A star of blood you fell
from the point of the hypodermic
singing of fabulous beasts &
spitting out the *** of vowels
Your poems explode in the mouth
like torrents of ***** on a night
     full of zebras & bootheels
Your ghost still cruses the river-
fronts of midnight assignations
in a world of dead sailors carrying
         armfuls of flowers in search of
                       your unmarked grave
Your body no sanctuary for bees,
Death was your lover in a rain of
      broken obelisks & rotting orchids
In the tangled rose of a single heartbeat
I offer you the shadow of a double
profile,
     two heads held together at the bridge
         of the nose by a nail of *****
                                           smoke
     in the long night's dreaming
     & memory of water poured between
                                              glasses
In my mailbox I find a letter from
     a dead man & know that for every
                shadow given
                one is taken away
Yet subtraction is only a special form of
addition and implies a world of hidden
intentions below a horizon of lips
thin as your fingernail sprouting
mysteries in the earth …
The ace of spades dealt from the bottom
      of the deck severs the hand which
      retrieves it & the eyes of Beauty
      sewn together peer over a black lace fan
      in the ****** sunlight of a Spanish
           morning without horses
             The Belt of Orion is loosened
before you as you remove the silver
fingerstalls from your mummy hands &
kneel to plunder the nightsky in a shower of
                  bitter diamonds.
(Somewhere under a blanket someone weeps
               for a lover.)
Peace to your soul
& to your empty shoes
in the dark closets of
kings with no feet!!!

we ate government cheese
that came in a dull brown box
we were too young
to understand what welfare
and food stamps meant,
our empty bellies never protested
at the salty orange blocks

in front of the bodega,
we saw a woman introduce a hammer
to a drunk tyrant’s skull
his blood pooling on the streets
was too red for new eyes

we watched hypodermic needles
bloom on stoops
cling to life on curbs
the graffiti on abandoned buildings
was our Louvre, our Salon de Paris
sweltering streets our baseball diamonds
prostitutes, black or brown or both
mothered us between shifts

we grew up in projects,
that sheltered drab lives
and senseless brutalities
gunfire, sharp and immutable
punctured lullabies

we were small boys
watching life unfold
the way one stares at an accident
detached and mildly curious
eyeing cooly the despair
and impossible hopelessness
of growing up poor
in Brooklyn

We pass the
walled incline
of Barbour Park

during the day
a foreboding
patch…an open
air market for
the slave merchants
hustling crack and
**** drippin ****
that's been stepped
on so many times
its a wonder the cut
can still chide a high
out of a wrangled soul

the park’s
modest elevation
is an advantageous
lookout for
runners dealing
dimes while
petty ante
gangstas
daydream
gun blazing glories
of their next big job

not long ago
the park was
refurbed with
an industrial
strength plastic
Jungle Jim,
soon after
the park was
condemned
as a no go
zone for kids,
the litter of
hypodermic
needles and
mounds of
lead spiked
soil, deemed
a public health
risk for youth...
quickly
repurposed
as a crib
for ballers…

back in the
day, the shady
pocket park
lifted Paterson’s
citizenry off
the heated
pavements of
a bustling
thoroughfare

a respite from
the pulsing
tensions of urbanity,
a secular sanctuary,
balancing the urgent
industry of commerce
with the propriety of
residential life

compacting a
brief escape
from the clanging
metronome with
a viewing stand
offering elevation...
a heightened
perspective on
life’s parade
marching
up and down
Broadway…

this urban
oasis planted
at the center
of Silk City’s
grandiloquent
boulevard,
occupies
the most
democratic
equidistant
transit point
between opulent
Eastside mansions
of livin large tycoons
at one end….
and the
industrial district of
The Great Falls,
rising at Broadway’s
western terminus,
assiduously
manufacturing
dollars for the darlings
of fortune and
subsistence for
workers yearning to taste
the crumbs of
prosperity that may fall
from the tables of
opportunity

