They sit
like the curve of a parabola
facing in.

Though they do not see each other.
He sees only himself
amidst the gore and rot
which once passed as
a picnic lunch.

Pickled spines
and curried thought processes
to name but a few
of the delectables today.

In he reaches,
grabbing handfuls of cured flesh,
and not leaving any time
for chewing.

The yellow fog is syrup
and makes him
heavy-headed.

The trees are old men,
curved backs
and withered from living.
They only want a kind ear
to hear their untold stories of
life, love and death.

Glutton wants food.
he guzzles and guzzles
and never listens to those
who want him to listen.

So he eats,
they cry,
they die
and they are all alone together.

The charred scent of paper
Atop the ******* skyscraper
Burns when a life is consumed
In its greenish greedy gown
On it has been proudly sown
A golden triangle. It assumed
Its complete authority over
The human race we chase
Its glinting giggling gorge
Postponing the petty morgue
Adorning chests in a tower
Of wealth, of woe, of war
Some are the jacks in tar
Others the *****, the ace

Hovering over cities
Teasing the daisies.
That thick soot
Flawless is flaying
Slowly peeling
Away layers of our root
We gambol and gamble
Pitiful onions in unions
Hawkers jaywalking
Hunters, judges, humble
Flock of those who can think
Trying to make sense of ions
We can with a gun link
Deaths and collapsing ink.

The bright dollar bill smolders
On Atlas’ sore shoulders
An intricate golden lattice
In lieu of a benighted bodice
It lifts Man on a rusty noose
King on a heap of newspapers
The charred choking scent
Demonic, deliquescent
Atop the ******* skyscrapers.
For a divine raiment
Would the goofy government
Trade your blood and lymph
For a smoke and mirrors nymph?
I choose not, please turn us loose?

We are the scorching enemy
All in all, possessed by the mark
We gloat over the metonymy
Of our radiant success
We are nothing under duress
But pigs left bound to bark
In the mud of our sockets
Buy this diamond necklace
So you can prove, in the race
Of rats, you are the best of piglets
“How much does it cost?’’, asks the poet
But his voice is regarded as a dandling duet
Society sleeps, makes loves, guzzles
A writer too, probably feebly fizzles…


All the while the creased cremated paper
Will keep on swallowing us over and over
This smoke once was the signal of civilization
It is now the ominous gleam of our globalization
Soothing soot it is not, it throttles us all
I foresee it but soon we shall
Fall back into this drowsy land
Demise of those who did not stand
Up behind the legacy of a quill
That is now silent in steel, still
Child, write down your future
Your literature will triumph for sure!
I’d read his lines instead of gulping down
The shiny pill of tomorrow brand new uptown!

January 26, 2016
Guillotière, Lyon
7:17 pm

Words** ,
What do you make of it?
So saccharine
So chasmic
Yet
So raw
So excruciating.
That It guzzles your heart bit by bit
Words,
What do you make of it
When you see them caper
As you see your feet in rain
Or when you witness it
Spanking scorn on people’s mind
And forcing them to spend those sleepless night,
Why so confusing are them words?
Why the scent of them arouses a writer’s heart
And becomes a cause or,
An apocalypse.
What do you make of it?
When it pushes you to the apex
Or drags you down to the burning fiasco
And you think it Is fix
Words, that makes schadenfreude
Alive,
Death scary
And life so obsessing?
The base of hopes,  
Wings of imagination
The eyes of love
A scent, of imagination
A magic
A poison
A tower so bright
Somewhere in horizon
Words,
So many yet so little
Things to say
But, words are them
What do you make of it?

A part of her is being eradicated every night
Every time she goes to doze,
The darkness within her guzzles that part
Like a cloud casing the light of moon in the night

She woke up every morning longing for that part
A part of her vivid and memorable yesterday
That leisurely taken away from her
And gradually placing it with emptiness

A day came when darkness utterly frenzied
The diminutive radiance left in her
That day the old her was wholly vanished
Her exquisite self can be found nowhere

She’s alive but living without existence
Felt nothing but pain, emptiness, and loneliness
Those emotions used to be unknown to her
Yet became all she known after that tragic day

Light left her childlike eyes
Brimming with nothing but emptiness
Yet people seen her with overflowing love
Cause she lingered mysterious till the last beat of her heart

It's a 6 hour
Youtube
Mozart mix

Yes I need my classical fix!

