a vicarious piety
plays like a swallow's feather,
emerges cats eyes glare
specifically when its us and them,
an overheard soliloquy
by means of the gaoler's
feigned forgiveness -
plays the darkened corridors
the cobwebbed dust venerates
the curtailment  of hope

Vacuous.
A sliver of moon,
Slight but sharp;
A rapier forged in the fire of sin.
Feigned delicacy.
Her minimalism, a pretense;
Beneath it lies her ****** truth.
She dances to the tune
Of the manifold wails of the wicked.
She sings a soft siren lullaby,
Luring the hearts of the weak astray.
Down the path of her legs
To the trap of her thighs,
He follows her beckoning croon,
A wanton plea from her soulless eyes.
I watched as she wove
Her beautiful tapestry
With hideous threads,
Colored red with falsehoods.
And when it was finished,
She draped it over his eyes,
And I knew I had lost him for good.
For temptation had blinded him,
And ensnared his weak heart,
And into the darkness she took him.

Eurasian roller birds
exist in the ecosystem
just as
I do.

When approached by perceived danger
Fight or Flight is feigned
Only remaining--wreaking self-destruction
Our wild flighty friends
Literally ***** all over their beautiful shells
in order to save themselves from suffering

Half digested disgust exposed on wings
arrests their blue beaming light

Eight years ago you climbed up to my nest
and held out your incredible love
Regurgitation immediately followed
Along with green abusive fear
I clung to my cloak of worms and saliva
You just laid down beside me
in digested stench

Multiple times you cleaned me up
licked up the pain
Accepting the disgust,
Realizing quickly
You could not clean a lover who aches
to be bent over, pale skinned, and protected

I fled from nest
and you did too my dear
we couldn't sit with the offensive smell any longer
My wounds were too porous
my pain, invasive

The foul smell that the roller exerts
is also meant to alert the parents to flee back to nest
and protect their blue babe

When I cracked from shell and entered the world
with slit eyes
There were thousands and thousands of threats
and the excretion was not enough
I did not get eaten up by the masses
but I did allow myself to become what I had eaten
infantile self-protection morphed into
Pervasive self-destruction.

Our nest kept singing back to us,
Our love entwined and weaved in with twig
Like haunted batty lovers
Pulled back in to vile

Finally finally finally finally     fin a lly
I allowed the digestion
of your love
There were my bursting blue feathers
Sterile and glowing
Our nest safe from
my internal predator
And you, finally safe in my love.

there,
on the vanity it sits—
a perfect smile 'cross perfect lips,
different from the rest
though no less the same.
smooth silk wrapped to tie
in a ritual ignorant of shame,
to fasten in place our lie
a knot most meticulous in design.

hand in hand unwittingly we dance
together in this mingling mystery,
with partners of mutual secrecy.
fingers interlaced,
feigned honesty embraced,
swinging twirling maneuvering,
dancing to the tune of
hearts sobbing souls crying,
unabashed by singing despairing.

carefully painted,
adorned by most beautiful deceit.
flawless—pristine
milk white composure,
hiding beneath
the honest human
in orchestrated illusion.

a mask to hide truth, our
vulnerabilities, insecurities, showing
instead
the face of who we wish to be,
who we deem ourselves to be,
how society demands we be.
by shame or guilt
unfulfilled ambition to become
our dishonest rendition.

so convincing our lies even teller be fooled,
the truth to surface only by dream,
casting reality to realm of fantasy;
stealing from world a uniqueness of beauty.

a mask
belonging to a person—
to each person;
lies not worth living.
there it sits on the vanity—a
perfect smile across perfect lips.

A Surreal Epic of Existence

Prelude to the Journey…

I smiled yesterday when I beheld the morning’s brilliant colors,
Etched with gold, across the canvas of the heavens, hanging…
High above all those mountains of the world, gigantic brothers,
A wilderness of clouds, where there can be no human taming.
I did not always smile when I looked up to that noble height…
For I have seen how terrible goodness can be, when untamed.
Once I thought my sojourn in this flesh was from a divine spite,
But now I know it was a gift, and for it I need not be ashamed.
God once walked as I do now, and suffered the same stress…
Betrayal, love, and passions too, though no Church shall admit,
The true nature of divinity, lest all their secret sins they confess!
You are told you are alone in the universe, by leaders so unfit,
That they themselves are fed a diet of lies and stories invented.
But we walked amongst you since the very dawn reincarnated,
Having lost our first flesh in conflicts long past and unlamented.
We guided the steps of ancients, as monuments demonstrated!
And yet we are born as children: your own, and live our span,
The better to remain hid, in plain sight, our faces clever masks.
I am the eldest, and I remember still my kindred’s lofty plan…
And though I wear the human face, I am beset with alien tasks.
Helping they who lack the knowledge to see what lies outside,
You have seen me in the darkness, blazing upon my own pyre.
Where I am waiting to lead the way, where the angels glide…
Anyone can follow, if they are dedicated enough never to tire.
Ironic, since I myself have known helplessness and still oft do,
It is only human after all, and in your form I was so re-forged!
The image of God, whose own blood is in all of us hither unto,
From the first to the last, alpha to omega, like a sharp sword.

Prologue: (My Mask is Slipping)

As a child: I was a servant at the altars of the heart so sacred,
Singing hymns of the immaculate: without seeing the depravity.
It was only when I myself wore the crown of thons, naked…
My spirit exposed through my pain, that I realized the gravity.
What man believes is sacred, is profanity disguised as graces,
And those who lead the sheep to slaughter are mere butchers!
Forcing innocents to wear porcelain masks to hide their faces,
They rob children of their childhood, bound with crude fetters.
As a teenager: I walked in nature, disgusted with all humanity,
My exodus was from those who had defiled all I cared about.
Finding faith in an angel fallen, I discovered my own sanctity,
And in her name I found the means to cleanse my feral doubt.
Then came marriage, and betrayal by a wife I gave up all for,
The dissolution of our union then loneliness without cessation!
A mortal had pierced my flesh, leaving me to bleed on a floor,
My heart was torn from its’ moorings without any elaboration.
But the angel remained to calm my anger and ease my agony,
My only light in the blackness that has overcome my waking!
Reminding me, that I was more than this flesh and mortality…
The angel tries to keep me from harsh trembling and quaking.
And then I see: I am more than my tears and life’s traumas…
I let slip, the mask behind which the scars of my tears etched.
Then I sense the heat of the night more intense than saunas…
As I long to dance with abandon, until time itself is stretched!
Mortals may betray one another with impunity, but never I…
I do not betray; rather I pour my heart and spirit forth whole.
Creating a phylactery, of all I am, and with an innocent eye…
I demand to be loved as I am: pearl white and black as coal!