the park once a
pleasant face of
the landlocked
4th Ward filled
with homage to
a nation's greatest
citizens, Hamilton,
Rosa Parks,
Lafayette,
Madison, Fulton,
Montgomery and
Franklin has
denounced the
virtuous pursuit of
their aspirational
yearnings

now playas
feast on
the mead
of sustenance
harvested from
emaciated streets

commerce has taken
up full residency...
the wards cottage industry
cannibalizing
homes, hoods and
homeboys

as the
4th Ward
grows ugly,
the healthy
matrix of
bustling
street life
breaks down
the peeps
weakened
lay prostate
offer veins
to blood *******
predators
roaming
distressed
going south
neighborhoods

wise guy
knuckleheads,
get busy
gaming
the system
short changing
themselves and
hustling game
to get by
in the sweet bye
and buy of life

at night
a back lit
Barbour Park
floods with the
yellow haze of
blinking Fair St.
lamp posts
and the pulsing
halations
crowning the
Baptist's
of St. Luke's

sentient figures
shift between
park benches
flitting among the
black torsos
of skeletal trees
blending into
the faded
complexion
of abandoned
swing sets

I swear I see
Hurricane Carter
shadow boxing
dancing
around a gangling
Elm, jabbing
away, lifting
a sweet uppercut
working combos
of left hooks
and right crosses
hoping to drop an
intractable
presence
banging away
at a body politic
forming the walls
of taunting
inequities

Hurricane stays
busy delivering
body blows
to burst
through the
prison bars
surrounding
Barbour Park

Music selection:
Bob Dylan, Hurricane

Paterson
01/30/13
jbm

A fragment from extended poem Silk City PIT.  
Published today to honor the death of Rubin Hurricane Carter.
May he find the freedom in eternal rest that eluded him during his lifetime.

Our hypothermic love makes me
feel like a frozen lizard.
Road tripping to Cedar Rapids—
it’s a ******’ blizzard.  
I need some spirits quick to
warm me, then I’ll give her
my hypodermic rod;
one hundred cc’s of thick
hot nectar of the gods, then
this ******* nightmare of
frostbite will end.
And the light and the heat of
my **** inside her will be
our fervor and our grandeur.

I'm paying tribute to one of the finest Poets I know, Tony Hoagland. He recently passed away from Pancreatic Cancer at 64 years young. This is one my  absolute favorites and I believe you'll love it also.*

Romantic Moment


After the nature documentary we walk down,
into the plaza of art galleries and high end clothing stores

where the mock orange is fragrant in the summer night
and the smooth adobe walls glow fleshlike in the dark.

It is just our second date, and we sit down on a rock,
holding hands, not looking at each other,

and if I were a bull penguin right now I would lean over
and ***** softly into the mouth of my beloved

and if I were a peacock I’d flex my gluteal muscles to
***** and spread the quills of my cinemax tail.

If she were a female walkingstick bug she might
insert her hypodermic proboscis delicately into my neck

and inject me with a rich hormonal sedative
before attaching her egg sac to my thoracic undercarriage,

and if I were a young chimpanzee I would break off a nearby treelimb
and smash all the windows in the plaza jewelry stores.

And if she was a Brazilian leopardfrog she would wrap her impressive
tongue three times around my right thigh and

pummel me lightly against the surface of our pond
and I would know her feelings were sincere.

Instead we sit awhile in silence, until
she remarks that in the relative context of tortoises and iguanas,

human males seem to be actually rather expressive.
And I say that female crocodiles really don’t receive

enough credit for their gentleness.
Then she suggests that it is time for us to go

to get some ice cream cones and eat them.

She Shoots Me Towards 

the Reaches of the Atmosphere.

(narcotic)

She Bravely Descends Earthward 

from the Divine Empyreal. 

(superhero)

Not Unlike a Hypodermic Needle 

Piercing My Median Cubital Vein,

(narcotic)

She Flashes into My Heart 

in Scarcely Eight Seconds.

