending dream just you and me where we see our dreams and goals becomes more then just words.
We're a team were a couple were a castle filled with endless love and I know it's a battle. A battle harder on our own but I know together will always make it and change it to a forever. Like I said maybe I'm just jumping the gun enjoying the fun but I do believe in this dream called you and me because you know what? We could fight we could scream or shout but at the end of the day I can never life another day without you in my mind and your voice playing that sweet melody that makes my heart melt to two. That's why forever and ever more I promise I'll be your knight in shining armor and you'll be my princess that saves me from myself

I was wandering down the street one day when my eyes fell upon the most exquisite sight: An angel was in the midst.

She was gliding through a throng, oblivious to all the averting heads, and then she was gone. She may be gone, but her beauty and my wonder remain.

Yesterday, I saw her again. Gliding smoothly towards me, and to my astonishment, she didn't vanish right away. I've been fantasizing about this beautiful Goddess for countless months, yet it seemed different this time. It seemed real, somehow.

She smiled and embraced my hand. Her hand was warm and soothing. Her voice was gentle, content and mesmerizing. 'You're not dreaming, ***. You're n a trance of your own design. You've wanted this for ages. Come to me.'

I tried smiling, but, I felt my mouth twist into something unfamiliar to me. 'Y-Y-You, ' I stammered. 'I-I've been dreaming of you for as long as I can remember. How could this be? ' 'Kiss me, ' she replied, 'and all will be answered.'

Well, I know her better than any woman I've ever met, and I don't even know her name. I moved closer, preparing myself for the perfect kiss, not knowing what to expect. Suddenly, I was shaking stubbornly and the woman of my dreams began to fade away. Then everything changed.

I wasn't outside or in a crowd. Rather, I was lying on a rickety bed, which was still shaking. My feet hanging off one side and my head drooping off the other side above my pillow, which fell on the floor beside my shoes. 'That, ' I exclaimed, 'was the most vivid dream I've ever had! I can still smell her perfume. (sigh) I can still feel her pulse.'

As it turns out, I wasn't the only one shaken awake this morning. Just another earthquake with the 'Worst-Timing' award.  I showered, dressed and headed off to work with this Angel in my head. I turned a corner and joined a throng of people on their way to work.

It was then that I saw her. Her beauty was undeniable. She was gliding towards me, like an ghost, then she turned a corner and was gone.

Written by: Andrew D. Robertson

I hate you.
Almost as much as I love you.
I've been fantasizing about stabbing you in the legs the way I used to fantasize about kissing your face.
I thought that I had one person I could always count on,
I just knew you'd never betray me.
Guess I was wrong.

You broke my heart,
I want to break your spine.
You make the worst ex ever, and now you're mine.

I want to hurt you the way you hurt me.
I want to stuff glass into your arteries.
I want you to stop saying you're sorry.
I want you to invent a time machine,
So this'll never've happened.
So neither of us will've learned this lesson.

"Darling you're the world to me"
"My love, you make me so happy"
What an idiot I was to believe these things.
Now you've got me writing slam poetry
Because I figure it's better than murdering you-
And that little ***** you ****** too.

You were drunk!
You felt alone,
You were confused,
And guess who was right there to comfort you?
That's no excuse.
I sure hope going down on someone new,
Was worth throwing that rare and beautiful thing we had away.
I never knew someone could hurt me this way.
Oh and by the way, I hate you.

I want to be susceptible to the world's most anguishing heartbreak.

I want to know torture outside prisons
and inside the hidden doors in the soul-
the ones where you stash the secrets
the truth
the unadmittable.

Looking across a roomful of people
and only seeing one
only Ever seeing one
and wouldn't it be a fairytale
if he was looking right back.

Because before heartache comes heart great.

No more "do my eyes deceive me?"
No more fantasizing what happens when hands
accidentally graze

There's no mistaking his meaning.

Like Love poems in foreign languages-
you still understand every word
every sentiment
every intention.

And while the world keeps spinning
and the noise gets louder and louder

We will retreat into our own quietness.

Where we will stay for
a long
long

time.

Innocence is no friend of mine,
My thoughts leading me to a darker time.
Dreaming of a pain, the kind worth begging for.