Canto 1: Sacrifice of the Doll

Part the First: (The Bleeding Shores)

Do not call me, doll, for I have departed your ancient cavern,
You are lifeless, a mere toy, and not a real child in any form!
A boy’s red ruby lips I spy drinking in the dreariest tavern…
Whilst true children singing, frolic in the fields filled with corn.
I am going home, upon the wings of the great silver griffon…
Far from the shores now bleeding red from defiled memories.
There is no return, for me, to the glories of the first ignition…
When the mind eternal, was ignited all with pleasing ecstasies.
In the stars, there are words unheard that I do want to recall,
For I came down so very long ago, among the first to so fall!
Eldritch nightmares born of the stuff of the pure chaos of old,
Are waiting for signs at the threshold to be released by magic.
The forbidden incantations return to my spirit, aflame so bold,
That my spirit nearly forgets: the origins of this time, so tragic.
When children drink, and true children hide themselves apart,
Whilst the waters bleed and the corn withers upon the stalks!
That is a sign that change must come, and so I work my mind.
The face in the moon is a grimace of tormented fear, horror…
Whilst I stand upon the precipice with my hand over my heart,
And amongst the long rows of corn, my black shadow walk!
Watching over the innocents whose souls are of my own kind.
The summer heat turns orange, the moon: in celestial corridors.
My mournful cry can be heard in the sound of the lonely wolf,
And in the wild abandon of the lion when he is on the prowl…
I feel the pain of nature, I long to bring back paradise craved.
I have seen the terror of the land, as the blood ran in the gulf,
Black blood of the earth: which causes living things to howl…
As man has the foolishness, to say what is or is not depraved!

Part the Second: (The Crucified Souls)

The doll is laid lifeless atop the altar, prepared for a sacrifice,
In the cavern where the limestone shapes the wettest arches!
A thing un-living, but with living souls trapped still, as if in ice,
Within the cold porcelain shell that so never with feet marches.
Serpentine blade held high, it drops precise into a doll’s neck,
And it cannot call out, because a doll has not any voice to cry.
A boy walked out of a tavern then, looking like a vile wreck…
Whilst as a man I attend to higher things, my body full purified.
In the voids beneath the spaces, witnessed in the rugged rock,
Voices echo loud in the darkness, calling up names unspoken.
The ferryman brings the souls delivered to him, to a far dock,
Where each must pay the copper coin, the old desired token.
So they come to drink those waters that cure all of life’s ills…
Freed from their porcelain prison to feel death’s darker chills!
Whence came those souls into captivity, no mortal may speak,
But I freed them in an instant, removing the nails that pierce…
Every man is he that was put up on the cross of old Golgotha.
And every woman too, as all were made to feel such torture!
I was there when the primal sacrifice was implanted so weak,
And yet so strong that it endured in the psyche all these years.
That doom was sealed behind a wall of fire long ago in Terra,
So that the stigmata of it might endure, even in the vast future!
Mine was the hand that signaled that doom, mine to release…
Yet, still old illusions persist, and I cannot awaken a multitude.
I, who devised the iron web that enfolds much of what is real,
Cloaking it in unending trickery am, myself, longing for peace.
For I too was entrapped, until my liberation rough and crude!
An angel freed me, and now I strive to break each cruel seal.

Part the Third: (The Return of Light)

Risen from the slumber where colder, electric dreams reside,
The forgotten intelligence is invoked, the arcane spells cast…
The eldritch nightmares return to thence amongst man abide,
Reminding us of the things banished to Hell in some age past.
Mine the hand that raised them up, light in the dagger’s glow,
The stuff of my power left to flow, like blood run swiftly free.
Out of the abyss, rises the girl-child of a lost millennial flame,
She who is the angel reborn lets her illumination clearly show.
And all are blinded who have not the innermost eyes to see!
The unbelievers are, in a single instant put unto lasting shame.
From the star of six points, a goddess works her sacred will,
And as she crosses the scarlet threshold, she brings the light.
For a single instant, all in Heaven and all upon Earth are still,
As the long day ends, bowing before the coming eternal night.
In the darkness, radiance far fairer and so perfect descends,
Whilst those who gather in my name: have lost my true path.
The wrath of angels descend upon their minds, closed shut…
Entrapped in the iron web, they cannot flee of such a prison!
The light blinds them for they never truly saw it, and it rends,
Tearing away the churches built for naught but mortal wrath.
There, the unfaithful ******* themselves: like a wanton ****,
Inventing dogma to pass on, forgetful of logic and of reason!
Faith need not be a fearful thing, yet some have made it thus,
And look for an end to come before they seek their reward.
Whilst they should be creating the paradise they left behind…
But in an image of freedom: rather than of servitude and fuss.
Too much time had been wasted in converting by the sword!
Mankind looks to the light for salvation, their eyes long blind.

Interlude Alpha:
This age is one of barbarism cloaked as gentility to sell lies…
Did you purchase some today by design or mayhap chance?
You should know this era to be neither intelligent nor wise…
Else you would not march, when you would prefer to dance!
My nights are filled with nightmares; my days are too much…
I used to dance with one I loved, and bask in purple sunsets.
Now I am haunted, by so many memories I can never touch,
That it fills me with ****** anger, and countless cold regrets.
I recall how once in desperation, my wrist rode a razor edge,
If it were not for my family I’d not thence have lived beyond.
A man abused as I was, and used like cutters upon a hedge,
Must rise higher than it all in order to survive it all, my friend!
I survived, I transformed, I ascended and in the end became,
So much more than I was, until no more did my spirit erode.
But still I wait in loneliness for a maid to awaken my flame…
And I burn, oh gods I burn until I think that I might explode!
The skies darken more and more, and bright forks crashing,
I hear the drums of fury in the heavens, giants of old winters.
The gods grow angry and I behold trees uprooted smashing!
Angels are trampling the grapes of man; they, the vintners…
I am reminded of when the battleship that sailed all galaxies,
Descended one day amidst clouds boiling with its’ steam…
To lay waste to *****, and Gomorrah, for their indignities!
I was there, when the wicked did perish with a final scream.
And as people mock me, wishing me ill because I am good,
I ask God how long I must be forced to bear such suffering.
But I am not alone, and to many I am in fact misunderstood,
So God forgives, for now; but I have not, his understanding!