(superhero)

Besides Inducing Euphoria,

She Effectuates Toxicity;

(narcotic)

In Fewer than Ten Minutes, 

She Targets My Defenses.

(superhero)

She not only Provokes Peak High,

(narcotic)

She Destroys a Lifetime of Yearning.

(superhero)

She is My ******. (narcotic)

She is My Heroine. (superhero)

~ The Sharpie Poet

Long before Horus' exposure on its trunk
and the nailing of Jesus upon its grain,
rings have been added within the Tree
while people proclaim to hold the key
of salvation: a continually borrowed mythology
swallowed; an extra-strength sleeping pill

pulling the masses into slumber,
and away from the awakened truth
that such supposed salvation
is an illusory ticket far too easy to obtain
for it to be real—
a discriminatory, fairy tale-damnation
that multiplies the divide
of "Us and Them."

Too many people hand out the easy tickets,
then cut and light the tree:
a hypodermic injection of selfish memories
mixed into the mortar of temples designated as sacred,
while dogmatic shears amputate roots from the sky.

Too many people preach
about a cheap, polystyrene heaven,
while only a few walk the narrow path
that leads towards the kingdom within,
and live the sacrifice because it feels right.

Again and again,
the ticket isn't so easy.
We must put aside our slumber-crutches,
stop watching the few carry the rest
upon their backs, until bones creak and groan
from the weight of people waiting for salvation
to be handed to them.

For 27 years, 46664 was etched into the bark
of a branch in the road.
When forked doors opened,
a living, breathing gospel
brought down fences,
and even then, the wood was made into crutches
for people to say,
"M will fix it; M will do this, M will do that;
M will save us, just wait and see."

M is finally free. Yes, he is free!
Free, but not lost to us;
he survives as spirit-seeds.

We must cease to lean upon crutches;
we must purge the pill from our blood
and awaken into gardeners who water the seeds
within the soil of our hearts,
before the vision withers completely,

and we remain only as husks
waiting to be hydrated by watering cans—
weakened hands and arms unable to lift their weight

held in our own hands all along,
held in our hands all along.

Beyond dilation scuttle eyed pin hole magnetic stigmata
I swear if you rub red the right way it scores points with the Almighty
Crystalized She used to run around with ***** fingers
She was made in a bathtub
Towhead floating face up  

Like a deep breath doll laugh goodnight
I'm balanced hypodermic in the chamber
Reading from the black stenciled numbers 100cc
Here is the end's beginning
A brand new case of rigs
She's dancing on the counter
Dancing in my head
She's won't let me sleep
And my dreams become electric
25% oxygen not counting waste
Or the tingle on the back of my throat
25 seconds until we reach the half life Wear the dunce hat.
Bruised arms  
and a 90% isopropyl bath
Two weeks non sleep

God made me into a marionette
He pulled me from the dust
He scooped me out of coals.
He breathed life into my belly
and now they call me animated earth.
He carved my bones from alabaster stones
long buried under piles of pine needles and leaves
He sang songs of Light and Life
and put them in my ears
and taught me all the words
and cut me silver keys.
now i stand up tall
like the Lighthouse of Alexandria
or the Colossus of Rhodes
i take showers under jungle waterfalls
full of orchid petals
and with angel fish climbing up the rock walls.
my head and all my limbs are hanging by
golden silken strings and threads
and where I walk the moss and lichens grow.
He fashioned my eyes from glass
blown over the hot geysers
and sulfur springs
of thermopylae
and the salt basin dunes.
He plucked my pupils from the pregnant blackness
of the Void.
He struck them over steel and flint
and the sparks made it bright enough to see.
my heart is a time-piece
keeping minutes with its beats
like a great shadow cast behind a sphere.
the elements once kept me apart from me my identity,
I was a hungry ghost
walking around town like a hypodermic voodoo doll.
everytime I turned around
I tripped over another basket full of rattlesnakes
hissing from both ends.
I gave up and crossed my heart
and gave it over to the chemical egregore
hoping I would die while somehow staying alive
and learning how to fly away home-
so i could leave all the piles of ashes and teeth alone
and maybe plant a rose garden.

but God made of me a marionette
strung me up from strings of silken gold.
He breathes for me,
and dances me to the music of the spheres
and now the whole planet is a
Hanging Garden of the Fallen Babylon
and now I keep snakes
as exotic pets
and as company
when i’m lonely
and for afternoon tea.