This life
Is some kind
Of tragedy I think

Once I ****** right
In the sink

Wandering here
Wandering there

And who really gives a care

Reading about Camu
And the absurd

I embrace the absurdity
Of it all

And from my Christian perspective
I believe man has had a great fall

From His purpose the Creator intended
So divine
This little light inside
(Im going to let it shine)

The problem is
I just don't care
About the American way

American dollars
Are ****** worthless
Okay!

And so I refuse to work
At some type of job

I think I will sit in my room
And sob

Life is a problem
Don't you know

Some softcore
Pornographic images
On the computer screen

Lustful indulgences
Fail to satisfy it seems

That woman I saw
In That old school 80's ****
What a *****!

I wear the same
Sweatshirt

About everyday
Just forget fashion,
Okay?

Shelter, food and water
Is what I need
I am not filled with greed

I don't need the Mercedes SUV
That guzzles gas
Yes indeed, I think I will pass

A nation of consumers
Programmed to consume

We ruin our environment
This will be our doom

If it was up to me
I will drain those
Huge swimming pools
Of every friggin'
Celebrity

Those massive homes
In the Hollywood hills
Waste a ton of H20

California is in
An extreme drought
Don't you know?

And all that space
Is a waste too

Humans ruin their
Natural environment
And this makes me
Quite blue :(

In my dream I usually
make it to the bar,
it's a particular bar
an odd bar
It's at the end of the shopping mall
In my dream
just past the book store,
the bar front looks like some
kind of Irish pub
no sign
no windows
oak doors
rock walls
fine finish,
you walk in
your shoes so perfect
with it's fine carpet
of red silk,
to the left of the bar
sit the politicians
the lawyers
the bureaucrats,
they all laugh and spill their drinks
sloppy in corruption
smirks and disgust
powdered ******* noses
glass eyes,
to the right of the bar
is where I sit
and also
sits the average freaks
the 9 to 5's
the norms
the ones that still hold on to a dream
but work to survive,
a dream
for a dream is the only
hope left worth holding onto,
I drink and laugh
at the ******
staring next to me,
I blow cigarette smoke
In their face
"what the **** are you looking at, aha?!"
"******* ******!"
they stare at me with their
blank dead eyes
and
their ******* sag
ripping out of their
musky ripped blouse
almost knocking over their drinks
in sorrow
and their *****,
their ***** hang
over the bar stool
coming down like a quake
an avalanche,
the China man to
blows smoke in their face
and we both laugh
in cheers
and on any given Sunday
at any given moment
the little blue man escapes from
my heart,
the little blue man then guzzles
down what's left of my drink
and the China mans drink
then leaps across the bar,
the little blue man glides across
the silk red carpet
like some kind super human mutant freak,
the little blue man jumps and slaps the politicians
slaps the lawyers
and gnaws on the skulls of the bureaucrats
like the cannibal they had made him,
eating the flesh
as if it were his first taste of meat,
the hunger of a man trapped on an island for twenty five years,
a conscience that has been trapped in a soul for twenty five more,
in my dream I usually make
It to the bar,
It's a particular bar
an odd bar
and tonight I didn't,
maybe they were closed
maybe they weren't,
"tell me something little blue man,
is there a heaven in hell?"
"only for the saints." -Shane Book

Captured there in orange
beneath the old street light
a cloud of breath exhaled
hangs heavy in the night.

Waiting on the 409
has never been this bleak
the fierce wind nips your ear lobe
and ice cold stings your cheek.

I watch you turn your collar up
your back against the bite
one hand on that coffee cup
the other out of sight.

Each morning
getting colder
the forecast is for snow
in fleece and wool you face the frost
and how I'll never know

I see you’re green
my blue faced friend
the green before the fall
you've never been about the perks
it's conscience above all.