I've surrendered to your lips,
Soft and sweet, your addicting kiss.
Fantasizing, about you pulling on my hips.
Trapped in your tantalizing gaze

Sweet loss of breath, from your hand around my neck.
Lust in my eyes, as you ****** between my thighs.
My legs twitching, gripping you tightly.
Fading away into sweet insanity.

I just wanted to let you know, that.
Well, I'm working on forgiving myself.
It's getting easier. I'm getting healthier.
I laugh more. I look around more.
I see the world for its beauty, not its pain.
I love life. I love how the sun rises and the earth spins.
I love my books and my dad and my puppy in puppy heaven.
I love my soul, and Tyler's soul and my grandparents. And many more.
And I don't think I love you and that's okay. I was wrong. You were right about me being wrong.
Love isn't the only thing that matters.
I used to believe it was.

I was wrong. And that's okay.
Life is a learning lesson and I'm only 16 years and 340 days old.
I've got a lot of learning to do.

I won't cut again. I'm sorry I did. But I like this new scar.
It feels cool and looks cool and I like what it reminds me of.
Because most memories of you are pleasant even though they're terrifying and I hate them. To clarify: you didn't make me cut.
You were just added weight to my trigger.
Especially. The uh. Hm. That one thing that you only told two people or so you told me.

I miss Belle. She was my best friend.
I love her to death. Always will.

And I miss the Faith that was once my best friend but she doesn't exist anymore.
She had ***. Almost with three different men, I was almost one of them. But she had *** with just one. I hope.

I drink more water nowadays. It helps clean my system. I write less poetry. And that's okay.

I'm reading Fight Club. I can relate a lot to it. ****-
                                                                                       rule No. 1.
I'm doing more school work. I'm done with work next week.
I miss taking care of dogs and chickens. Turns out I liked it.

I take more Marshall time now. That's a good thing.
I deserve it.
But I'm also terrible busy.

In Jazz Band, we're playing a kinda ****** piece instead of one that we've been working so ******* and I feel kind of betrayed.
I play trombone. Jazz and Wind Ensemble.

I've been ******* more lately and I don't quite know why.
It's not loneliness. I think it's just honest *** drive.

This chick at work is really cool and attractive and I kind of feel bad for leaving because we connect really well.
I want to see if I can get her number.
She has nice eyes and is relaxed with me. I love it.
And her voice is lovely. She's relatively short, that's honestly the only iffy.
And I don't know how old she is.

I'm glad you turned my note into the office.
Don't know why I wrote my whole name on it AND put my emblem in the corner. It's supposed to be a supplement for my name...

I'm sorry that you had to be the one to help me. It should have been somebody who didn't hate me. Kind of upside down, don'tcha think?

I've only had one dream about you since we split. The night after it happened.
I dreamt about Belle the night after that :)

Music doesn't feel as good as it used to. My taste has changed with this schism.
Silverstein still feels good but not as much as it used to. Atreyu is closer to home, but I wore that out. Chiodos is on the plate right now but I feel like that will waste soon. I'm feeling like I should try pop.

Alie, the server manager at work, also my neighbor, is my mother figure. My grandmas are getting old. My aunts have disappeared. My papa is getting old and it saddens me. I love him to death. He was my childhood. I will be the hardest crier at his funeral. I'm tearing up already.
But not yet. He still cooks. He still laughs. And loves.


You will never read this. And that's okay.
I needed this. Not you. Me.

Cause I'm ******* awesome and no other should be able to drag me down.
Because they will ALWAYS try.

(I still want *** though. Emily is one of the things my brain thinks about, but when I'm fantasizing alone in the dark or shower or something, I always think of Belle. Every time. I can't shake her and I don't want to. She is the dream.)
(But so is MY future. I just hope she's part of it, but if not entirely, that's okay. I want to be a pharmacist. Or something like that. Preferably pharmacist. I've looked up a lot on how to make it happen.)
(7-11 Coffee is my favorite. But Dee's is really good too.)

