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i smell afternoon showers and feel my own skin reclaimed amid the storm.

i sip grotesque amounts of coffee in hopes of awakening my third eye.

i sway to sounds of joy and sounds of grief.

i spill my tangled thoughts like ink to take shapes called poetry.

i stash the love notes from the universe at the foot of my bed.

i keep washing my sheets because i want to forget he was ever there.

Bryce Jun 7
And when I met that girl in San Francisco
Off a dusty little pier
with rotting wood
and squawking seals
And screaming bayside wind

She caught me off-tropics
and danced with the grace
of a palm tree
lines between the quaked
off telegraph avenue
On an obscuring Sunday morning

and no
she didn't go
to church or any silly thing
like a temple or synagogue
She said those were no places
for god

God was the trees

We smoked cigarettes and got off to each other's
carcinogenic practices
oxidizing a little faster in conjunction with hopeful
Deriding the formalities
of small talk and trivialities

She liked her guitars with nickel-wound strings
I with nylon
But I couldn't play songs
that sounded any good with them
while she could
and did.

and girl did it ever sound good

She'd laugh at the contests on the radio
while we drove on a half-moon
to half-moon
full and whole of ourselves
We'd stopped in the lobby of a cheap motel
And waltzed to background
wacked out of our minds
Sniffing in deep huffs of subliminal
that mind-numbing

Who ever really listened to that?

And then she left
at the end of one fine winter day
in a cloudless sky I waved
watched her plane
skip off
towards the edge of a pale blue horizon
back south
to warmer climes
to wherever she truly stayed
The tugging on my heartstrings
chimed grotesque in
D minor.
i woke up all solidified and my eyes strong
fixated on Matthyon you are grotesque dream
alike rosé cheeks the sour cream kind
dusted with finger prints we parade
in cities sick in dust cities in
parchment we remain fragile
they get fingered

i had to ask for Matthyon's
name your spelt-out request you
came to me held a finger up for
every letter carefully, mysteriously
my new alphabet

Matthyon we fought each other for bread
in white rooms i dusted my cheeks with
yeast; saw you bore the mark
drawn on pages the male curiosity in dust
makes me cough
the pride i have slumbers

you waved and smiled with rosé fever
Matthyon alluding to how my dreams may express feelings and love
how the question was cut out of my flesh
i want this to be well done

Matthyon the clouds do not often agree on the psyche of the human being
untransparant down there
it slips through their fingers; blood stains appear in the sky
on those evenings only

and i'm finding part of it
in the pages of parchment bibles
make me dust off my puffed
embarrassed cheekbones
i look up
i split meat from bone
i want this to be well done
CrimsonEye Jul 30
I skip stones down your throat
into your belly and wait
for wishes granted
sour seeds planted
uprooting your morals
A dark fauna and flora
grotesque creatures
with hideous features
devouring landscapes
a diseased species
riding her bosom
of this infelicitous ape
Behold a new wonder!
Andrew Jun 2017
The greatest challenge my nature presents:
Love is harder to find
Hate is easier to find
Within myself and others

Is rejection different for me?
Everybody seems to know the pain of being unwanted
And idle threats and empty words are no stranger to rejection
But when you say you'll kill me if you ever see me again
The intention is clear
The existence of my attraction
Is grotesque beyond redemption
I thought I loved you...

When appreciation comes my way
It's superficiality amuses me
Because I know all that needs to happen
Is breaking down the wall to my mind
Or unlocking the door to my heart
And those appreciators will transform into detractors
Especially if the hideous leviathan approaches their vessel

Not finding women gross frustrates me
Because I have no reference point
For why people hate me so much
Which provides a reference point
For why I hate myself so much

It's difficult not to be dominated by this damnation
But there's no way people could understand
The daily subtle nuances
Why should they?
I don't constantly consider their lives either
Even if someone tried to comprehend my life
I'm not sure it's possible
I've been here the whole time and I'm still massively perplexed

I display my emotions
I shroud my emotions
I kill my emotions
Is there no escape?
Even with sanctuaries along the way
Life feels like
Everybody swims in the ocean
While I'm resigned to my lonely oasis
Is it possible to feel more alone than completely alone?
Like a cockroach consigned to living under the refrigerator
It gets so cold and dark down here
I forage for crumbs only at night
Mortally afraid of human contact
For I know that the boot follows the light
And why not?
In a world where our priorities obstruct our compassion
How much consideration should a real human show
to a lowly maggot like me
When they have to worry about paying the exterminator?
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