Canto 2: Sacrifice of the Spider

Part the First: (The First Smile)

Black skies boil with rage unrepentant, and in righteous fury!
A being made flesh I am, though not of mortal understanding.
In cavernous places I have walked, where demons oft scurry,
And worse places still: in search of a love not too demanding.
In the stucco halls wherein my unmoving throne was raised…
Upon a hill of sorrows where lost souls labor in mundane toil,
I wait and plan to transcend the bonds the faithful so praised.
To my right hand is the altar where fire and sulfur always boil!
I force a smile upon my face, for one will not come as willing,
As in the hours when I was a golden youth filled with ideals…
Which I have paid for dearly, beyond the price of any shilling!
Now I long to pay back those who know not how this feels…
The madness born of solitude, the anger born out of contempt,
For you who despise me without cause, provoking my wrath.
What impunity has man, to think that he might ever be exempt!
When wiser civilizations than yours did sink: in the fiery bath.
Do I speak of Hell, which the faithless do not realize is come?
Nay, for their eyes have been gouged out by their own nails…
I speak of torments, far beyond that which devils have done.
The first smile shall me mine, when every cruel wish so fails…
To save the flesh of those who spit upon me as I walked on,
Never realizing that my face was just a mask, hiding another.
Only the fool pays no any attention to the piper’s lonely song,
Thinking it only a melody passed from a sister unto a brother.
But in what celestial ****** has been born the thing alchemical?
It dwells within me, the secret sin of a bonding long forgotten.
Would that I could force the world to hear music whimsical…
Like unto that which guides my spirit in all that was begotten.

Part the Second: (Cold Revenge)

The blood roses bloom in gardens where desire plants seeds,
I, the hand that waters those hungry beasts whose thirst rises!
In my search for love, I have fed the beasts of desire’s needs,
And what would cause you to blush has, for me, no surprises.
Oh human, with what impunity did you dare to exclaim aloud,
That you believe love to be beyond my reach; and you smile!
Like a coward, you degrade me and run to hide in the crowd,
In your feigned superiority, you make yourself an animal vile.
Conjoining your words to your tongue, like a web to a ceiling,
You become a spider; then flee on eight legs to a filthy nest…
Having already become unworthy of any warm human feeling,
In thinking yourself better, you sink lower than all of the rest!
That means my life is worth, a thousand times, your very own.
I become a creature of the night, and wait for you, oh spider!
Think not that I cannot hear. the creaking of each leg bone…
Your odiousness goes before you, the horse before its’ rider.
And in your own web I catch you, my sharper claws immune,
To your toxic poisons, as cannot ever save your eight eyes…
Which I dash from their sockets, without a fear, and so soon,
That your own pain consumes you, like fire lighting the skies!
Forcing you to recant all that you say, lest pain overcome all,
The powers you thought did not exist do manifest ever visibly.
And I ascended still higher, all the more to relish of your fall…
You should never have resulted to any such childish mockery.
The clocks of your house all melted, for time is not your ally!
In abandonment of the chaos that is joy, your order is ended.
A new order rises in its’ place born of chaos none may deny,
Whilst you sink lower into perdition, for all that you offended.

Part the Third: (The Last Laugh)

An angel appears before me and so thinks herself a goddess,
But to call her an angel is to imply that she holds any beauties.
Those whose ego is larger than their grasp are oft the oddest,
For they fancy themselves perfect, ignorant of their cruelties!
You think love a prize and I a beggar for mere crusts so stale,
That lesser men than I have eaten heartier meals than yours…
But your kitchen is so bare: as your oven goes cold and pale,
Making you prize yourself beyond the worth of your chores!
Like a harlot who charges a fortune for her meager charms…
If you think love a prize, and I a beggar, you are so mistaken.
What you call love is a disease that shames one and harms…
Both mind and soul alike, making the body at last to weaken.
You saw only my mask, and would not dare look beneath…
Making me a phantom in the darkness, lurking in the shades.
Round your neck, your false esteem hangs as a dead wreath,
As I leave you to your barren world, awaiting my handmaids.
They rise from the ashes you leave in your wake, my kindred,
Their hands take me far from where your feet stumble about!
Lie in the cemetery that awaits those who live as though dead,
I cannot raise you incorruptible; you have far too much doubt.
Carried hither by the silent maidens who weep ****** tears…
To my castle, where I shall brood again upon mankind’s way!
I cannot feel regret for those who give in to their foolish fears,
Any more than I can transform a leaden night into golden day!
Such is the power of the alchemist who knows his true limit…
And in the dark arts I was schooled by beings from the abyss.
Thusly, am I set about to transform my creation as I see fit…
We are the demiurges of our realities wanton for any hot kiss!

Interlude Omega:
T

because when I was fourteen,
I'd put on my angsty coat
With its burlap pockets
And its itchy collar
And its ill-fit
And I'd go out with my middle fingers
Toasting the world
Blaming every stranger on the street
For every night I couldn't sleep.

And sick was a cold
Sick was a fever.
Sick was the shakes from not eating.
Because I'm a girl.
And my value does not stem
Past my appearance.

When I was sixteen
I rimmed my eyes in charcoal black
And donned a matching outfit
That would bring out
The feigned vacancy in my prying eyes
As the ambivalence of wanting to eat the world
And wanting to hide from it
Weighed on my narrow shoulders.
And a boy thought I was a Satanist.
And he avoided me.
And I loved it.

Now I'm older --
But still just a kid.
And I wear real clothes
That make me look like I'm twelve.
But at least I'm happy.
And sick has a different meaning.

It's reaches past the physiological nausea that accompanies
And into the aches and pains of waking up every day
And through the cold, cold labyrinth in which I've been lost
For seven years
And the sickness is laughing my *** off
In a room full of beautiful people
That I love
That I would do (almost) anything for
And trying to decide whether or not tonight is the night
With absolute glee I ponder
Is tonight the night
When I can cut the crap
And finally get a good ******* night's sleep
And not feel the obligation
And not deal with the fact my ******* body
Is crapping the **** out on me
At nineteen.
And that whatever the **** this is
Is only enough to make me miserable
And not enough to **** me
Because most days, the curiosity keeps me going
And going
And ******* going
And then I'm in pain.
And I laugh,
Because I take myself way too seriously.
And life is a **** beautiful gift after all
right?
And I've got the whole world at my feet.
Who cares about a little pain?

I need to be awake in seven hours
And tonight I don't feel destructive.
I want to apologize to my mother for being so cold
Even when I try not to be.
And I want to buy her a nice house and all the clothes she wants
So she can feel comfortable going to work.
So she sees that she's beautiful.
Even if it's superficial.
And I can't fix anything
And I can't turn my brain off
And this isn't even art anymore.
This is..
It's...

Because who the **** doesn't love being sick.

In the mystery of its soul
Light holds a soulful secret.

When darkness casts its conceit over the horizon
in monochrome shades of melancholy,
it resurrects as a Firebird
in golden silhouettes of flame,
illuminating the warped convictions of a
perverted darkness.

Light once knocked
at the stony tomb of your conscience
calling out your name.
But you feigned, refused to leave
the comforts of a pretended ignorance!

You didn’t realise you’re my thoughts
incarnated in charming colours of a conundrum!

How long will I call out your name
before you allow the light of my resurrection
to shred the shroud of a deathly pretence?

Awakened by your gentle touch,
Your fingers playing over my body.
We have played this symphony before
Each note plucked from your memory.