Te Amo.
~M

You know what I've been fantasizing about around my projectory...besides some stimulating evening entertainment...I like the art of BellyDance. It's sensuous and extreme mastery of smooth kundalini up and around the body.
Yeah, right...I know.
No, but seriously, imagine man, our own Island. Yeah, our Own Island. The Crew would celebrate the SkyClad Moon around a wood fire, the tribal drum patterns interlacing trading Ecstasies of rhythm beat into our hearts coherent waves generating yes by us, through us, into the night's Enchanted Moon. 
Oh she and her seductive powers moving tidal waves into the hours splash crash and receding just to come back for more. You Know What this is about you know what it stands for
yeah, and if we want to bring it into our human sexuality, mating powers, let's trade energies why not talk our bodies into majesty
~ see what happens• usually magic from my memory I like magic I like cosmic kinds of bliss in exchange for a mystical talk with God~ Lets work it out. Of man & ladies ...you know, all the crazies, no end to the amount of this kind of party. let's make the magic happen this doesn't have to stay imagination I know how it manifest and if you have questions come see we will figure out the rest ...
imagine

Scream at yourself Rebecca
Rebecca
May
All Twelve of you
And
All your beautiful dreams.
Once upon a Time,
Sve was a gorgeous princess...
Trapped in a tower
Below
The ma and pa of Creation...

So happy and carefree she was,
She travelled near and far with Nanny and Grandpa.
Then one
Day I
Could
No longer trust


And it eats me up
L.....

Please Call Me Mam.



For the Man I adore...


Well His Name...
It is that which can never be spoken.


And They
Are fantasizing about each other
Again,
   Could that beautiful Crazy, beautiful thing called
L
O
V
E...
Could it
Really come back to
Give us Happiness


As They had always planned...

She got split into
O

I dont want simple;
Feed me yourself in silver spoonfuls.
I want simple,

Lie to me,
and tell me
I am not an Animal.

   I am an analyst-dissecting details.

4Am fresh snowfall
I will remain capable!
Make first new footprints,

in a circle...
  Till I reach the middle.

I will remain incapable of
Tying my shoes.

   I am a participant in social warfare.

Looking forward:
Possible encounters &
Spring Rain.
Fantasizing both in measure.  

All I am to you is what you see, and
What you hear,
smell,
  touch,
    taste.

All you are to me so far
Is what I see, and what I hear;
So i am looking very hard,
   And I am listening very closely.

I want logic,
Tasting honey when I ******.
I want harsh confusion,
Complete absence of logic in it's essence.
Kissing a part of you that potties.

Now,
I can remain content in chasing my tail; I sleep balled up on top of the ocean, my clothes and fur strewn;

   Chewing paws in strange positions.

I want contradiction, an
Assurance of the Devil & a
Total disregard for ghosts.

Constructive chaos:
   Dress like ghosts on Acid and
Wear rollerblades.

I want my resumé to read:
>works well with others,
>great fighter, &
>An outstanding Lay.

I want to leave behind dreams,
I want to rent a room in your
dream bed&breakfast;,
Sometimes sharing yours, but always paying rent on time for mine.

Sometimes
swinging an axe against a rough stump,
Craving lemonade and
Spring Rain.

Part of me wants to grow old and
Mad, and sit by rivers; I could smoke ****** from a wizard pipe for my
Sore joints.

( I am alright with the possible outcome of Alone. )

[ I would rip my hair out,
Glue it to my body, & become
A boy in wolf's clothing. ]

I want creative destruction,
Mayhem,
borderline Mind ****.
Learning to pick the banjo half-decently.

   That Deliverance tune.

And walk around ski towns
   Scaring the **** out of some tourists
And other antagonists.

Waiting for the train come
It was peak time
The train station was packed like sardine packed
Full of workers hoping to go back home to their families
All the sweats they have given out on that day
Was it all worth it?