The last thing on your mind just now
would be to get a Lynx
traffic is lame
road rage insane
And air pollution stinks.

Don't EVEN get you started
on the SUV
spews out nitrous oxide
and guzzles Texas tea.

Public parking,
another rare find
for what you get,
they rob you blind.

and what they miss
the vandal takes
leave you with migranes
the car alarm makes.

better for all
we all take the train
or one car per family
'stead of one car per brain.

Watching you stand there
with ice crystals forming
I despise all your stubborness
you NEED global warming!

I know you're no girly
my Ever-Ready mate
but my Duracel is waiting
and the 409 is late

I get out of my car
and approach you from the rear
my work cut out, without a doubt
the ice lymric is near

poetic license pending
I call for a herione's ending
like a frozen filet, without word or delay
I can lift you without even bending.

Once inside and thawing
you start in about the gas
I turn down the heat,
but turn up the seat
that's warming up your ****.

I'm all for the planet, I tell ya
and doing whatever is best
but for mornings like these
with your jewels in deep freeze
come with and we'll heat up the Quest!

The pelican’s wings are so wide on the horizon,
He carries the sun on his back as if it were wind.

His big flat feet arch and land,
propped strong and confident on cool metal.

I see him around our little island,
A confident lone traveller.
Never have I seen someone so sure of themselves and their place.

He guzzles his fish, he splashes sapphire water down his feathers,
And every day he lands assuredly on his perch.

Maybe one day I will have my routine,
Land on my perch and enjoy my life.

Until then I’ll watch him,
A part of me burning for such simplicity,
The whole of me happy just to see him again.

Why is all the world light, and I am small underneath?
Just a black bottom under this apple tree?
Why am I in the limelight, the foreground?
The light pours no citrus drink, but a cyanide fruit pit pound!

The over-saturated curtains tail my frail feet.
Much busier than a yellow-black bee, bumping till its stinger gets caught in a fabric hemming
and it dies with no one noticing.
The girl who reads, the tree that sifts its rotten leaves;
they care less, less for a discoloration that unfortunately eats at me.

Even when the elders waltz the foxtrot dance so that even my dwarf legs can follow suit,
I will never be quite slow, or fast enough? for all of you.
I disintegrate daily into almost nothing.
I stare, but no one stares at me.

Oh, haven’t I written a piece about shadows and light?
What’s with me! I use the same machine work!
Metaphors, imageries, diction, diction mutating to a deeper fiction. Unoriginal it is!
The masses cling onto clichès with their pointed teeth;
why can’t I, I lodge into that all-inclusion?
Why do I repeat my own themes? Have I never learned critical thinking?
I depend on repetition: same old, same old (did I mention the old ‘same’?)
thing to grasp any new concept!

Maladaptive daydreamer
who cannot conjure up any ink
of fresh difference! What purpose do I hold
in this awful, spineless world?
I am too awfully, awfully simple and dumb
to succeed in any other playing field!
Reality, what foreign entity is she?
Maybe a solemn quiet would do it for me.
(So maybe I’ll have an extended vacation,
and revisit my only talent some other day.)

What do the (sappy) honey-loving poets write on?
The (sawdust) stardust in eye pupils, and
igniting our hearts alight (till it guzzles that red stream and we become only such, and the carpet gets a free dye job).
Apparently, everything pure and worthy is atomized into
(carbolic soap I allow carbonation of its soda acid in my eyes) diamonds.

On the subject of atomic level substances,
let's rehearse the Compton effect:
Heat me up to a hundred keV
like cheap microwave dinner, so that I propel—
whoosh!— tink against metallic beings
till I decrease, and I am powerless.
Each new orbit of opportunity I seize,
I result with less, and the opportunity snatches from me.
Glistening shoe shiner whose price tag appeals to the average Joe,
then I swipe: scuffing up my rounded toe.