The high notes are brought by the caress of my *******
You carefully bring the melody;
Flutes play as my ******* are kissed.
It’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

Sleep still feigned I enjoy your symphony as your
Hands conduct the musical torture.
Trying so hard to stay still as I can
When you head south of the border.

I sigh as you follow with hot searing kisses
Trying so hard to awaken me.
I peak at you and a giggle escapes.
Well, my little hoax is all but over.

Down to the ******* you go,
Determined to have your way.
You dip your fingers into the pool of desire
And I float willingly away.

You play my body like an instrument of desire
A maestro of passion you are.
The years you spent learning to play me well spent
I sing the hallelujah song like a choir.

A diva I am and always will be,
You give me a standing ovation.
My maestro gives a contented sigh,
And rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Left her crying in the driveway
after forcing her way through the window,
feigned a car crash, a sudden death,
so I could sleep alone and warm
without discussion across the pillow.

Drank whiskey and coke,
distant and remote-
noted her painted nails,
her short skirt, her knotted shirt,
shaved legs
in anticipation
for something I could not give her.

Made an excuse to sing the blues
until the pills took their hold
and muffled my strings
in a tranquilised series
of half-toned grins
and yawns that sing
the death of another evening.

Would rather take to art
than any flesh, bone, or heart
that bleeds upon my feeling,
would rather cling to a verse,
a muddied crime, suit, or hearse,
that leaves me high and dry
and staring up at the ceiling.

Left her nursing her wounds
whilst I search for an excuse
why I cannot love without leaving.
Left her alone in her bed
a feast of wine and bread
that has no taste,

that has no rhyme or reason,
for why I keep ploughing the field,
for why I keep moving through the seasons.

There is no meaning to my motion,
no depth to my frantic gathering of breath,
no distilled calm, nor consequence to each brief,
suffering emotion.

I am just a ladder to climb.
I am no stairway to heaven.

Although it breathes like air to common eyes
It flows in secrets as though in doubt
That fills the fish with suspicion and lies
The human wonders what its all about.

Feigned to keep its force till end
Trees that lived died well before
The clock struck twelve a new day was born
Its thirst for life was all the more.

Then in sudden haste a voice sings
To rush nature to infernal swing
What should be the fury of the wild
The human hand with worship brings.

And all the words cannot bring back
The lost river for once reserved
In sight of some love lost eyes
Its beauty in thought may be preserved.

Festered with Love.
Feigned by an Illusion of Trust and Deceit,

Never had a chance to clarify the Endless Desolation.
On the Twilight before a dark night,
I lost my light to a starking sight.

The love that Festered with the light is long lost in the oceans of the night, The sight of the shimmering light, dwindled in the mighty ruth of the dark.

I have the willpower of a torrential flood
I have a tongue like a bolt of lightning
The drive of an ardent wildfire
With the serenity and Zen of a lake’s mirroring surface,
When the sun is just shy enough to hide away from the world five minutes before dawn.
I have traversed the Atlas and soul-searched in temples and nightclubs alike
As I navigated skyscrapers and mountains of mass media with a wrought-iron compass
I meditated and prostrated and repeated my Ex Corde mantra,
“Om mani padme hum, our Father in heaven,
I pledge allegiance to the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth will set us free.”
These old words resound in the Information Age with feigned harmlessness,
Amplified with the subwoofers of today’s youth, screaming, “The only true victory is peace”,
Screaming, “Rise up, daughters and sons of Forever”,
Screaming, “Next stop, the Greater Good!”

We cannot escape. Black smoke fills the hotel. Twenty three are dead.
Two days pass. The smoke has coalesced into a flesh-like sludge. One of the bellboys trips on floor 17 and is coated. He screams and screams and screams. We barricade the entrance to the floor.

Ten days pass, uneventfully.

I feel safe now. The sludge has moved away from my room. The lawman tells me the end will come soon. He gives me a hotel mint.

I sometimes hear the whispers of that poor bellboy, vibrating through the wooden belly of this geometric construct. He tells me he is fine, and he is happy.

A maid throws herself out of a window. I cannot fathom why. We are so near.

The bellboy tells me how his life was once filled with meaning. Motivation that drove him, ideals that enticed him, and responsibility that crushed him. He is nothing now. He is free.

We open the door to floor 17. I see

it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is lies there torn like tar stretched across ****** gills there is starlight in the gape of his throat pitch in his dead dull eyes father passes me a cup and I drink his blood father passes me bread and I feast on his flesh father

Philadelphia is a sweltering 70 degrees today! Whew! I think I’ll go to that cute coffee shop across the street, and try one of those new pumpkin lattes.

The new bus system *****! How is anyone suppose to get anywhere on time? Grr!

These muffins are so adorable I just want to throw up!!!

The park was especially lovely this evening. The flowers were in bloom, and this one little girl just kept sniffing them and sneezing and sneezing until she couldn’t breathe and was driven away in an ambulance.

Red blue red blue, they taped off the block today. Pipes burst beneath the road, a bus overturned and the streets flooded with bodies.

little faces pressed against the pavement little faces pressed flat little faces pressed like flowers flat flat flat flat a poem

don’t make me remember please stop

There’s a dead deer’s head in the foyer above reception. The rest must have rotted. They cut away the animal and left only the carcass, the severed space. Our bodies contain us, they are a boundary, and when we tear at the surface we open up and flood the world with emptiness, or perhaps the world floods us. I think that deer burst and they hung its face on the wall to remind us that this hotel is filled with emptiness, and that death will bring only more emptiness. Maybe we’re meant to connect like shaking hands and football and insider trading fill ourselves with foreign emptiness distract retreat like shaking hands always nervous smiling and empty.

I am not here I have never been here go away I was someone but not anymore

These muffins are disgusting they fill the insides with cream and jam and fruit and it is sick and false no one can escape this pointless stupid life go fill yourself with things filled with other things doesn’t change you are a void pulling in everything light itself devourer spinster

Today was one of the best days of my life.

Today was one of the best days of my life.

Today was one of the best days of my life.

Today was

The lawman tells me I have slept for six months. I ask him about that day on floor 17. He tells me there is no floor 17.

We have run out of hotel mints.

There is a gap. There is a gap in my perception. There is a blackness constricting the edges of my vision.

There never was a bellboy. There never was any smoke. The maid is alive. She is alive. I can touch her. She is alive.

We sit in the cafeteria. She pours me bitter black tea, her arm arching in such a manner that would not be possible were she in that twisted ****** state on the day of her suicide. We share this moment every day for a week.

I have begun noticing small grains at the bottom of my cup.

Today I feigned sickness and took the tea to my room. It burns my skin but I do not react. It is as I expected. I am drifting out of my flesh and I cannot stop.