Standing besides the railway
Fantasizing, imagining
If i jump will anyone help me?
Will anyone pull me out of the railway?
Small lights catched my eye 1km away
Oh there's the train coming!
Everyone was colliding and pushing each other to get into the train
Because you don't want to miss the train
It was near dawn, everyone wants to go back before dawn approaches
They would do anything to get in
I was bumped into a guy, he was sweet
And then things get so awkward in the train
I was seating infront of the guy
It was one of the moments I would like to escape from
But not long after that, we hopped off at our station
Heading back home

And until now, I could never forget his face :)

You mixed two packets of melancholia
into your coffee today,
and I had to bite my tongue to resist
to say, "I thought you liked it black."
I watched as you daintily taste-tested
it from your spoon and was delighted
upon seeing your grimace of
disapproval (you're adorable when mad).
I took note of how
your veins pulsed underneath
your deeply tanned skin
and I longed to be the blood that
traveled through your delicate body.
If only I could map out your cardiovascular
system and find all the detours and
shortcuts to your fragile heart,
memorize the freeway that
encircled your figure and learn
when to avoid rush hour or when
to take the fast lane.
I found myself fantasizing about
the day you were conceived and
how you beat out all the other
potential embryos - that maybe,
you were chosen out of the thousands
for the sole purpose of being with me.

Hot summer forest, sweat and dawn’s faint light,
My feet in time with sighs of willow trees,
Bare cheeks and skin, dew-glossed and shining bright,
My ******* sway freely, ******* hard in breeze,
Moss meets my wetness—harmonies, soft lies
Nightbirds perform their final song with ease,
While fireflies blink out their last goodbyes,
Alone, I’m cradled close by nature’s sweet surprise,
An ****** of dawn—my body soaring as I rise.

In dappled gold, a turtle halts my stride,
Her ancient fortress shell, a gaze unblinking,
Paused, I’m exposed—no secret folds to hide— 
Her slow, wise eyes undress me, softly blinking.
“Old mother,” I sigh, “what are you thinking?” 
Does my left breast seek the gentle morning sky? 
Do wild curls shame me, or my fantasizing? 
Do you see *******, not a perfect doll’s eye? 
The forest hushes, breathless, waiting for her reply. 

I study flesh—each mile sculps *** and breast,
Do I run for her, or am I just insane?
The rush of blood, feeding animal unrest,
Her body in our bed—my lust, a hurricane.
She’s dawn’s first glow; I’m shadow, bound by chain.
Does this sweat feed her gaze, or pool between thighs?
I pass fat faces, screens glued, cold with disdain—
I’d rather die in wildness, in open skies,
My body, food for forest, feasted by butterflies.

I think,
I'm dreaming right now,
Ensconced in a deep sleep
Just dreaming somewhere
Away from here
Where people just watch me sleeping.

I think,
That when Einstein said universe could be twisted and turned
He meant those labyrinths were an escape to the real world
The world we live in
Is just a simulation
All our work, all our sins,
Are just an examination
We are somewhere, detained and prisoned,
(Humanity is so bad thus that's my imagination)
Ony to speculate us
And decide if we deserve to live in the real world.

I think
There is a world of justice,
Different from our own
What we do here is what we get
We get flowers of the seeds we've sown.

I think,
What infants talk
Is a language of the real world
We're all given a second chance
Our thoughts have been swiped off,
We are in deep trance.

I think,
The reason why we fear God
Is because our God really watches us
Born and gone,
They have powers in their hands
It's those people on whom our judgement depends on.

I think,
We all come from hell,
No one's 'granted' a good life
We made mistakes, that's why people tell,
We're just equal
That there is heaven and hell
We've lived hell and now we aim for heaven
We don't want our lives to be torn
At last but not the least,
We'll be given the flowers of the seeds we've sown.

I think,
That you think it's useless to think of it,
But there's no wrong in fantasizing,
About a world fairer than this one,
But actually,
There's nothing left but to fantasize,
About a world better than our own,
That when we at last wake from our slumber to our judgement day,
We'll get the flowers of the seeds we've sown.

Dive kicked off the aspirin,
overdosed on vitamin D.
Up all night, celebrating,
properly sober;
properly hydrated,
properly fed.

Stomach ache from experimenting foods,
sriracha on salad and chocolate and eggs
threw it all over everything like "HADOUKEN!",
there's information floating on the wind everywhere
and most of it is ***** and cats,
people saying, "hey" and "yo" and "whats up?"

And I'm addicted to Tom Waits,
and probably ***, and probably the internet,
and probably video games and thinking,
but thinking about offing myself.
Genesis does what nintendon't
and lately every modern gaming console
simply just www.WillNot.
I guess we're all fantasizing till we stop.