******, ******, in a dish.
How many needles do you wish?
Intravenous, Intravenous, take a hit and walk on Venus.
Unethical. Impeccable. Makes a brick wall wreckable.
You and me and Nikki Sixx,
Take those hypodermic sticks.
Shove 'em in and hold on tight,
'Cause this is gonna be a messed up night!
Turn your brains to sugar jam, now let's all walk to Junkieland.

There were four of them dressed in loud yellow t-shirts
and muffled white-washed jeans. Three carried rubber
ended stick-picks and sand crusted sky-blue buckets  
for hypodermic needles and diapers and condoms.

The last of them, an older stocky gentleman with thick
red skin and no more than ten years left to live maneuvered
a grass-green, six-cylindered, diesel-powered tractor with
an old metallic rake attached to its bed across cold soft sand.

These four men are the edge-of-morning-heroes,
– they have to be the edge-of morning-heroes,
these four men, the beach combers.

My friends, have we appreciated the fruit of their labor?
the outcome of their edge-of-morning-efforts?

It was because of them that I was there, because of them
that the great lake was enjoyable, swimmable, because of them
that my heart had become a poem whose first stanza opened
with a young man staring off into the open, ocean-blue horizon,

water birds skipping, circling open-winged with webbed
feet behind him, his brown legs nestled firmly in the swash,
where to the left of him, a couple, neck-deep, was making love
between the familiar crest and trough of a wave, making love

between the familiar beginning and end of something
– going deeper, under still as a plane hummed overhead.

My friends, will the future appreciate the fruit of their labor?
the outcome of their edge-of-morning-efforts?