THIS IS NOT THE SAME HOTEL. THIS IS NOT MY BODY. I AM SURROUNDED BY LIARS.

I am going to find the bellboy.

The elevator button is covered by layers of coarse black tape. I tear it away and find plaster beneath. I drive my keys in. The plaster crumbles between my fingers, revealing the bent end of a naked wire. I scream and scream and scream. I am utterly alone, suspended above the earth on a carcass of withered cellulose. The tips of my flesh quiver and the irregular geometric forms of my keys fall to the ground. They are hugged by the synthetic strands of millennia dead creatures. It is carpet, a small voice whispers beneath my skull. What does that even mean? I fall to my knees. I hear gurgling static above. Someone has turned a faucet, fully expecting water to flow out of it, as if it is perfectly ******* normal for water to flow two hundred metres into the air. There is a rasping sound and I realise it is my own throat opening for air.

I don’t want to exist in this reality, anymore.

Two weeks pass. I have collected enough dregs. I will soak them in mouth wash tonight.

The smoke fills my lungs. I hold it until my chest caves, my vision blurs. Grey streams rise from my lips, sinking into the ceiling. A siren screams in the hallway. I hear the lawman at my door. His head smashes against it, screaming, screaming, until it shatters into shell and yolk. I cannot wait to meet my child.

it is a womb alive twisting free empty stupid vessels floating blood in our casings waiting on the carcass spitting my lungs bring me my child bright death bright life

We shift bones to shift words to shift bones. Nobody died but there are twenty six corpses; his flesh fell through his frame, her bones shattered like shrapnel like atomic starlight, his head burst into prismatic decay. I watch their flesh pulled into the womb below. The hallways are umbilical cords pulsing nutrient streams gaping softly breathing burning. I know now. This intersection between life and death. It has always been. It takes in the lacuna. The space between spaces. Human shaped vessels with ill-fitted souls. You cannot tell them apart, you know. Strip the skin away they are revealed formless. They sink into bodies but never form identities. It is this place between places, where transience precipitates like breath on glass, dewdrops spun. I know I know I know the lawman rolls his head side to side blood and brains across the floor shut up.

There, in the hollow of my skull, I am dead, a fleeting absence. I hug the womb beneath me. I drag the rotting parts of myself down. I leave my head beside the lawman. I am going to be with my child. I am going to kiss my bright death into its soul, an indelible beacon to blemish the emptiness of existence.

Spring winds that blow
As over leagues of myrtle-blooms and may;
Bevies of spring clouds trooping slow,
Like matrons heavy bosomed and aglow
With the mild and placid pride of increase!  Nay,
What makes this insolent and comely stream
Of appetence, this freshet of desire
(Milk from the wild ******* of the wilful Day!),
Down Piccadilly dance and murmur and gleam
In genial wave on wave and gyre on gyre?
Why does that nymph unparalleled splash and churn
The wealth of her enchanted urn
Till, over-billowing all between
Her cheerful margents, grey and living green,
It floats and wanders, glittering and fleeing,
An estuary of the joy of being?
Why should the lovely leafage of the Park
Touch to an ecstasy the act of seeing?
- Sure, sure my paramour, my Bride of Brides,
Lingering and flushed, mysteriously abides
In some dim, eye-proof angle of odorous dark,
Some smiling nook of green-and-golden shade,
In the divine conviction robed and crowned
The globe fulfils his immemorial round
But as the marrying-place of all things made!

There is no man, this deifying day,
But feels the primal blessing in his blood.
There is no woman but disdains--
The sacred impulse of the May
Brightening like *** made sunshine through her veins--
To vail the ensigns of her womanhood.
None but, rejoicing, flaunts them as she goes,
Bounteous in looks of her delicious best,
On her inviolable quest:
These with their hopes, with their sweet secrets those,
But all desirable and frankly fair,
As each were keeping some most prosperous tryst,
And in the knowledge went imparadised!
For look! a magical influence everywhere,
Look how the liberal and transfiguring air
Washes this inn of memorable meetings,
This centre of ravishments and gracious greetings,
Till, through its jocund loveliness of length
A tidal-race of lust from shore to shore,
A brimming reach of beauty met with strength,
It shines and sounds like some miraculous dream,
Some vision multitudinous and agleam,
Of happiness as it shall be evermore!

Praise God for giving
Through this His messenger among the days
His word the life He gave is thrice-worth living!
For Pan, the bountiful, imperious Pan--
Not dead, not dead, as impotent dreamers feigned,
But the gay genius of a million Mays
Renewing his beneficent endeavour!--
Still reigns and triumphs, as he hath triumphed and reigned
Since in the dim blue dawn of time
The universal ebb-and-flow began,
To sound his ancient music, and prevails,
By the persuasion of his mighty rhyme,
Here in this radiant and immortal street
Lavishly and omnipotently as ever
In the open hills, the undissembling dales,
The laughing-places of the juvenile earth.
For lo! the wills of man and woman meet,
Meet and are moved, each unto each endeared,
As once in Eden's prodigal bowers befell,
To share his shameless, elemental mirth
In one great act of faith:  while deep and strong,
Incomparably nerved and cheered,
The enormous heart of London joys to beat
To the measures of his rough, majestic song;
The lewd, perennial, overmastering spell
That keeps the rolling universe ensphered,
And life, and all for which life lives to long,
Wanton and wondrous and for ever well.

The cab moved quietly
Beneath the street lamps
Pleather seats: torn, faded
There we sat, silent- content.
The driver, a portly man, hacked
Struggling, his breathing deepened
Panting, gasping to regain regularity
Quickly, his breath filled the
Confined, litter-shrouded,
Van with the stench of
Cheap cigar smoke

We arrived at her home
The driver approached slowly
Carefully avoiding the icy snow
Banked earlier by the cities plows
Sliding the van door open I step out
Still holding her hand, the night air
Enters my lungs, sobering me
Just for that brief instant

Hastily, she leans in
Without hesitation, I meet her
Ambitious advance, reciprocating
The kiss is brief; I’m no longer cold
Her lips are warm and soft against mine
Retreating, she smiles. I gently brush her hair
Behind her ear unveiling a dark brown eye
My glazed, drunk, stare meet hers
Her grin, now beginning to fade
She looks down in confusion

I sense the cab driver behind me
Growing impatient he lights a cigar
Before turning away she whispers night
Her hand lets go of mine; our fingers part
Complacent, tomorrow she will return to him
Revisiting that feigned, simulated, infatuation
The kind they falsely advertised as ‘love’
Standing alone, I’m cold once more
Keying in, she doesn’t look back

Reaching into my pocket
Scrounging for what cash is left
To the cab, I surrender my last five dollars
This pays just enough to get me where I stand
Dissatisfied with his tip, the driver departs cursing
Unsure what to make of the evening, I begin my walk
Now, not so sobering, the night air dries my throat
The chilled breeze that once blushed her cheeks
Now stings my nose, ears, and finger tips
Alone, I continue west- home
Cold, I have miles ahead
Spirit torn in twain
I walk them.