Also, punk and jazz will not mix well,
my grandfather wrote me from the grave
just to say so.
He says the rent isn't so bad,
but the landlord is the ******* devil,
although there's a room for me to move in.
I just might if I don't get medicated,
for right now I'm whimsical
and singing up and off key.

All these zombies are feeling my vibe
with their teeth and fingernails,
and affection never felt so good
from such a friendly crowd.
I don't get out much anymore,
I'm slipping into old habits
more often because I'm lonely
and melancholic and bored.

It's all right or whatever.

My mind's full of thoughts
I don't want.
Sequences, images of things
I can never have.
It's not about fantasizing about a better life
before you get to sleep.
It's about dissociating from reality
and excessively gritting your teeth.
You want and try to stop
but in a few seconds
you find yourself lost.
I can't remember when did it all begin,
probably way back before I was even a teen.
I want to cut my skin open and get out of my body, leave behind this broken mind.
It smothers me, it takes me to the edge,
it's eating me alive.
I'm losing it. Oh, I'm losing myself.
I don't want a way out, I want to be dead.
As I write this I'm imagining things.
Stop! Someone, rescue me!
I'm losing it.
Can I go crazy? I think I will.
I'll **** myself before it ends me.
I'm losing it.

The game of metaphor
Like a dream I see
And not even it exist
Like in reality I persists
And everything otherwise insists!

Some existences are metabolically contagious
A chain of reaction starts, and the disaster is unimaginable....

She lives in a cocoon of caterpillar
Always fantasizing the life of a butterfly
And in this manipulation , consistently she drives
Her imaginations, to the world of realm!

Superb was the fall,  magnificently amazing
Starry was the night and the world whole snoring in their fraction
She stood up right, applauding alone ,dazzling
And this metaphor of dream once again was her cage of seduction!

We, the invisible reasons for your problems, blind ourselves to the
dismal inevitability that we will
suffocate because you refuse to stop
the pillaging of the future for the sake of your own ******* lineage being able to further itself and potentially give you a chance to again close your mind and scream as loud as you can when confronted with your own toxicity

We, the ones who humbly take the bludgeoning from your self-proclaimed pious hand, know these chains are only on your bleeding wrists and ankles.

We, the silent and the broken, know Santa Muerta by the nicknames she had in college and all accompanying wildness she brought in her wake.
We still will stroke your hair while you
throw your tantrums and wail about what is and isn't fair on your deathbeds.

We will burn the mattress and all while cheering you on on your flight into the night sky you ignored for a lifetime.

We, the servants of streaming digits and stewards of bottled stardust, will create stories about how it wasn't your fault and how you shouldn't be hated for bringing the world crashing into the excrement of wasted potential so our children know there was a choice to be made.

We, the overly polite pariahs pry laughs and love and lust and learning from looming catastrophe like Burroughs writing Naked Lunch with a glassy eyed stare that burned holes in the veil hiding the tide of partially coagulated blood and ******* that YOUR world preached as milk and honey.

We, the proof in the moldy pudding still finding time to rot, will burn tobacco fields in your honor just to dance while getting drunk on the breaths you'll never waste.

We, the lovers of questions and haters of creeds, let tears stream in the hope that they are not considered part of our body's 75 percent while fantasizing about your ghosts seeing them and the dehydration they may be in spite of and quiet your tired old yelling and shaking of fists at the clouds when overcome by the slight sadness that whispers "its too late" lovingly into your ear.

We, the lovers, the thieves, the reviled, the *******, the witches, the junkies, the ******, the reptiles and worms under the rocks society deems unusable and misshapen, will be the ones lifting the crowns off your corpses and throwing them high as graduates do when full of a hope only ever dashed by themselves.

