you're not going to read this, and why would you?*

it would be either
naive
or
stupid
of me to expect even so much as a text;
as if our separation implies the ******* of a proverbial
Berlin Wall* between us,
where less than a week ago we were the same *country,
our landscapes of rolling hills,
city skylines,
and forests
so overgrown
that only
slices
of sunlight
could parse the ever-greened canopy,
phasing into one another seamlessly.

We may have been our own provinces,
but aside from small street signs declaring
Welcome to Jen
and
Welcome to Kyran...
aside from separate cognitive centers of self-government
between
your shock-blue eyes and fleek eyebrows,
between
my navy-blue irises and grey,
sunken sockets,
we were a willing confederation of persons,
impulses,
                dreams,
                             ambitions,
                                              anxieties,
                                                              lo­ves,
                                                                ­        and betrayals---

In our past, and provisional separations,
it was your betrayal that pushed us both
into the doldrums of love-lost confusions
and self-hatred;
not that there would be much value
in assigning a blame
with hurt still attached,
because the point,
it seems to me,
was that we somehow made it through everything together.

There wasn't a personal adversity we didn't learn to conquer
---until I began to fade away from you--
lanky, thin, often broke, and depressed,
I retreated.

I cocooned myself in studies of the past and the present;
for some reason, despite my overwhelming love for you,
despite the unspoken commitment I had made
to you
in my head
so long after your second infidelity
when I realized I was finally over it
and that I loved you more than I'd ever loved anyone before
--and in ways I never could have foreseen--

I backed-off,
I fell back,
I disengaged,

and

I essentially abandoned you.

After your impulsive infidelities,
when you admitted you hadn't been
nor were you in your
"right mind,"
you promised you'd get better.

You saw councilors, therapists, psychiatrists,
and psychologists... and you did.

You really did get better.

You overcame all that had been pulling you so low and so far into the darker vicissitudes of irrationality.

And yet, when it came to my own faults,
inadequacies, and disengagement,
I lacked your courage.

I didn't even try to overcome them.
In my self-imposed screen-gazed solitude,
I often thought of how much I loved you;
of how I hoped you might just wait out my confused disengagement
like I forgave you for your betrayals which had,
in their times,
hollowed me out emotionally for months on end.

The thing is, you wouldn't have blamed me if I'd left you then.
You would have understood, and let me go,
regardless of the heavy pain in your solar plexus
and the hollow feeling in your heart.

Though it never came to that,
I now have the chance to do for you what you'd have done for me.

I don't blame you for leaving.

I understand,
and regardless of this heavy pain in my solar plexus
and the perceptive hollowing of my heart,
I will watch you as you go,
        I will wave,
I will live with the weight of regret and memory,
and remember what you wrote in a poem once
when we parted ways after your first infidelity.

Sitting in the university library, reading on Moses,
what went thru your head was

"closure feels more like i can go on without you, i’m glad i met you, however an emptiness drenched in self-regret will always remain."

I dream of innocence
of days long spent
beneath summers sun
a Carpenters son
and royal daughter
a Queen and a martyr
one girl one boy
eyes fuse like alloy
caught in a sudden trance
a courtship dance
loves hypnotic rituals
of star filled visuals
white lights against black night
white Knight versus black Knight
this is now a game of chess
strategizing what to do next.

Three is a crowd
how I wish he wasn't around
your first mistake
so I sit and wait
for the nightmare to be over
for my Knights mare to save her
I already know the pain she's due
it's as old as the sun, this rain isn't new
nothing washes away infidelities sinning
nothing can make them white sheets of linen
once innocence is lost like paradise
if only you took another roll at the dice
maybe fate is predetermined numbers
and maybe innocence only exists in slumber
maybe it was lost at birth
maybe it's just an ancient curse
inherited from days long ago
maybe we were never white as snow.

But still I have this martyrs cause
yet still I never really give pause
the Knight that sacrifices for his Queen
for he has already witnessed all to be seen
history repeating itself
Déjà vu sapping our health
reincarnated pain
can the black Knight ever be slain?
or is it just another side of the coin
everyone is still curtain drawing
hiding from the dark
the day that's lost its spark
black night only masks the sun
black Knight versus the Carpenters son
but white lights appear in the sky
the white night is there when we die
when our numbers finally up
when our slumber finally stops
the ending of the night
maybe we aren't really Knights
maybe we are all just pawns
so innocence can be reborn.

building purist æsthetic
proselytizing solar-powered heliolatry
commemorating historic concert
sensing dark forces

fokken lekker antwoord
pumping sensory overload
featuring high-tech dee-jay
admiring gelato micro-truck
laxing laying lazing

"doing something nasty"
continuing quality content
entering another cathedral
journeying without borders
"exactly one year
since visiting vatican"

appreciating full-time gigasphere
awaiting pyongyang performance
depicting unlikely crowdsurfer
foreseeing exponential improvements
furthering esoteric agenda

sensing profound incompatibility
data-mining people's infidelities
anticipating futuristic caffeine
perfecting invisible propaganda
researching mind-control techniques
polishing ******-social weaponry

sensing social embargo
flourishing frantic fanfare
admiring longitudinal monument
parodying marketing slogans
cycling through österreich
eyeing dystopian disneyland

streaming crosswords extended-play
herding glass kittens
deleting idiosyncratic fragment
loremipsum-ing laconic loudmouth
receiving ultramodern telegram
eigo-ga wakarimasu ka?