February 12, 2016

I lie **** on top of my blankets; praying. Praying. Praying. I am fighting waves of nausea and sleepiness. Medicines I feel sprinting through my veins dragging me downward. No.
The rain slow at first but gathering wrath in the warm night.
Lightning and thunder will come I smell it afar off. Ions heavily scented spill through the atmosphere holes in my plexiglassed window.  
Thunder rolls through my chest shaking deeply my whitewashed plaster cocoon. The cries begin to swell, and echo strangely through the sterile corridors. I am not the only light sleeper, I muse.
I doze momentarily even among the screams of the mentally hilarious; I am called into sleep. They must have doubled the sleeping medication; the storm will be worse than I thought.
I start at a sound. Steady. A theta wave vibrating through my room. I pitch to my side in time to see a lightning bolt slash through the sky. I saw something. The bolt plays hell with my night-vision as I sit upright on my bed.
There. Struggling up the plastic surface of the viewport. It cannot fly in the rain; it struggles for purchase on the portal. I study her. Elegant and slender she reaches the airhole and pulls herself through. Far off the screams wax and wane as the storm intensifies.
Her slender thorax and polished, obsidian, exoskeleton strike excitement through me to a cell. A perfect engine of pain and terror. A great black wasp. She reminds me of a thorn as she rests on the windowsill; unmoving in the air conditioning. Giddily, I shake with excitement nearly overwhelmed. Delicately she cleans water droplets from her abdomen and shakes the moisture from the thin membrane of her wings. I slowly move to my shelf and remove the specimen cup from its placement; silently unscrewing the threaded lid from the clear plastic container. Down the hallway a tired groan and a throaty grunt from one of the other patients. The wind now screams through the breezeport that runs to north toward the cafeteria. A shingle is peeled from the roof of a gazebo and cyclones into a bulkhead. I lick my lips, and consciously check my excitement.
I slide a sheet of crisp white paper from my desk. Quickly, I trap the great insect with the jar and slide the paper over the aperture trapping her between jar and paper. She does not struggle, but looks intelligently at the walls of her new prison. Beautiful, and intricate machinery at work; she readjusts her  wings, observing me with with bulbous eyes. Lightning strikes, and there is a deafening pop as a transformer explodes. For a moment it creates an azure sun outside, and casts curious shadows through my room. In the corridor the lamp light is squelched, and then ignites emergency lamps in scarlet hues as the diesel generator sputters to life and idles. A deafening clackson alarm begins to wail.
I am not aware of this at first; obsessing over my catch. Her form is ******, deadly. Something deep within me stirs at the very site of her. Revulsion? Ecstasy? From my reverie I am stirred by the clanging of doors and staccato laughter in the crimson glow of the storm lights. In a moment I am resolved and I slide the paper from the opening and cover it with my hand. Now footsteps. She senses me and reels in instinct. Without hesitation she draws herself tight as a bow string, poised to ****** the hypodermic stinger into the warm pink flesh of my palm. Quicker than thought she strikes piercing, seemingly to the bone she injects poison. Down the ward doors are slid open and the sound of radio chatter plays toward me. I am engrossed, in bliss as my arm begins to numb. Five times then Nine times she spears me with the barb. My heart beating so hard in my chest that I am sure the orderlies must hear it. Then I hear a burst of static and a sing-song reply of phonetic alphabet followed by my room number. I grasp her delicately from the specimen cup with my thumb and forefinger as she stings me with prejudice beneath the nail bed and cuticles. I cast her through the air hole in my window and quickly lie upon my bed before the door is unlocked. A man in white scrubs and a five o'clock shadow opens my door and pierces me with two steel blue eyes. "You should be asleep." "Get some rest, we will have the lights back on in no time." I smile my head swimming with post adrenal bliss. When suddenly I hear the droning of wings. A sea of raging hornets sounding ominously in the small cell. A black cloud pours through the airhole, countless chittering wings encompass the orderly in a poisonous storm cloud. With vengeance they sting, his eyeballs his hands, his throat. All swelling with purple nebulas of poison. In his mouth they crawl and down his throat. Efficiently suffocating him in mere moments. Then they quiet. All at once they flock to me, walking on my pale naked flesh caressing me with millions of antennae. They do not sting, instead they are still. Their crescent shaped bodies vibrating,  like a cat purr against my cold skin. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing hilariously, and I shudder hardly containing the joy. Then I pick up the radio clipped to the orderlies pants, and pull the 18 inch telescoping  steel baton from the holster belted at his waist. I click the PTT and speak into the radio. Epsilon Wing Cell 005 Accounted for, Over Quintar beep followed by a burst of static and a reply. I cover my mouth to suppress another fit of hysterical laugh. I step barefoot over his body and onto the cold tile of the ward; spinning the heavy keyring on my finger

lackluster endings bend kinks that crease
but they were
lost in the lust for scraped backs and knees,
and she would
never say no
long as he'd
never say please,
and they would
never mention scars,
or intentions,
or disease.
and with the ease at which the so called passion turned to hypodermic fashion,
he would leave only a note,
'be careful: needles in the trashcan."

It's funny that once ink is skinned
it's pretty difficult to take it out.
It becomes hypodermic and almost eternal.

Could it be the same case
for the those who hurt you
carve a part of their memory
deep deep inside your bones
and make a wreck of you?

I don't know,
all that I know is that I want to destroy
everything that reminds me of those.


-- Eleanor

I've pondered on whether or snot Sun Tzu
was psychopathic. Sun Tzu might've been a
good man and a bad man strange variant of serial killer/Apex Prime Exterminator within
his theories and experiments.
Every successful contemporary military, government, politician, global health advisory control panel, corporation, and CEO practices The Art of War.