We, the drooling monsters you vehemently deny anything besides the cramped closets or the space between bed and floor in childhood bedrooms, will be the Valkyries to descend onto the blood-choked battlefield you set aside for your souls to suffer on and offer you respite in the form of soggy bread and wildflower honey while  ravens and jackdaws bicker over the eyes and fingers of those that once showed us how to ride a bike or drunkenly beat us beneath our favorite trees or touched us in dark rooms in ways that would chase Love away from the shadow of our hearts until we finally climbed high enough to see it all as someone screaming of war and bravery while running from the sound of steel biting steal because their protectors talked so highly of honor and duty that it seemed as if it were God and Adam touching fingertips on the arched ceilings of youth. that, then was painted on the crumbling walls of abandoned houses they would secretly indulge on the forbidden fruit soaking pages of a faded **** magazines or up skirts of blushing  girls who put on their mother's prudishness until fingers pushed past
cotton and virtue alike to the warm center they both melted in.

We, the unsung and numb, walk in spirals while the complexity you rebuked as devil-born becomes the sigils of yet-to-be kingdoms bringing about golden age after golden age in the distant mists rolling over hills and valleys of memories of moments yet to coalesce into rigid experience.

We, the eyes weeping blood atop crumbling pyramids, have seen the walls you want to build in futures dissolved in the winds blowing dust over the dream-roads we skip down and how it resembles the one you built to keep your heart from breaking from the pressing mass of what you can't file away as noise or heresy or communist propaganda;
We drew throbbing ***** and dripping ***** on all the blueprints we came across and tucked them back into the secret compartments of wardrobes and roll-tops passed down through generations.

We, the keepers of the singing stones you traded for cheap concrete, will embrace the tiny souls you neglected out of ignorance to the existential snake oil pitch you broke every tooth biting down on all because the salesman reminded you of your drunk father or mother imposing their wills like you make shadow puppets dance on peeling wallpaper in the silence that ensued after they had passed out on creaky couches reeking of Lucky Strikes and spilled ***** while the shine of the staticky T.V. set covered them like the blanket no one ever put over their slumbering forms because of those infinite lists of excuses used to skirt the skirmishes of showing any kind compassion even if they alone were sole witness to it.

We, the pieces of self the deathbed "you" sent hurtling backwards through time to shine lights on the siege seething at the gates of what you stand for, are only holding those lanterns to show you that fleeing is futile and your death is just a hallway with a door that leads to the knowledge that life is not a cell to watch time morph into tally lines scratched into cold stone as if they were epitaphs for the seconds bet and lost at the roulette table crafted from any slave ship the ocean never swallowed.

We, the flames mimicking those dancing girls you longed to have squeal under the idea of your thrusting masculinity amidst the graffiti on the bathroom stalls in seedy dive-bars or the paupers playing prince you follow giggling with hope in hand like a bouquet of baby's breath and daisies for that one day they would stop and turn and smile so handsomely that your knees would shatter against one another and wedding chapels would bend down to tie tin cans to bumpers of beat up Buicks and Oldsmobiles your fathers give dowry and the crowd could watch "just married" poorly written in shaving cream on the back window grow small until it disappeared over the horizon.

We, the dreamers, are tired of sleeping and are in need of a old tree to swing from, to bury our dreams like beloved pets under, and watch as it lets its leaves fall to the hungry earth that is more patient then anyone closed eyed and humming ancient syllables beneath crooked branches could ever be.

All the trees you climbed and kicked and fell in love under have died from too many hearts around intials being carved into them or were used to make fascist pamphlets you yourself passed out at churchs mistaking the mask with bone structure or the river for the people it swept to sea.

We are laughing;
like a loving mother at her clumsiness on display in her cackling child and not like the crowds gazing at the sideshow stage as the curtains pull back and stage lights illuminating John Merrick's flesh and the intricate dissonance it lent to minds.
Minds that afforded only sips of bliss as monotonous stints on factory floors but were preached about like they were some heaven-sent golden cobblestones laid lovingly all the way
to the beach where Heimdall will one day sound his horn, one foot feeling the grit of the edge of the world and the other washed clean for the grave we will all step in.

So, all these words, all these images, all of it is intended to be a moon so all the stagnate tide pools that have forgotten their origin and the freedom they used to give form to lesser forms they forage forgetfulness from.

We, the ones beneath you on the climb to the summit of our collective potential, beg you to think of something beside yourself when taking a ****.

It is not just ******* in the wind if there isnt wind and we are right below you and dying of thirst.