guzzling duck-fat fries
encouraging panic selling
(juxtaposing past incarnations)
getting black-and-white privilege
renewing boutique account
relishing cinema poutine

re-entering hibernation mode
opening old windows
continuing zoo motif
absquatulating excessive excesses
nullifying originality claims
proliferating protean persona

disappearing sidewalk alphabet
shrugging opprobrious moments
enjoying vertical alignment
re-entering cyberpunk paradise
approaching island sun
soaring beyond monoliths

trivializing extraneous argy-bargy
decreasing character limits
dumping generic accounts
uglifying commit message
escaping into idiosyncracy

moonshining great lake
exuding idiosyncratic propaganda
living nineties' dreams
making occidental cuisine

envisioning idiocratic president
expropriating your time
ascending homely helix
singing fat lady

Close your eyes and feel the presence of yourself,
Abolish the world from your thoughts and let reality melt
We live within our senses, We Are Nothing, but we’re here can you admit this
I amend it, a way of thinking that allows time to become absent.
Rather you’re at your pinnacle or in your casket
No life form can match it, imagine the end as anticlimactic
Imagine your life without scare tactics, without fear schematics
Our lives are mapped out,
Until we look within
This is where spirituality begins.
The things our brains can’t yet comprehend
Though once we must have been
Society road blocked our creativity in
Stressed simplicity until we believed it again
The ancients are more modern yet we call them cavemen.
We’re told to read books and agree with the men
When our opinions start to differ we’re told to read it again
Well now I take a stand as firm as the genetics of man,
Strong as God’s right hand.
This is where my life begins.
This is where my struggle ends.
I used to strive to survive thinking life could end.
This can’t be God’s intent,
The unseen started this trend,
Why must we fight when we don’t have to fight to win?
We’re all unified by love, but also by sin.
God is love, so love has always been
Though sin was started with man
Since sin has a start it’s possible for it to end
God’s love is strong it won’t waiver or bend
It won’t imprison us within our sin
However there’s doubt in the voices of influential men
I won’t be manipulated by their sounds,
Their actions I won’t recommend
Reprehensible are the things I’ve seen
Irresponsible are human beings
Confined by time their lifetime is all they see
Motivated by greed and material things broadcasted on T.V.
Seems like they’re following the map to me
The trail left by the previous which is devious
There is more to life than what we see in it
Outside of time we’re fine, but we grieve within it
We’re told we’re destined to meet death
So we place that fear deep in our chest
Look at the map and find some points to connect
School 8 hours a day for 13 years,
After that you’d think we’d be considered equal by our peers
But they subtract our success until we add tears.
So we have to go to college for a few more years
Then work 8 hour days to gain acceptance.
With all we learned throughout our years
How could we miss life’s biggest lessons?
We remain blind to the fact that God is near
God is hear; his voice is like my heartbeat
I lay beneath the dark sheets,
And listen for hours to my love’s heart beat
Our women are a blessing, but they don’t teach that lesson
What could the cardiac spark be?
It’s said even the earth has a heartbeat
How smart should I be after 20,000 hours of learning?
A long journey, but we all must attend.
To be taught the theories of men,
To be misled again and again
Time remains, but not man
Look at the time we’ve gained vs. the time we spent
We didn’t pay God to live so after our first day of life
We have a 24 hour deficit.
1440 minutes of our heart beating and,
Our lungs breathing for no apparent reason
Besides that fact that God believes in us
It’s not like God needs us; but we need him.
He created the seed from which we began.
Though our arrogance created disbelief of him.
How ignorant are we not to believe in him.
We help conceive our sons, but don’t breathe life in them
The Breath of Life is in them, The Breath of Life is in us.
So God’s a must, or our lungs would combust
Our dollars read “In God We Trust.”
Though where do we place our trust if money rules us?
Currencies was created by society, to establish a variety and levels of man.
The poor are weak and the rich are prominent men.
We’re taught to chase money, but in the bible it’s taught as sin.
After that first dollar a quest for power begins,
Where did it all begin more money more power let us start over again?
No money, no power just our spirituality within.
God will forgive again if we put our trust in him.
Though we remain to put our trust in men.
They continue to lie over and over again
About the preexistence of man
We’re man’s existence began.
This is why I take a stand.
This conventional way of life I don’t understand
So I’ll close my eyes, look deep within, and listen to love that god sends.
We need to understand the love that God is
The love God gives, he gives us life, and the chance to make it right.
Despite our numerous infidelities, various misdeeds to bring out his jealousy.
It inspires anger in me to think, to be the creator of all things,
And see your created beings giving worship to inanimate deity.
This isn’t radical thinking, rather rational thinking.
We let our arrogance and addiction to power turn us into irrational beings.
Trapped by fear of what society thinks,
Society reeks in its intoxication; drunken with power.
Sobriety is considered insanity in this nation.
Though those made out to be sane lack brains, and the knowledge of the true God.
I find it odd that Christianity was made adjacent with this nation.
Now God is thought of as a façade and they attempt to replace him.
“In God We Trust.” How many of you can find truth in that statement as a Nation?
Do you see the truth in what I’m saying or do you remain blinded by hatred.
Look deep in yourself find your lust for power and replace it.
Instill love in your heart come out of the dark.

it's treacherous, really
how far out of your way
you are willing to go
just to find someone who
is not me.

and for what?

for the adrenaline rush of
an ego boost (?)

and at the price of what?
the hem that has held
my heart together
is beginning to rip-
the seams are giving way
spilling out every
and all
of the things that i try
so hard to contain

at the price of my own
comfortability.
i forfeit my precious solitude,
only to be met with
the coldest
and emptiest of embraces.
slight looks of annoyance,
eyes averted quickly
at laughter
as if mad that someone
might hear me.

where do i get off
on burning the
ends of my nerves
so that your touch
does not make me
shudder?

attempting to hold it all together,
as i can  be responsible for you
in life
but not ever
in death.