Every day, the cracks in the sidewalk
draw my gaze, because, not because
I'm afraid of stepping on them
but because I'm afraid of tripping
The cracks themselves, in terms
of wishes don't bother me
I won't ever break my Mummas back
It's how they seem to raise above
the norm of a flat surface to navigate
Trying to make this idiotic body
fall, just sprawl lifelessly, is the crack
But I am born of more studiousness
I don't want to look up from pavement
into laughing faces, amidst concern
gasping with feigned indifference
I want to fill each crack with perfection
from my heel, from my fingertips, clawing
away the empty earth that filters between
and settles, hidden beneath crust and dirt
I want to open the crack to study it's girth
to reveal what it hides, unseen
If there are worlds yet undiscovered
they are hiding in the cracks of the
Sidewalk of Life
Stumbled upon by one who wants to dig
and get their hands *****, on their knees
because they fell, laughing on the way down

Coffee stains on these lips you stained
Your breath I can still feel, whispering 
"I'll never leave"
But promises are feigned to be broken 
Deigned with trust, words that matter unspoken
Fate played its twist, karma hit me like I deserved this
Past loves I slaughtered, they'll be laughing now
"I hope he'll die a loner"

These lips are stained
With more than just coffee
They are stained and tainted
With the ghost of your memory.
I still recall, last fall,
When you took the words 
I love you and 
Breathed life into them
As you whispered them gently
In my ear
And stamped your name
Underneath my rib cage
I remember how sincere
You sounded,
How so willingly 
I plucked them from the air
And surrounded
Myself, in their warmth.
I'll never forget, 
The yield of regret,
That comes with not 
Building up walls
And putting up a safety net
For all of those times you
Let me slip
Between your fingers
And the pain it still lingers.
Your promises were made
Empty and broken
The lies and deception
Apparent yet unspoken.

Life's expectancy to decree what I believed 
That our love was bound by fate
If only I didn't get my coffee that day
We would never have met
And I won't be dealing with this heartache
I hear but I can't see
Blinded by your Iloveyou's 
Those 7 letters, three words will be the death of me
Clinging on to hope, hoping you'll be my last
But like the others you left, 
For the first time, leaving me broken
Helpless and leaving me wanting more
Was it even real for you at all?

I thought that maybe
I had finally found the one
But past lovers
They too, had upped and gone
And I'm left thinking
And wondering
*Is there something wrong,
With me?

Let's just,
pretend that we know there is a difference
     between our diamond truths and our slip of the tongue white lies
Our feigned porcelain skin we stitch to perfect ourselves
     begins to grow brittle, contorted by a breath of acid (truth or lie.)
Lies,
they've decide they love you "till death do you part"
     they can lurk within every awkward silence, so they can whittle their deceit
They wait behind doors, keep themselves hidden between cracks
     striking with their nails, they crawl towards light from under streets
Truths,
they will forever burn and scald our perfect and phony milk skins
     they tease our tongues, melt and scorch our falsely laden lips
Trickling onto chins like thickly fraught syrup made of gore
     they try to keep us from sharing, never will they let secrets slip (small or large)
Lies,
with an amiable but devilish grin they nip, splintering pounds of flesh
     they have eyes that visualize the world as a rotten corpse that needs a bite
They catch their nails upon our spines, digging in, pressuring pain until
     they can sneak into our pores, to feed their mirrored deceit into our kind
Truths,
always have their ways of keeping us "honest" to the gut wrenching core
      They fold our eyes inside one another, blinding us from reality and what really is
Crisp, kind ,and clean, they keep us frozen to how others may 'truly' feel
     they are making us diamonds and ice, frosting over the human beating heart (the both are painful)
Itty bitty,
little white lies, will always be living, alive with the holes of truth
     these truths, will still leave a faint trace of acid upon our tongues  
So, shall we continue on our journey, and pretend there's still a difference
     between our truth's and lies?

what lips my lips have kissed,
and where,
and why;
i know not why.

what arms have held me,
and how tightly,
and how rightly;
i know not why.

he was my friend
of all friends, but
it was futile to be
just friends.
so, i
let him have me,
all of me.
nothing shatters you
like a first love.

he gets all of you,
drags away these
shards of you
that stick in his memory,
of that desperate girl who
only wanted to be loved by him.
but could not trust him,
and rightly so.

for when he has grown sick
of you,
and that girl at the party
was simply easier to be with - -
more vanilla,
less rocky road,
and he never really
loved you at
all --
something is killed
inside of you.

[but i know you did love me and i
know you still think about me,
like i still write about you.]

he was my friend but
we had never been together
alone. i knew that
he wanted all of me.
and i wanted all of him.
yet, i held him,
his body trembling
in my arms,
and he was still too in love
with that other girl
to take advantage
of me.
[he loved this girl that
made him move to the states,
that lived with him and loved him,
and then loved another
and then slept, soundly, next to him
in the darkness.]

i had just met him
and just kissed him
and just fell too fast for this
fast-moving man.
we strolled along the
charles, and he told me i was
beautiful and gave me a flower
like they do in those
idiotic romantic comedies
that we all can’t help but love.
and when he kissed me on
the bridge - -
grabbed my wrist and
****** me into his
lips - -
the city lights
illuminated our
fervent faces,
and then i let him have
most of me,
and at that hollywood moment
i forgot that
men will do these things.
and leave you naked in the night.
and say they’ll call.
[they never do.]

he was just a
flat out
mistake.
there was nothing
poetic
about us.
i do always strive,
in living,
for pure poetry.

three days later,
he was another mistake.
he kissed me and i forced
the passion because i just
wanted to be close to someone
and he was there, and it was easy,
and i never should have asked
him to be with me
that night. i know that
now.

and so, the girl i had been
so long ago
no longer exists.
and thus, i feign my
demeanor,
my kindness to
strangers.
it's simply affectation.
because, from what i’ve
ascertained
in my exceedingly dramatic life,
most people are ****.
no, seriously.
most people
are ****.

and so, why bother with recounting
what loves have come and gone,
for my innocence   is   now gone.
summer sang in me for a short while,
and these flames extinguished
its voice.

he was exactly like my first love.
an *******.
hilarious, gorgeous,
but an ******* as it was.
and still, i let him have
most of me,
and feigned my amicable demeanor,
and spent the day with him.
and when he left i cried
because i knew what this
had meant nothing to
either of us, and it was
finally
getting to me.

for the next few months
i convinced myself that i could be
alone, that being with someone,
really being with them
would simply
dim the unrestrained sparks inside of me.
thus i realize i stand frozen in the snow - -
in winter stands the lonely tree, which is me.
and i apprehend that the ***** i give
vanish one by one.
and i apprehend that my heart
boughs more silent than ever before.