It is not an inalienable right if someone else is deprived of the same.

It is not Heaven's gate if the brilliant gild has a melting point or if it remains latched to any soul's approach.

It is not "liberal *******" or a myth if whole flocks of birds fall from the sky or schools of fish wash up on beaches while people snap photographs for their feed.

It is not "god" if love dispels it like smoke hanging in the kitchens your great grandmother sat in and told you about a witch shapeshifting into dogs without heads to scare drunks stumbling home because she was a ******* racist.

It is not just food if someone's organs fail from starvation that even the worms and flies are free from.

You wave your banners and let your war-horns echo and you wear your ignorance as armor.

We, the eaters of life and death, will chisel a name into stone and pick your bones clean if you think we should march to the sounds of drums and trumpets just because you were stupid enough to think it was anything other than your masters convincing you to whip yourselves ****** because "at least God hath been kind enough to give you a purpose" or "he works in mysterious ways".

**** that.

Look at what it has brought out of the swirling sea of " all that could be" while you write the same song about how shiny and numerous the scales of the prize are.

We are not responsible for pillaging God's bounty.

We are the bounty and our emptiness and lack of foresight are in jeweled bowls at your feet, but in your hubris you believe it to be the slaves that come to wash the dirt from between your toes.

We are Death and She is the wet-nurse that will give us intimacy to fertilize our hearts by refusing us her breast but turning our heads to your silhouettes shambling off the edge of existence far off in the distance only a decade or less could be confused for.

[AS ONE VOICE WE SING/SANG/HOWL:
Lux amor potentia restituant propositum dei in terris.]

As if it were as easy as holding the hand of a dying tyrant afraid they cannot the luminous terminus while wearing your father's face as a mask to trick radiant angels or the contortions of gods reeking of struck matches by those trembling and their swirling black hearts closed to the breeze carrying leaves celebrating their liberation and caressing a cheek they were too ashamed to kiss when opportunity was their ally.

We shouldn't hate these piles of skulls all parroting the same axioms to those who only show up to add another or leave an empty bottle turned into a candle holder, wax dripped down the neck and froze before any trace of tallow could finally unite with the dirt it longs to become one with;
icicles hanging from the eaves of abandoned asylums.

This place was supposed to be alot of things but that is what lead THEM to drown in the sound of buzzing bees, birdsong, and abundance in all directions.

I suggest we stop trying to squeeze it into a shoebox we scribbled Promised Land on and just let it be the open armed paradise it inherently is.
Let it be the heart and home as well as the hostile territory because it is only ever that and what we wont find in any Oracle's Prophecy.

I'll end my rambling with a question and it's answer.

How do you turn a police station into a hospital and a schoolhouse?

Burn it to the ******* ground.

Oh, what a sad fate it is
to be woken from a dream.

After years of fantasizing,
you realize it's all a scheme.

This picture you've created and the
scenes you play out in your sleep
are not as perfect in the real life
as they are when you're asleep.

Eloise in a Christmas tree,
swinging a straight razor
at the children below.
  Never held enough
as a baby.
  Never in love
just a maybe.

Eloise's father
in the living room,
drinking the news.
  Those *******
******* and *****,
  he screams.
Never held enough
  as a baby.
His mother smelled of
  a late night and
pineapple blend *****.

Eloise popping Prozac
like Tic-Tacs.
  Fantasizing about
shooting the school body.
You sonuvabitch,
her father screamed.
He penetrated--
She screamed
  and writhed.
Wrists held.
Body pressed.

Beans and toast
  for dinner.
Mom left dad because dad
  isn't big enough
or makes enough money.
Enough. Enough. Enough.

Eloise was supposed to be
a miscarriage.
Her dad lost some toes
when he missed a log.
  Chop, the axe said.

The world is a swinging place.
Whispering in the dark.
A hushed frenzy.
  Mix and **** out,
her gun let out a shout.
Eloise, queen of the
  student mass grave.

Eloise's father turns on
the news.
He drinks liquor instead.
Eloise on the t-v.
Oh, woe is me.
He went to the shed
  and blew his head
clean off.

The world is a swinging place.
The world in a frenzy.