Everything is such fun in the beginning,
when it’s new and undiscovered.
i’ll try almost anything.

What is meant by almost?
All these stupid sick **** roles we play,
all this pretending, why?

i want to believe there’s something
behind the curtain
besides a windowless stone wall

Something inexplicable
his/her majesty of everything/
living/dead/never existed.

William Blake said, “Either be a poet or a painter.
Being both muddies audiences, and discredits one or the other.”
Actually, Blake didn’t say that. i am lost.

is it possible to love after what has happened?
the rage, hurt, disappointment of betrayal.
my ex still stalks

as recently as two mornings ago,
all her exaggerations, over-reactions, fury.
Why so desperate to return to crime scene?

An admission of her own guilt?
Excessive compulsive wound licking (psychogenic alopecia)?
Another excuse for getting drunk?

When we waited for the elevator going down
You said, “Let’s just get this over with.”
i understood completely.

i, who worships my own death.
i, who ****** on my own grave.
i, who gets bored faster than speed of light.

i, who suspects killing around every corner.
i, who sleeps restless.
i, who worries.

i, who loves women.
i, who does not understand women.
i, who is a woman.

i, who bangs the dude in L.A. to advance my career.
i, who is a nobody.
i, a man with no place to stand.

i, who belongs to a family of
blustering flirts, flatterers,
kidders, thieves.

We sit at the table,
monkey-wrenching hand over fist lives.
Forget about the eyes.

Watch the fingers.
Don’t listen to the speeches.
Words are intentional distractions.

Where’s your wallet?
Gypsies? No, we’re not gypsies,
more upper-crusty, yes, very well-connected secrets.

Do the names Dante, or Cervantes, or Nabokov mean anything to you?
No, none of them are our kin,
but we know people who know people,

infidelities in very high places.
All i’m saying is,
once you reach a certain level,

we’re all family.
i will make success happen,
with or without you.

Mine is a generation of taboo.
We are tribal tattoos and cheap motel room honeymoons.
We are slander,
and slang,
and brittle teeth.
We are born-agains and suicides.
We are podium preachers and cracked-pavement prayers.
We are melted plastic and oxidized metal-
sometimes we gleam with the Liberty Green of corroded copper,
sometimes we crumble with rust and stain calloused hands.
We are the last stand of Art.
We are the manifestations of forbidden bloodlines
and insanity.
We are just as much our mothers
as we are our fathers,
and we are everything that they are not.

We are stigmata.
We are red paint on white canvas.
We are fast food coffee.

We were born to the sweet smell of formaldehyde
in rooms dressed in florescent white
that share plumbing with the morgues
beneath the linoleum floors.
We are the mix of ***** and innocence that lingers
in the kiss of a dimly lit basement.
We show and we tell but always only for the right price,
the wrong reasons,
or the promise of an exchange equaling to the feeling that
this is a mistake.
We are rosary beads counted between gnarled knuckles
and dragged across smooth palms that long
to sweep tear salt from flushed cheeks.

We are Heaven's lonely singles.

We are skin stretched out too thin over skeletons.
We are the complexities that machines can't calculate
much less imitate.
We are the futile cries that once tried to keep towers from falling
when the sky came crashing down.
We are the pardoned and the withered.
We are the hardened faces of those that have
worked too long
and been loved too little.
We have been told that the safest place for your soul
is in the hole of your chest,
but only if it's reinforced by
four inches of concrete and steel,
and strapped tight with a Kevlar vest,
because they said people,
at best,
are manslaughter.

But we have never been great listeners either;
when we were growing up
we pressed our hands to hot stoves
even though our mothers said not to,
because we couldn't just be told what it was to burn
we had to feel it for ourselves.
So every now and then we will crack open
our rib cages in the hopes that someone will come,
light a fire,
and decide to stay.

We hopelessly spray paint things like wings
On deserted brick buildings
So that, at the very lest, we can feed the
Hollow-eyed passerby the belief
That these streets still have guardians,
Even when we, ourselves,
Abandoned such ideologies in
backroad dumpsters
along with our deities’ infidelities.
  
We are the period at the end of the sentence.
(Or maybe we are the ellipses...)
We have redefined the American family
and proven that even Christianity knows how to hate.
We were raised by sixty-percent divorce rates,
yet we still believe that we are soul mates.
We are the jokers of the deck:
either smiling fools or wild cards.
We are cocked heads with smoke billowing from throats
coated with blisters and cough syrup.
We are back alley scavengers crawling on all fours.
We are the era of the Auto-Tuned voice,
proof that with a pretty enough face anyone can sing.
We are foggy mirrors with smiles drawn on them
by print-less fingertips.
We slip up the thighs of our lovers
and swirl down the drains of sinks with chipped paint.

We are the hearts in your hands-
Crush us into powder and brush us across your face like Indian war paint,
Give us up to the sky so that we can be revived by lightning,
Dance to the rhythm that we beat,
Squeeze us and watch as we seep through the cracks of your fist,
Conceal us in your pocket and only ever speak to us in a whisper,
Or,
with all your natural voice,
sing to us
songs about thunderstorms
to wet the dusty desert dirt around our rooted toes
in the hopes that we will blossom in the most vivid colors.

Just do something with us.