Sun Tzu added a trident to each prong of
the pre-existing "Three-Pronged Approach". Instead of there being three main paths and results only, there were now many possible combinations and results, especially when
Dark Sun Tzu added a trident to each of the
expanded 9 prongs for 27 possible results,
then did that again for 72 possible results
that can be arrived at from many possible
combinations and pathways.

The fork is an often primal, psychoapathic thrusting force—a thrusting force of nature
on many levels of instinct, natural Earth laws
and universal laws, and sociopsychology—
the fork is code, icon, symbol, archetype,
metaphor, Meta, in parallel with the trident,
unsheathed sword, the thrusting ***** *****
and hypodermic needle:

Hypo dermis: beneath the skin:
Ancient Greek etymological root that moves
through Latin and Auld English, from deeper
symbology and metaphor, to the technocratic
medical and clinical, to a chrome or chrome
plated hypodermic needle.

The most maniacal journey and result within Sun Tzu's expanded and multiplied "Three-Pronged Approach" is to use heavy
psychological direction to assist the enemy to disembowel itself before your feet while the enemy believes that you're reaching down as friend to help it. The enemy believes that
you're a saviour who is offering it a cure-all healing apple. The "apple" cuts through the enemy's belly. Now convulsing in pain on the ground, the enemy believes that you're a benevolent angel reaching down to help as the enemy pulls out its bowels onto the green grass, with greasy, slickened hands.

Trident. Forked Tongue. Snake in the grass.
Apple. Belly of the Beast. Snake bite: The
chrome fangs of the one-eyed technocratic
serpent on the Rod and on the Staff. That

was later adapted into Marxist, ****,
and Democratic medical practices on the national and corporate levels, and on international levels within foreign diplomatic agendas: Get the enemy to **** and/or sicken
itself within the belief that its actions are
saving itself, loved ones, and free society.
When Sun Tzu's momentum is used, an
intended target enemy can send Sun Tzu
orbiting back around in various forms and
forces that are usually far worse and forceful
than its previous forms and applications.

The enemy cries out for, begs on its knees for, the medicine.

"Ask and thou shalt receive."

The enemy dispenses the medicine to its offspring, enforces the absorption of the medicine, crawls back to its hive of maggots
to dispense the medicine

on its last dying breath.

Many people misunderstood the implications of "Flatten the curve". For how many more centuries will the cycle of not quite "normal" and not quite "novel" continue? Will the adults ever understand the fairy tales.
Vatican Witches and Federal Government
poison that need to be burned and purified
in their own fire. Good Cop/Bad Cop politics and The Welfare State breaks the family,
steals the bread crumbs, and the children
are lost in the woods again, hooked on candy and Federal Government endorsed dope.

It's amazing, aside from the miracle of Earth and life, I finally believe in miracles: A person can read a story 10,000 times and fail to apply it when needed most of all.

train pace
quaint face
indecisive stutter
faint lace
embrace
cloaked behind the shutter

roving revolver revisions
inflict internally incubated incremental incidents
spit right in his ******* face
separation. moksha.  
hypodermic hypocrisy

copper lined veins
keep pumping
filth =
into your eyes

mix some shakras up in a glass and
drink it down it's a celebration a time of
times the present lives among and within our
thoughts, groping for memories we call home time and
time again as light finds us stuck full of hypodermic nonsense
shrinking from shadows until we shake hands in a corner and they're not
so bad they're quite inviting and provide all the stuff we need when we need it
like an infinite knapsack of colloquialism forever surrounded by stars

jupi tear me down.

A doubt appeared
Crept into mind.
The doubt of malignant cancerous kind
That harried forth the snap decision.
And upon examination
Would force oneself to self derision.
She lay before me long and slender
I naked stood
Stood and if was tender
Could have kissed her **** and walked away
Should have dressed and walked from yesterday.
I begin to break.
Dissolve
Into dissolution of resolve.
I take her tight into my arms
Wrap my legs around her reedlike waste  (sic)
And I could taste
Raw *****
From within
Within.
Within the hypodermic ******.

John Smallshaw   2011.

The Warped Man
He opens his veins and lets invisible blood flow in.