She tattooed those other girls’ arrow on herself because:
“I’m pulled back to soar farther,”
yet this stretching has lasted for… months?
Compare this not to a crossbow, but to that of a
medieval rack, that gruesome torture device!
My tissue is tearing asunder, but this is polar from breaking bread!
I ache, I ache, I ache! Isn’t yoga supposed to tranquilize you to a grounded state, not death?

Why is the world so light when I am so heavy?
Why must I “lust for a life” that lusts not for me?

Night slinking in

blues switch from pale

to menacing navy

spiked silhouettes

in the distance

like children’s book monsters

a globe of white

here and over there

but not yet

not yet

for fuchsia streams

punctuate the sky

like a million raspberries

sailing away

before darkness

guzzles them all

before every light dissolves

just like any day

to another day

Captured there in orange
beneath the old street light
a cloud of breath exhaled
hangs heavy in the night.

Waiting on the 409
has never been this bleak
the fierce wind nips your ear lobe
and ice cold stings your cheek.

I watch you turn your collar up
your back against the bite
one hand on that coffee cup
the other out of sight.

Each morning
getting colder
the forecast is for snow
in fleece and wool you face the frost
and how I'll never know

I see you’re green
my blue faced friend
the green before the fall
you've never been about the perks
it's conscience above all.

The last thing on your mind just now
would be to get a Lynx
traffic is lame
road rage insane
And air pollution stinks.

Don't EVEN get you started
on the SUV
spews out nitrous oxide
and guzzles Texas tea.

Public parking,
another rare find
for what you get,
they rob you blind.

and what they miss
the vandal takes
leave you with migranes
the car alarm makes.

better for all
we all take the train
or one car per family
'stead of one car per brain.

Watching you stand there
with ice crystals forming
I despise all your stubborness
you NEED global warming!

I know you're no girly
my Ever-Ready mate
but my Duracel is waiting
and the 409 is late

I get out of my car
and approach you from the rear
my work cut out, without a doubt
the ice lymric is near

poetic license pending
I call for a herione's ending
like a frozen filet, without word or delay
I can lift you without even bending.

Once inside and thawing
you start in about the gas
I turn down the heat,
but turn up the seat
that's warming up your ****.

I'm all for the planet, I tell ya
and doing whatever is best
but for mornings like these
with your jewels in deep freeze
come with and we'll heat up the Quest!

Fish Child make a wish Child upon a falling pig. He's got short fluffy fur and comes from the starry south and like a wild Bolivian boar has a truffle sniffing snout.

He's got six golden trotters
and possesses a squiggly tail he
relishes red meat and guzzles down all American ale.

He answers to the name Burrito's and  grumple's in his sleep
and he often dreams of visiting the Earths deepest deep.
So, Fish Child make a wish Child upon a falling pig.

When I drive by your house
So white its striking
How can you paint over me like I'm a stain when your eyes used to give me the round glossy sympathy of a scared little bird
Do you still think about me when you vacuum your carpets?
Or when you drive you car that guzzles gas as fast as I can guzzle enough liquor to chase away what we used to talk about on Fridays
Now you can get away from me as fast as you can scroll your mouse away from my friend request
You told me you would do whatever you could
And it kills me to think that offer only lasted until I threw my cap
You were gone before I caught it
I dream about you so much
I'm forgetting the sound of your voice
And the shape of your nose
But no matter how hard I try I can't forget the way you ran your fingers through your silky hair
Bride of Frankenstein,
I see you changing eyes
Do you remember anything about me?
Or was it all my laboratory invention
Dressed in amniotic fluids, laced with sparks of electricity
Brought to life in my dreams that will never be reciprocated
I'll follow you to the land of ice and snow just to ignite myself to ashes that will freeze under your feet

Roots, buried deeper than anything, entwine and constrict until the sap of self-destruction begins to ooze from the seams. That sap spreads into the innermost reaches of the soul, coating everything with a shiny glaze that seems harmless at first... Yet over time, tendencies are created. Inclinations that become part of the trunk of this ever-growing tree of the self. Memories, people, moments... All of it becomes embedded in that sap over time, buried beneath gnarly bark and pain. Because that's all the sap is, really. Pain. Pain which manifests as the careful destruction of the self, even as the tree remains desperate to grow.