Don't sacrifice us to the tops of lost bookshelves
to collect dust
or rust in the rain with everything you once loved
but grew too old for.

I
Sing, O Muse, of the wrath
That came from the East
To conquer our conquerors,
Of the left-handed Benjaminite, Ehud,
Chosen by G-d to free
The twelve tribes of
His chosen people.
For in his holy ******
Of Eglon, who, spurned by G-d,
Threw the chains of slavery on the
Exiles of exiles, diasporas of diasporas,
Kingdom of kingdoms trampled under
The wheel and foot, the people found
Their salvation in the crumpled body
Of an overweight king with a two-sided
Sword, fashioned by hand, in his protruded belly.

II

First, in the long succession of Judges,
Was Othniel, then Ehud, Shamgar,
Deborah, Barak, meaning lightning,
Followed by Gideon who destroyed
The altar of Baal, then Tola, Jair,
Jephthah, Ibzan, Elon, and Abdon.
Samson emerged late on the scene
And let the ***** from afar castrate his hair
And his G-dly strength.  But for all their
Effort there remained no king in Israel,
And everyone did what was right in
Their own eyes. The greatest of these
Poor souls from His chosen lot was the
Son of Gera, Ehud.  Giving his life to
Service, he offered his left hand as a
Sacrifice to Israel’s infidelities.

III

Sitting in his glorious throne room,
Talking of matters begot to none
But the war-chiefs who graveled at his
Every word, Eglon thought
Of his kingdom and prosperity
Allowing him and his company
To feast upon the rifled carcasses
Of the local gallopers and crawlers.
Then, not knowing where, a sickly
Perception of war entered and blew
The horn, resonating of blood and
Chariots, of men armed with spears,
Women and children weeping for their
Lost fathers and new-lovers. The sound
Reverberated; and written on the inside
Of his skull rested the words “wage war
With the kingdom of Israel.”

IV

And not making reply, or questioning why,
He knew but his men were to do and die.
Little did he know or think to think upon
That his free agency of choice was stolen
By the children of Abraham.  So, he
Gathered the armies of Moab
Of the Ammonites and
Of the Amalekites.  With a cloud of murderous
Dust trailing behind them, and war cries
Piercing the air, they rode on to the
City of palms. “Ride, my men,” cried the king,
“Steal and plunder, destroy their gods, and
Shimmer in the glory of destruction.” His armies
Heard his cry
But did not reply.  

V

Eglon and his armies, treading like
The young lion and the dragon,
Casting stretching shadows,
Conquered the twelve tribes.  Not
A cry was uttered from Israel;
They tumbled and crumbled before
The mighty hand of the veracious invaders
Like reeds amongst the wind on
A March afternoon breeding daises
On the golden meadow.  For years,
They toiled under Eglon’s rule
Under his might,
Under his perpetual night.
“Deliver us from this evil,”
Prayed unthankful Israel—
Like always before in the unperturbed cycle
G-d heard their cries from the wasteland.

VI
The existence of Ehud, G-d’s Judge,
Amalgamates at the tip of his left hand,
Would evil emanate from his finger tips?
Sinistra sinistra sinistra sinistra sinistra
Can he, caught in the grips of history,
Defy his wretched kind? With these questions
He, answering the summons of Him and
Armed with a double sided sword of two cubits
In length fashioned by his own hand, walked
Down from the mountains to the
Palace doorstep.
I
HAVE
A
MESSAGE
FROM
G-D
FOR
YOU

VII

As the blade pierced Eglon’s belly,
G-d’s writing evaporated from his mind.
Sent to a kingdom far away to conquer
A people he knew little about, his career,
His rule, his reign, would end at the edge
Of a man from amongst the commoners.
Here he lies, the once mighty king
Laying in a pool of his own feces
Sheol awaits for him after his death
Sheol awaits for us after our deaths
And, the young man, emerging from the king’s palace
With a smirk on his condensed face;
After the battle was won,
After Israel was delivered,
After his people forgot his very name,
He, too, from the tribe of Benjamin
Had Sheol waiting on him.

how odd, to be a woman and a girl
to wear the dresses but concern about cleavage
more than meets the eye: because.

and so we waddle for the men –
twisting straps, my petticoat drawbridge

i am over-aware of myself: know the pulse and
when to tug draperies from ‘part thighs
they only see what i am okay with,
which does not include exhaling.

i am like a drum, drumbeat
i punch my body until the purple softens
and it sounds beautiful, but incomprehensible:

me, this woman-girl and child cheeks
placed upon petals that flap
with attention, not the old storm breezes –
every april shower molded me into a flower
i rise above each season, gay spectacle

the men that believe hurricanes so enigmatic
must lust me for such a reason –
i have been through many in girlhood
that i bleed one as a woman.

because of word infidelities, the muse
april said that i am only as big as my body

and i grew, grew, grew
until my stem became caught
to where it grew no longer, a woman-child
who took the wind like salad dressing.

there's endless poems of broken hearts and broken dreams
there's endless stories of what could've been

I think about what we were
and how I become a part of the cliche in which I am another woman
broken down like a little girl
because of the infidelities that I thought would stop because you said you love me
I have realized that love has become an excuse
to hurt others and for others to accept it

I accepted your lies
time and time again

now I am another cliche

broken by the relationship you let fall to pieces

I can savor
The taste of fear
Riding upon the wind
As turbulently
As your troubled mind
Seeks desperately
To understand the mortality of this moment

The life and death mechanics of reality
The realization
That we are to die
As evident of the staccato pant
Of your futile labour

Frivolous at best
Arouses a sense
Of ******* justice

Hard truths
Brought to bear witness of
Your infidelities
Your betrayal

Lies
Aborning of arsenic
Sputters froth
From your womb

Searing traces of bitterness
Cascades a corrupted truth
Transformed into an ugliness
That has become us

Two hearts that once beat as one
Cast fervently
Into a cold war

Unrelenting hatred
Reciprocated  
Ricochet
Unmitigated threats

Wounds
That cannot be reprieved

How did we get here?
Do you even care-
To ponder the thought?