The Warped Soil
From where his **** sinks into the earth like a clenched fist.

The Warped River.
A fake bloodstream. Dumpster of The Soil. Promises. Threats. Velocity. Value.

The Warped Sea
Born outwards, ejected from an invisible heaven. Poisoned by the soil it kisses. Pumped with hypodermic streams.

The Warped Sky
Looks to the sea and follows .
Once a mirror of our potential.
Now it gets ****** a heckles us.

The Warped Child
Mushroom jungle above him.
Dreams of the dust.
Exiled by everything.
Tell him what to breathe and he will inhale it.

The Moon
A silent prodigal lord.
It gave us light to obscure.
It gave us lakes to **** in.
It gave us maps to conquer.
And it once gave us dreams.

the depths of despair can be as deep .. as the ocean can be blue
but that's not as deep as the despair i feel when i'm lying here, missing you
blood stains on the ceiling .. hypodermic hell
desperate, broken, bleeding .. as i try to remember your smell
thoughts of how we used to be, flash across my mind
with each and every memory, chemicals unwind
but here i am, still breathing, the person that i used to be
and although i know i'm missing you, i cannot set you free
always and forever a place within my heart
you think you know the bitter end, but that's the place to start

(c) p skez and msrigs 22/08/2015

I had my own little circle of Hell.
Demons prodded me with needles.
****** souls invited me to their homes
filled with smoke and treason.

I was sitting in a burning throne of lies and addiction.
With piles of broken glass pieces and hypodermic syringes as a foot rest.
Then one day a hole opened in the sky above
and a single blue jay flew down
and rested upon my boot tip.

He said "Why do you choose to live here, so washed out and broken?"
"Because it is the only place I feel at home, Blue Jay" I replied.
"There is sunshine just beyond your fingertips!" He countered.
"The only light that beckons me is the hellfire surrounding us, bird" I retorted.

"Come with me" he sighed.
Suddenly the blue jay grew ten times his size and sprouted incredible wings.
He made me climb upon his back and soar out of the pit I had become so accustomed to.
"Look at what the sun has to offer," said the blue jay.
there were green fields and rushing rivers,
Playing children I had forgotten existed.

In my place, my personal hell,
I had forgotten about the sun.
the skies were smudged black
And the painted clouds rolled down in grey
Like oil on canvas.

When you're in hell, it's so easy to forget
About the world above.
Seeing past yourself and into the setting sun
Becomes an impossibility.


" Do you see?" said the bird.
"I do see, but what is it I am looking past?" Said I.
"The little things." blue jay replied.
"The little things that used to please you, before you became a monster."
"The rivers used to make you feel whole as you skipped stones across their uneven expanse.
The children reminded you of your innocence before you became what you are. The fields were your home, where you would catch sun and ponder things before you became this."

Suddenly all my cravings vanished.
The black cloud that hung over me stopped pouring rain
And started beaming light.
The portal from whence we came had closed.
I had come home.

The blue jay flew to the ground and let me off his back.
"Now you see," he said, "You see what you had been missing."
He shrank, and flew away into the trees
Leaving me at home,
in my fields,
again.

You're the sin of me,
A claustrophobic situation
And I can't breathe.
I'm an epidermal hot mess,
With a side of downers
To suppress.
A hypodermic allergy.
Charge me with my felony.
Caused by this anorexic magazine.
I'm starving.
Brothers; Our own flesh.
Nail me to this cross
And watch me burn.
They want us to be self reliant,
And give us controlling rule.
Impossible standards
In a
Hypocritical disease head.
They give us psychotheism
But take away our earth.
We're supposed to be coexisting,
So give us equality in worth.
I am my own
Anarchist Antichrist
Feed me
To
The broken system.