[The sap drips and laughs. Man, look at him seethe. We’ve mausoleumed him well. A belly full of poison and a head full of hell. Wait, wait…remind him of his failures and how he’ll never amount to ****. Just a fossil, long forgotten in the amber. Buried in a pit. Don’t let the waters reach his roots. Don’t let the sun kiss his leaves. Drip thick over his eyes and watch his hope disappear in the breeze.]

///

He hears that distant voice... Mocking. Taunting. Reminding him of all he fought to keep, and yet lost anyway. It's a familiar voice. Somehow comforting, despite its scathing words. Because after all, it's a justification for his vices. It gives him freedom, even as it chains. He remains kept from all light and water, and yet convinces himself it's precisely what he wants. He deserves the dark. He deserves to be parched. He deserves a death which refuses to come.


[Yes. Yes. Yes. Let’s put our hands around his throat. Bring him close. Make him play a game. A liver stress test. Edging death. Squeeze him tighter until he’s gasping for breath. His blossom is withering with all of our slithering. Oh look, now he’s crying. Drip, drip, drip…one more glass. Once a tree of life. Now riddled and rotted with endless strife.]

///

Everything spins and goes black once again, as he succumbs in full. No amount of pain, nor sickness, nor consequence can ever make him stop drinking from that chalice of self-hate. It refills again and again, and he guzzles it, only to find it tasting sweeter each time... Like the embrace of a toxic lover, he will return to it always, as his roots had planted themselves so long ago in tainted soil. They tangled themselves so tightly, and so impossibly deep... he could never hope to right them.


[Hurry, quick…grab the blade. He’s too faded to see we’ve fated him into a grave. His wrist is shiny and begging for a kiss. Two or three inches vertically, surely he won’t miss. His fingers wrap around the hilt as he lifts himself from the floor. His shoulders widen. There’s a fire in his core. The roots beneath him shift, as “time to end the pain” departs from his lips.

The razor, it moves swiftly. A shrilling scream echoes, as from the edge…sap drips. It gathers at his feet in a pool. He takes one more sip and laughs: “I may be wretched, yes. But they mistook me for a fool”.]

bullets in the cupboard
minimal

linoleum underfoot
physical presence rising from the sofa

tattered paper above the corner sink
mirror blindly displaying a rectangular powdery brick
sugary hue
dialect of finch and live insects
ocher umber imprint on country such as this

haystack light from the window
somber ray of hospitality

boots
denim
watertower
motorcycle

lip curled
arms a strong rust mineral
flecks of gold leaf
he equaled thunder under the proper conditions
he guzzles watermelon with fresh zeal
persuades five hundred dollars on the sly
smells new mexico road grease

every thread of his wardrobe aimed to the shotgun
asphalt

he admires a world rugged and unwavering
hard edged hazy picture
a porch that doesnt creak
landscape blistered by battles

a dog walks the pavement in search of a skull
focused on immortal career
royal and faithful

butterscotch rock formations
blush color scheme
buffalo sandstone
cattails carefully confined in the hillside pond
growing fierce green
hands and knees disappeared for three or four minutes
at twenty feet deep eyes widen
dim recognition
there was an accompanying sensation
familiar
the mud

churn dive and surface
a common phenomenon the man had endured

a reticent paw still walks the side of the road

dominion of stillness centered at spatial crossroads
wispiest clouds
loose stitchery
stops over a particular prairie
she had to rest on the low ridges
balanced on spire

He drinks in his bitterness
His communion wine
He guzzles it down
Washing over him
A river of hate.
Anew he rises.
Proud and afraid.
Unloved and despised.
Just the way he likes it.

This day is not your friend
This day is an enemy of delusions
Enemy of benevolence
This day steals red swords

The transformation has happened
Secretly apart from the living ones
In the stomach of the pregnant ******
Between the laps of Golem

The river was raging!
So the day would become silent
The river and the day were fighting
Something new evolved from it

A creature of lurid lights
Unknown to all callous people
Others know this creature
At dawn it guzzles words