How
I once loved thee
A dream shattered
By the realization of now

But
The now I can live with
The thought of losing you I cannot
**** this relationship

Endure
I must
For the taste of you
Is the sake of me
My sustenance

I close my eyes
In perusal of happier times
When life was bearable

Abruptly
I'm jolted out of my reverie
By hilt of your scorn
Protruding from my chest

Animately
I touch
As if to confirm its legitimacy
A reason for its being

Overwhelmed by solemn peace
I collapse in passive supplication

And as she turns and walk away
Contemptuous
Of the final utterance
To flee my lips
I forgive you

I ponder
If she ever
Loved me at all

The invalids,
misanthropes-

Spell-check your ego at the dooooooooooooor
And though I fancy that fancy liqueur
I'm of sound mind and jaded-
Gore doesn't bother me and my eyes are all faded-
I'm a child of the devil
So let me level with you-
I don't know what I abhor more,
All this violence in the world, or the lack of haberdashery stores
So I'm of reasonable theory,
And awfully good at this-
So let me circumvent this infinite abyss-
Yeah, I'm *******-
Send me your tired, your weary,
your weird and your eerie,
and I'll eat them with a spoonful of peacock ore-

So I'm better at this than you are-
And I'm from France-
That probably makes you leery,
But my pants are clean and I'm the God of War-
Inadequate!
Mundane!
The pedestrian,

Heretofore-

I crush you, I'm a crusher-
A garbage compacter pall bearer usher-
I'm of appropriate quality-
I spit at inequality with a certain measure of frivolity-

I'm the benefactor of a luster-
So let me rush you into a hasty decision-
"I don't know about that," I hear you utter,
"Stuff it, yo!" I tell you, this is intermission, not the gutter-
So I'm a trap-

As comforting as a spinal tap-
Happy as a lark but fashionable as a jester's cap-
and with a wire cutter mouth-
With which I eat things with a forkful of infidelities-
Though I find the rings hard to chew-

No one ever said
Forever would be easy
Past infidelities and abuse
They still carry around
Ghosts that still haunt them
While you still have your
Self doubt, anxiety, depression
Hidden away in those dark places of
Who you are and used to be

You accept their
Paranoid nail-biting nervous hair twirling
Impulsive pen tapping incessant gum popping
Greed indecision pride, nosiness, sarcasm
Deal with their
Stubborn, psychotic, drama queen
Multiple personality moments
Which are less than desirable
Parts you wish
Weren’t always there

Like when they’re sobbing so loud
It’s impossible to hear them
Or they get so scared
You have to talk them down Off the ledge
Backed so far into a corner
All they feel is the pain inside
They’re so weak
You have to hold them up
Support their weight
While the universe
Crumbles around them
When tricks become the truth
Mistakes that still remind us of forever

Still, most of love is in the fights
Arguments on the edge of rational
Cement your relationship in place
That prove being together is
Worth the pain

Sometimes small arguments
Like where to go or who pays for what
When you go out
Turns into a fight where
The tiger tears open a new wound, roars
MONEY! MONEY! MONEY!
Someone’s face turns into a ripe tomato
That needs to be picked
Smashed against the wall
Juicy pulp and seed
Splattering everywhere

Still, the black rose blooms
From the same seed
Scraped from the wall
Where it grows into a beautiful flower
That only guarantees
With a little care it can last
Forever, still

I looked into her eyes as I slit her throat, they screamed, “Why?” I didn’t mean to **** her, I watched as her body went limp, crashing onto the cold, marble floor, I had to hide the body but where? I found myself grabbing a shovel and hiding it in the backyard, I had to wash the blood off my body, I soaked the sheets in bleach and burned all the furniture, there was nothing left but ashes and dust, I knew her family would start wondering where would she be, I was nervous, frightened at the fact that they would soon learn the truth, her father was a strict disciplinarian with a catholic background, he preached purity yet practiced adultery, sometimes his lips would kiss the heads of whiskey coated bottles.

During his drunken stupors, his fingers would slip between the cracks and crevices of his daughter’s white skirt, his drunken stupors soon turned to violent outburst, his large, gaping hands grasping the soft, tender flesh of her mother’s throat, she was a quiet woman, she would sit in her recliner and sip on her ruby red wine, her cigarette ashes would be scattered across the floor, her eyes would slip into a stupor, she would sneak her lover's home and fornicate in the master bedroom, their violent ******* would shake the walls, rattle the cabinets and keep the neighbors awake, the whole neighborhood knew of their infidelities yet said nothing, especially her daughter, who would watch their father and mother take home various strangers for their twisted ******, then she met me, I would listen to her, she spoke as the whole room went silent, she would speak about her dreams and fears, I would become her shoulder to cry on, I remember one day, as my fingers would fiddle through her soft, black hair, her eyes, dull and dim, would lay their hints of a tortured life, they were brown, a dark brown, her eyes slowly lost their luster, she would stare at me and the world with such contempt, I knew, I knew that she only wanted love.