I lay there semi reclined
The sweat of terror soaking
My body
A piercing blinding light penetrating
My head
Burning, burning, no escape
Then out of the corner of my eye
I saw him
Masked, an evil maniac look in his eyes
My fist clenched in fear
Nails digging into the palms of my hands
I screamed as he raised the hypodermic
Checked the level of the contents
I screamed again
No
No
And then
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
He spoke
"Don't worry Mr Cole
One tiny injection then we'll soon have
That tooth out"

My veins are sewers beneath my skin.
There is a cage where my skull should be
And inside this cage which stands like the skeleton of an October tree
There are worms that are knotted together in a way that allows them to think as one.
My stomach is full of writhing parasitoid wasps
That move in a way that makes them apparent to the eye that looks for them.
Only three months past they were injected into my bloodstream inside a miniscule submersible
Capsule.

My skin is nothing but maggots.
My tongue flails beneath the weight of hypodermic needles that are invisible even to the eye that looks for them.

The opinions of the worms are made apparent through my tongue even as it sprawls beneath the needles.
My lungs are full of dust and the dust is full of nacre and the nacre is wrapped around gypsum and graphite Which are dust to the eye that does not know these words.

Hypodermic dilauded crushed on the spoon
Feels like doom
Besides all my calculations
Beneath the angry boy
God's toy

Piercing my skin
Lie back again
Lingering a taste on my tounge
I see her sleeping naked in her bedroom
As I float on a sea
Of memories and warmth
Visions of crumbling completely
Just a minute from perfect
Her legs and black high heels
My imagination
I hate it

That ******' got-**** screen door fell off the hinges. Sit there and smoke your cigarettes while I fix it.
Outside Texas was hotter than a hot greased griddle
You could feel the tinge of hot on everything
Until the sweat drips from every inch of your body

Privacy

Crushing a blue
On the back of a toilet
Numb Thumb Dumb

Metling and thawing of liquid gold
Rubbing
Slap Slap
Tying up the dinasour
Pulling so tight with my teeth
They want to come-out of my head
My second time
I have the shivers

Throb-Throb-Throb
Says the purple vein
Poking up to drink the elixer

Ecstacy dripping from the tip of a hypodermic catalyst
So ******* beautiful
Pierce me
Plunge me
**** my brain so hard
That I won't come back from the black
I floated up above myself
Watching the magic happen
Takin' it all in
**** oh ****
Oh ****
Take-***
Multiply by
one million
to the tenth power

*******

One perfect little hole
Poked inside out

I love to lick my blood clean
It's a tradition now
Beautiful metallic redness
Hugging my throat

*******
Just *******

I have nothing else to say

I wrote my suicide note in blue marker on a McDonalds napkin
I am going to start keeping it in my wallet

"Goodbye world, you dumb ******* ****"

To be fair, this superstitious stuff
Goes a helluva long way back.
It was around the time of Babel
That the Israelites lost all track
Of logic and reason in the books
They were peddling as God’s word.
Oh, okay, they were just passing on
Mesopotamian stories they heard
But then to start calling it all
The voice of the spiritual over-mind
Means we are expected to be
Sort of intellectually deaf and blind.
Even if one can accept things like
A snake that talks and wheedles
I think accepting talking bushes
Requires stuff in hypodermic needles.

I think you have confused
Your Jehovah with Santa.
They are not the same thing.
Let me hear you say hallelujah!
Some of your traditions are
Verging on the weird and funny
When you peddle stories
About an egg-laying bunny.
And that basket of fishes
To feed a thousand was dumb.
In prehistoric Israel, just where
Did those freeloaders come from?
That strange ‘water into wine’ thing
Would be banned by law today.
Jesus, as evangelical moonshiner?
The authorities would put him away.

But that’s all fine and good if
One personally deems it to be so,
This claiming to run daily life
By words memorized long ago.
Since some of it makes sense
It may be easier to just ignore
Things like wizards and magic
As something from long before.
Evidence today says nobody lived
For eight hundred years and such.
But things like facts don’t seem
To bother religious people that much.
So, have at it, you spooky folks
With your symbols and mystery
Just save your breath if you think
You’ll get acceptance from me.