that is,
until he asks me to grab
a drink or two,
and stay the night at my
place, and says
he's looking for something
casual, at first.
and ***.
and if we were compatible,
he is o p e n
for a relationship.
and i let him have
most of me that
night. and we had
a stressless
non-relationship
for a while.
that is,
until i wanted him
to stay longer than an hour
[which even the *******
deign to do]
and at the drop
of a hat, in his eyes,
i’mattached.

well maybe i am.
but he will
never know that.
because he doesn’t want

me.
nor does he care about
the person, the woman, who inhabits
the body he has been exploiting.
he is the very opposite of poetry.
he   is    prose.
he  is   a    box
who  does not
want   to    get
attached      to
me     because
he    is  scared
as    all     hell
that      maybe
i    could    be
the     one   to
turn his prose into
a free verse, to open up his
life to love, but instead
he closeshimselfup
to me, to the notion,
hibernating in his
lovely shell.

the air  is  awash of  ghosts
tonight who  tap  and sigh,
who      long       to       take
back     the      body     they
so   readily   seized   when
it was open for them.  they
await my reply.  but in my
heart  remains a quiet pain
for   all  of  these  lads who
will         remain           now
unremembered   and  who  
will  no longer  turn  to me
at  midnight   with   a    cry,
convinced  my disguise  is
who i am.

[what they know won’t
hurt them.
but it absolutely will
hurt me.]

She stumbled onto a stack of mossy grey rocks and looked into a perfectly eye-shaped crevice in the rock formation which gave view to an absurdly apt vision of the swathing valley below, furnished with incredible glimmering foliage under a masked crimson sky that echoed thoroughly her desire to live.

She had grown obsessed with her own teeth, waking every other morning to an incessant thumping pain that rang from molar to medulla. The first thought that entered her weary mind on interim morning bleariness was one of suicide and regret. She'd stumble lackadaisically from her wrinkled bedsheets onto the hardwood splintering floor of her bedsit solipsism through a minute passage and into the molding cracked-tile bathroom, pulling the light cord and inspecting at great length the chasms appearing on four of her bottom teeth, mentally noting the size and shape until the next sultry morning pawed her crimson pillow case ravaged face awake with another dull toothache.

It was a January morning, the date was irrelevant, she woke to the sound of fighting in the neighbours' house, slamming doors and vase smashing antics on a dreary dewy morn when the sun was hiding and cars in the back alleys still bellowed smoke. Her routine went uninterrupted, moments of silence in the next rooms whilst she examined the damage of another night's superfluous drug use and alcoholic torment, she eyed the razor on shower shelf and reasoned to end her life, finally.  That ingrained image of childhood abuse lay dormant until these types of mornings and she reached toward the glimmering raz-
Knock Knock
He was at the door and she was flustered, pulling wrinkled jeans around her hourglass waist and rushing to greet the stranger. He told her to-

She was perhaps seven years old, maybe younger, and the hazy day drew closed through rain battered and silty windows in the tenement building by the murky river, the one that slunk through midnight streets like so many lonely and wrinkled old men, searching for drugs or ****** or love or money. The beige armchair with worn out padding around the armrests was creaking under the weight of her mother, the tilting wilted wine glass that stood delicately between yellowing fingertips was almost empty now and she watched as it grew ever more horizontal before leaping up to save the carpet from another stain and her behind from another beating. Her mother awoke with start and threw accusations at her, thieving little swine. The beating was instantaneous and even in aged memories was enough to resuscitate her consciousness, in enough time to see him come and go.

It was a January morning, the date was irrelevant, and she made a cup of tea as she looked out at the schoolyard distant but ahead. Waves of screaming and rambunctious playfulness swelled and entered her kitchen window (the one with a larger than acceptable crack running the length of the pane) as she washed half a sink of dishes before drifting aimlessly to the black but yellowing nicotine stained stereo, leaving water trails on the buttons as she pressed play on the CD deck and Old Blue Eyes began to sing.

She was five years old and saw her father dripping with sweat on some halcyon summer day. He lay roads by the night's chill and slept on long afternoons. By the radiant late morning rays he would fix shelves and rewire the apartment, drinking gasoline smelling liquids that bloated his inerudite head and he would take regular breaks in the bathroom, door ajar as he fixed, belt tight, breathing heavy, eye-contact with her and she cried every time. He played Sinatra and sang along, her mother would wake and he beat her again. Over and over again. Sinatra still sang, he never stopped, he never cared. Beating. Hearts were beating. She was five years old and she feigned unconscious by her mother's side until his final fix and to bed he stumbled.

The date was irrelevant, this January morning when she gave up caring and the sink of dishes went unfinished and the bedside lamp flickered and buzzed.

Sitting there on the lap
He claps when the audiences clap
On him painted an aura of happiness
A smile is permanently fixed on his face.
Eyes forever stretched without a frown
He plays to the gallery a perfect clown
You may envy his easygoing ways
Gathering laughter on all that he says,
His widely open unblinking eyes
That show faked emotions feigned surprise.
You may like to have his rapturous nights
Drawing applauses hogging limelight
But you would have pity for him once you know
He’s a talking doll in the ventriloquist’s show.

an earlier draft of this barely satisfactory missive ex post facto, i chomped asper with upper dentures upon evincing a couple of typographical errors, in up rye or draft, and did not wanna dodge being a spell bound stickler for typing words correctly.

though no obligation to trot out this fixation sans zero misspelling tolerance, a compulsion with any concomitant obsession found me reposting before a repast of dessert - so there Ghost of Marie Antoinette, wherever you might be hiding - i can have my cake and eat it too!

Minus trimmings and over stuffed ego freezers,
but altruism, civility, Dharma *** ethnocentrism,
gratuitous homogeneous internationalism,
karma mosaic opportunism, quitessential righteousness,
unpretentious vivacious wide world yipping,

brouhaha dutifully emphasizing friendliness,
antithetically booing critical, popularly pugnacious
spoiled trump petting uber western yikyak,
zealous antipathy craving everything.
---------------------------------------------------------
a hypothetical, mental, rhetorical thought question
   occurred to me just moments ago
sans, milk of human kindness bubbles frothily
   upon major American holiday,

   whereat figurative bro
   thar and sisters exhibit philanthropic ambitions
   especially, towards indigent that crow
for bare necessities

   other than
   when Thanksgiving rolls around, and dough
nuts to dollars even most frugal misanthropes
   play feigned charitable card egoistically glow
with ambient benevolence, civility,
   diligent energy, and friendly hello

and sundry pleasant greetings
   hook hood be some
   soon tubby rich entrepreneurial stranger
   ready to make shares available vis a vis  IPO

   to dirt poor anonymous guarillas G.I. Jane or G.I. Joe
   who cross paths with each other,
   even those one doth not know
when ordinary biases, callousness,

   denigration...doth full low
out the mouths of hoity toity MainLiners
   towards working class people - mow
awe less trying to remain financially afloat,
   and with plea for handout
   would receive an emphatic NO!