I watched her as she slept, her fragile hands, gripping tightly on a crucifix and a bible, she would twist and turn out of frustration and guilt, in her mind, she wanted only to repent. I found her one day with her head slumped over the toilet, the pill bottles and ****** needles sat right to the pool of ***** that flooded the bathroom floors, her eyes were bloodshot, her arms were bruised, battered, and marked, I took her to the hospital, I still wonder, how did she survive? When we returned home, I looked at her, her body would shake and she break out in hot flashes and cold sweats, she couldn’t handle the pain, I could tell, she would look at me like sick puppy wishing to be put out of its misery, she grabbed my hand and gave me the razor, she pleaded and prayed, as I paced the room, I contemplated the thoughts of assisted suicide, as I watched her, she look into my eyes and whispered “Please…” I took the razor, with my hands gently caressing her hair, my hands, the blade, dance across her throat, I saw the blood, the luster in her eyes had returned as she slipped into the afterlife, I knew in death, that she thanked me, I saw the pain, I saw the relief.

we break into the graveyard after hours. no purpose, but it's just there, down the road. and it's nice the way it overlooks the ocean.
   climbing over the hedges, we see a middle-aged couple already there, blasting dixieland on a portable radio. we share a confused look, and just leave again, a tad indignantly. it's the kinda thing that's ruined if someone else's doing it.

                                                  summer drags on,


the sound of trucks. bubbled wallpaper in pavement creaks.
wonder with the directed slice of soft fallen pillow lumps.

we
          round the way to the two parks, one with the children mewling on the wooden
stumps and the other with the cigarette butts, sports grounds, snubbed out sunday radio. the wind make a steady jaunt down the long
forgotten corridors. there's little to see here, but it's an easy place to make home. the trees sway something rotten that would make a newcomer uncomfortable, but you learn to shut it out.

we're
standing in the road, hands in pockets, against the chill. no one's sure what to say. not sure if saying anything really helps the fact. it just embroids the situation with complexity, detracting from an otherwise pure, if unpleasant, tone. we settle for a 'see you around.' the claim, if it is a claim, is false. the movers come early the next morning. and the house down the way stands vacant. the boards rot away. a year later the building is knocked down. rebuilt. craftsmen and diggers. but the same lot. same dirt. chewed up and digested. every winter the worms die. are replaced. tendrils expanding and contracting. sit down. it becomes so wearisome, but sometimes the sun's mild presence  makes it okay. the boards buckle in the damp morning light. the
  water filtration system hums down the road. the neighbour's kid crosses the road to the other park. kicks a soccer-ball for a few hours, gets dejected, and returns home, is reswallowed by the painted timber.  


the bible pushers did the usual rounds on wednesday. Mrs. Grensten would always let them in for tea. we'd watch from the other window, and imagine infidelities, convoluted fetish play that they'd get up to. a game of enticing disgust. eyes on the window in the hope they'd slip up, and we'd see a shot of tired flesh among the drawn curtains. a vacant voyeurism. laugh in the boredom of a dreary sin.
       they haven't visited for some years. after Mrs Grensten died, the next time they came Mr Grensten chased them away with his walking stick among coarse shouts and tears. the downstairs windows and now left open, but there's nothing inside


your pen-pal in Romania sent a postcard. they didn't write anything, but there was an old chapel in a field on it


some days the sea is quiet. generally in the early morning, during lowtide. under the moon the sand takes on this expansive pale blue luminescence  
        usually it's either too crowded, or the waves make up for the lull in people. i thought i had a point here, but i didn't


  she stands in cotton robes, stained and dyed with gin. mother says to ignore her. she rings a small ornamental bell. you don't really get it. you ask why she's ringing it. with a finger to the mouth she shushes you. you look offended. as you 're about to persist in demanding explanation, she steps out into the road, just as a courier van speeds round the corner. she wears a soft smile. the tiremarks on the cotton makes a pattern that reminds you of something, but you're not really sure what.


a humming light on an old oak table. there's a peacefulness here. you loose tempo, and the crowding figures look at you with irritation. you feel small and wish to melt, to become liquid and drain away, move in motions already dictated, they ask the next question. Who are you? Why? Justify your reasoning.
       a half ****** caramel drop. sticky.
       pavement grit. coarse.
   they
                closed the walkway due to wasp nests.
you're not sure which route to take. you pass
     by the graveyard instead, and look out to sea. there's a gentleness here. it reminds you of something, but you're not sure what


   we used to find bugs at the pond edge. the area had a piercing smell, but that was part of the charm. it meant we'd never dare enter the water, though. one day in teenage bravado, we did. it was slimy in texture. suddenly, you pushed my head down among the green folds. there was something there. a soft, but solid texture, like jelly. electric scatterings. old tire tracks folding out, like a deconstructed rubiks cube. i shoved your head in as well. we laughed and splashed in viscera.  wye's spoke in empty folds and promised us the world in reassuring tones. the warmth of a log fire on a winter eve, crackling sparks glowing in undulation. the muffled tones of a showerhead, blanketed in feathers. a mellow smile of the certainty of an inviting future. we lay on our backs and the sun shone down through the trees. as it passed the yardarm we headed back to shore, lost rapture of the soft kisses of meadow-banks. you grabbed a rock and bashed me in the head. a solid but glancing blow. this too, was fine. no fear, just laughter. i grabbed one too. with blunt instruments, we chiselled skin and bone. small enfolds of the rising moon. we stretched out, fingers entwined. no fear. possibly regret? but a soft regret, the kind that tracks the passing of time, that lets you register the ceaseless withering of the past, and hopefully, see beyond. rivulets of blood. i breathe in your gaze, and melt into grass. just laughter.


the stitches in the corner of your mouth are rotten. that's good, that means the healing is done. flesh reunited with flesh. you feel it with your finger. there's a bumpiness, but little sign of much else

She is beautiful
Her husband is a great guy.
She has his children
They look so much like him.
I have this tiny space
of time with her.
A few laps of the pool.
She is not mine
And never will be.

Her warmth
is still in my bed.
Her smile still
glowing in my heart.
But I am a thief
I have stolen her

Even for a few hours .
My heart is a playroom
full of false promises.
Of lies that even
I cannot believe.

When she leaves
I will catch
the silence of my room.
And write a love poem
That I can never give to her.

I shall not grieve her loss
Even with the invisible dagger
that is plunged in my chest.
Because she never really
was to be mine

somewhere someone
lies in wait
to judge all my
infidelities.

With a scale of morality
he will weigh and balance
indiscretions
against good deeds.

I gave to a homeless family -
dinner. I ******* my best friend's girl.

Is my time balanced,
or is sin irrevocable?

Either way, I am at peace.
Good deeds and sin, I decided,
are part of human nature's
two sided duality.

Cruelty and empathy
love and hate
desperate and giving
we all need forgiving.

In the end,
If you ask me,
The judge will decide, who is correct?
the rest.

How did we shatter our innocence?

Tripping over the laces we tied together,
building homes solely out of old memories,
finding comfort in our worst pieces of skin
and calling it love at 3am
crying about insecurities and infidelities.

Darling, how can it still be called love
when the fires are burning down our sanctuaries, and our sanities?
How can it still be called love
when our foundations no longer mimic the Great Wall of China,
or stand indestructible like the concrete Pyramids of Egypt?

We are paper thin
and just as fragile
as the tiny paper houses
we used to make out of playing cards.

Our hands no longer fit
like perfect puzzle pieces -
they mimic sheets of sandpaper instead,
scratching out every ounce of sincerity
we once engraved into each other's palms.

Our footsteps fall separate octaves away,
out of sync and out of touch,
in this **** grand scheme
somehow labelled a masterpiece.

We were once flawless.
But now we've just made flaws
out of every single thing we used to fall for.
Now, we're just flawed.

gd

Time consuming life
Pain of life's consumption
Soul of past pain
Dang... How it went out with a bang
The slender lady sang sweet melodies
Of infidelities to get past the rain
Me I mean...
He or rather...
We moreover...
Three came to be, one.

Mind if I take time to tell...
No, better yet enlighten you
Of this unbendable, inevitable, unmistakable truth?
No matter how hard you try
Emotions only go as far as you are willing to fly
One way roads to dead ends and old foes
Green lights to nowhere but fake feelings and new acquaintances
When do you decide enough is enough?
When it gets tough and impossible,
Or when the lies seem as though they are going to eat you alive
Why try?
Cross your heart, hope to die...

Sea full of bitterness and unnerving endings to the story
Body battered and bruised
From the battle on the mountain top
Lost to the ones that don't really matter
In fact her and her masters
Can *******,
Those *******
As they torture and harass her
She said save it
I'm past em'
Who?
Three...
As in he...
Rather me...
sigh
Dang, what a bang
She shot me down while she sang
As I bled out in pain.
Mind, Body and Soul;
She chose my conscience to  blame.

so i write to you my confession...
to speak loudly and clear.
for so long, under such suppression,
damnation i had to fear.

greatly i have wronged you,
in more unutterable ways than one.
the truth of my infidelities
have yet to come undone.

i write to you my confession...
of a man of twenty-eight,
my lustful thoughts woed me,
actions i reprobate.

i write to you my confession...
of a man of twenty-two.
in which i spoke salacious words,
a man who is not you.

i write to you my confession...
of heinous and deliberate lies,
knowing quite well the manipulation
would lead to your demise.

i write to you my confession...
recite what you dont know.
the body that belongs to you,
i proceed to show.

i write to you my confession...
for i no longer wish to hide.
my words, my thoughts, my actions,
may now all coincide.

I ate slow,
while you analyzed my every stir,
From a lost glance,
to a shift in the seat.
You fed me pheromones on a spoon,
    and I slurped them down like honey.
Thick and dysphagic.
Disconcerted with the derailment,
   it eased the tears that hid behind tangles of unwashed hair.
Interluding like a meandering mind on a charring back burner,
                     the persistence lacked.

that dimpled smile still glows
portal eyes that cut to the core
our rebel spirits were condemned by our parents
trading grades for wild escapades
we struggled together but lifted the other
never could say goodbye
one more kiss wouldnt suffice
wrapped in each other
left me lost in that beautifully naive vice
jealousy, anger, and infidelities
coupled with passion, bliss, then coalescence
i know that day will come
painful excitement bursting energy
the reunion is brief
a final memory

the rule of thumb is: you really can't go mad twice, no matter how much you try, it happens only once, and soon enough you regain a footing, on a plateau of lucidity.