Thee exception to unspoken aristocratic rule
   arising on feted buzz
   feed ding occasions where oboe
players invoke cobra to deliver riches galore to the 'po

whom sincerely show gratitutde,
   yet wonder why status quo
reserves select calendrical dates for handouts
   proffered after standing in a row
of similarly bereft individuals aware at stark

   outpouring overt nurture minded, humanity
   (with perchance a guest appearance by Sean Hannity),
this public denouement,
   an atypical venue for his television show

where generosity spills forth
   from said personality and others alike
blithely, demonstrably, fortuitously, happily,
   jubilantly, lovingly, modestly, poignantly,
   where an announcer speaks thru a mike

to open their doors and hearts asper,
   those down and out
   pushing belongings along the pea king pike
of broken tureens with
   only a mangy dog as companionship,

and though I admit tubby hyperbolical,
   hypocritical, hypothetical hypoteneuse of hippopotamus
   no charity less valuable then self and spouse,
   whom both experience spike
in anxiety since net income purportedly
   below the poverty level, though we reside

   within subsidized housing (outliers
   here at 2 Highland Manor Drive),
   yet random acts of an effortless smile,
   cordial greeting to passersby, or
   waving fellow drivers right of way,
Page Number Three:

such minimally polite services today,
the most within my limited monetary hi say
means, which behavior aye strive ray
   dee to maintain zero cost politesse, which doth pay
highest dividends, which reciprocal acknowledge may
be the greatest reward,

   whether or not a response elicited tis quite o kay
the satisfaction arising breeching comfort zone
   viz exposure therapy lighting up gray
matter analogous to a cerebral Christmas tree
   and any regret avoided, asper congenial efforts    
   generate “hi” kickstarts my day.

Things fall apart.
my mother will be the first to go.
Stretched between school, a stubborn husband,
distance, and a daughter she believes is dying,
and the ever present thought
that she will never be good enough.
Taught as drum leather, she shudders,
Wracked and rent by memories of lost children
and protruding ribs.
I awoke to her crying in the next room this morning.
She greeted me with feigned happiness, but
red eyes stared truthfully back.
"I'm okay," she murmured.
"*******," I said softly.
She clung to me.
I felt the burden shift on her shoulders.
crushing her,
her over sized heart beat to pulp,
it's ****** remnants clinging to her dripping sleeve.
The people she tried to hold together,
slipping through her fingers
like sand-- as her brittle bones break.
Things fall apart.
And I wish I knew how
to put them together again.

Do you think that you'd need
some sort of apology
When you come to me
While I'm still dreaming?
Do you think this could make
an awkward autopsy
Because I'm too dizzy to be
Agreeing?

Caught on the hook
You played it
right by the book.  
You took your time
And little of mine
and now I'm the one
Left leaving.

And screaming
And trying,
But not really believing
In anything
but a bereaved blessing,
All forgotten and festering
Though unnoticed,
Still attesting
To it's wasteland existence.

Porous, dry and without pigment
Like the skin of an overgrown pigglet

Time for slaughter,
Courtesy of the indignant.
In death too *****
To be a meat worth eating,
Your glory days
Of **** wallowing wonder
were fleeting,

And you knew it from day one
But it wasn't till near seventeen
You began to come undone,
Got a little high strung
And grew a knife for a tongue
Plunged straight into the heart
With snide remarks and whispers
Of text messages
Left off the charts
And I'm left in the dark

To inside jokes
Of feigned friendship
I suppose I'm waiting
For what you forgot to mention.

Yes,
You've always had
good intentions
Just
... no direction
And little discretion
I'm sorry,
I'm sorry...
But I must change direction.

Cem 5.4.15

Generally, only more specific than that?
Please, if that is not too vague.
Whispering assumptions touch my face, and
cold fingers, like winter wind solidified into
ghosts and a smell that lingers in
innocent nostrils.
Enchanted by cancerous eyes that are
too much tombstone.
To fresh, the memory of decaying
melodies played by heartstrings in my innermost
love song,
I can not bare another death, another season laid to waste under
indifference, feigned or otherwise.
I could not handle another moment banished
into forgot exiles and requested reprieves from "reality."
But I grit my teeth to this
fabricated adversity,
this hypochondriac's molehill.
I will tell the devils to be silent,
to watch me grow wings,
not wings of angels or bats,
but wings of a lonely songbird who
relentlessly searches for harmony
in this dissonant world.

The living to themselves gossip attract,
but at death eulogies mitigate lies.
Love and care from he who breathes is withdrawn,
but his slumber does attract parties.

Fake mourners with feigned tears in burials act.
They rip off and use the grieving as pawns;
Their loss is their gain, their tears their laughter.
To fill their stomachs, they sob and flatter,
as they to misery dance, from dusk till dawn.

Whilst alive, at my deeds everyone frowns.
But at death, I am a departed 'saint'
whose sepulcher you spray with costly paint.

If you must celebrate me, do so now.
Do not in reverence to my casket bow.
Visit me now in my ramshackle house,
sharply rebuke me if you have a grouse.
Do as much you can to show you love me,
do not when I sleep go on bended knee.
Never belatedly show your respect
by attending my funeral in retrospect.

i hate it when you have a hangnail but it is mostly a piece
of skin that is really steadfast about not detaching

from your finger. it’s like the piece of skin has
separation anxiety and you can’t get it

to leave ever

all you want is for the piece of skin to move out.
today is your twentieth birthday and you are thinking

about your mortality a whole bunch and how you have provided
the piece of skin with a comfortable home and now

you want it to move on and make a big life

for itself so when you’re old and more carrot-like
you will have the piece of skin to take care of you

until you are ready to make the big trip to hamilton

known as dying alone and feeling okay about it
because hamilton is a nice place to die alone

hamilton is a port city in the canadian province of ontario

you dream of hamilton and you are already a little bit more
carrot-like on this day, your twentieth birthday. we want the

piece of skin to get its **** together so we can all be happy
for you one day when the amount of carrot-like

characteristics you grow into becomes immeasurable

and creamy. the piece of skin smiles and says
it does not like your conservative-minded nonsense

the piece of skin feels as though it has a right to
prosperity and a new season of hey arnold

and its own episode of mtv cribs.

you say the piece of skin is too liberal and you
get out a pair of scissors and cut of your finger

the finger with the piece of skin that was too clingy
is now resting peacefully on the hardwood floor
of your apartment in a pool of blood that you are

proud to say is something you made on your own.
the piece of skin quotes hemingway as it dies

the reference goes over your head and the reader’s head too