and it happened to me, i thought we had a verbal
contract, a sort of understanding,
  some locket of trust -
  as i charmed a swan out of *loch lomond
to her giggling pleasure,
     and charmed her with a bedroom filled
with candles,
      i should have known that with my third
persistent impotence she was trouble -
   by the fourth she turned into melting butter...
i can and will be an *******,
  i gather that, but there's only so much
mea culpa crap i'll mantra into my life,
we had a deal, she even suggested to be on
anti-contraceptive pills, because she hated
the rubber inside of her:
  talk about a reality check in the alternative
universe of ***** latex ***,
where the whole body is attired in a catwoman
outfit...
    never mind...
         and when she called me hysterical
about hearing voice saying: i think i'm pregnant,
i told her: you know what you have to
do? what? get an abortion...
   i'm still punching myself in the face from
time to time about that,
but i only said in shock what anyone would
say in shock, then again,
  being a man: i have no chance at redemption...
by my own honest shame even golgotha is
a ******* **** mountain of insignificance...
    i retracted my position on the "enforcement"
weeks later,
   but but then she was already on track
in her insidious ways... wooing another worthy
pundit...
     i'm not painting a picture of a saint,
just another schmuck who stumbled upon a great
****...
             who was promised contraceptive
precautions, who didn't mind the rubbers as much
as "circumcising" himself during *******
by pulling his ******* back, ending up with
a purple pheasant head...
       point being, then the attempted ******:
a complete fail,
   yes, i understand,
           abortion, bad, ******: acceptable if
the person is alive...
       i get the cosmic joke,
      i deserved the attempted ******,
like i deserved the wooing of a girl of 19
with a swan and loch lomond sunset -
   and her scheming plans to "settle down" -
like **** she settled down, last time i visited her
she was already married,
  and at a party, with the slashes arm down
the route of veins, talking to some other guy brag:
oh, i ******, great ****...
     am i worried about being a suburban
cenobite these days?
    no... not really...
           only mostly, in that i am looking
at the greatest mistake that ever came my way
in life: a woman...
       and i did have the antithesis of atheism
happen to me, a psychosis -
or what's called:
    having an awakening with regard to a soul...
a second breath, a thought with a body,
the feeling of a grand puppeteer and the inversion
of unconsciousness, onto an otherwise
formerly body of perfected obedience...
  it still bothers me,
for all i know the kid has been born,
  she's a russian national,
  she's a madwoman,
               if ever the kid would have me talk
about his mother and his surrogate father
he'd blink once, turn pale & subsequently die...
    i "hear" this buzzing in me left ear
that i attribute to: why aren't you paying alimony?!
i'm supposed to pay alimony,
      for what, for a lie?!
  oh right, man up, man this, man that,
              i have enough ******* that states:
there's no chance of pregnancy if you
planned it... well thank **** i didn't...
   the "passing on of genes* argument,
that english existential blackmail argument
is about done, which is what all english philosophy
is these days: blackmailing...
       genes are there, the little ****** wasn't
aborted, someone tried to **** me,
i'm still here, the argument's over...
    there's a balance attained...
and yes, that sentiment by bukowski is spot on:
some people never go mad,
  what horrible lives they must lead...
and don't they? opinionated *** cracks unable
to summon ****-pant into the bedroom
having courted a swan beside the shore
of a scottish lake...
  to later find that she cheats on her husband
and i'm not the husband...
          yes, i did suggest her having an abortion,
but she didn't exactly suggest:
let me move to london with you...
  she sure as **** managed to follow a rich boy
from st. petersburg to edinburgh,
no! i'm done with this mea culpa crap!
i'm done with english existentialism being
nothing more than bribery!
  i'm tired! tired tired tired!
              o.k. fair enough, i can settle on
a status quo, but i can't settle on a friend of mine
acting out the judge, the jury & the executioner
part, i apologised for the suggestion
of abortion, i wanted to make amends,
to retract my original position,
   but was i given a chance? no...
     did she keep up with her infidelities? yes...
    did i keep my status as a suburban cenobite?
sorta... broke it with a ******* after
getting bored with my hand...
    oh, what great horror, when one of them
exclaimed after a string of onomatopoeia
"nursery" rhymes of ******:
  that's been the second time;
what the **** does it take these days,
    a slaughterhouse akin to auschwitz to compare
to the moderately good, but sincerely un-evil man?
guess i'll have to showcase evil
in some perverse way to get the proper
badge of "honour" around here...
   for striving down the middle is about
as recognisable as ******* a pig, donning
a facemask of a goat singing:
  jingle bells, jingle testicles,
                     banging all the way;
might as well call it the moment *** became
******...
    you know why the pharaohs had eunuchs
to guard their harems?
   you do know, right? no ****** back in those
days...
   can't keep a harem without entertainment,
the eunuchs were the ****-lords of the harems,
they were the modern prozzies!
the pharaoh ****** these women to *******
and have heirs, but he needed ****** to
"protect" the harems for entertainment purposes...
****... the ****** "guards" did more *******
than the pharaohs; thus said:
you can compliment the size of king solomon's
harem,
       admire it...
   but back when ****** was not available,
you really can expect me to believe in solomon's
******* stamina... the size of the harem
i can imagine, the stamina of the kind? nope,
esp. since there was no ****** to turn that
limp donkey of a phallus into a galloping
steed, revising 1000+ bored "housewives".

And she found true happiness
after she decided she had enough,
that she deserved much more,
that her dignity was worth far more
than his lies and infidelities.
And only then,
did she find true happiness.
Her grace,
her dignity,
her self-worth guided her to,
who we all know as, "the One",
and found the perfect happiness
she always knew she deserved.

Shall I turn a blind eye?
Take every misdemeanor and
assume responsibility
Against my being
Break my pride in half
To make room
For the infidelities against my faith?
Maybe I'm naive
To believe the universe
Could conspire in my favor
Just this one time
I place my hands
Bruised and ******
Against a book of religion
In preparation for the trial
ahead
Who is the accused?
Maybe I am
Maybe I should take the stand anyway
I am not guilty
I am not innocent
There will never be justice