Excuse me, if you must,
as the spinning causes seasickness.
Open the clouds as you continue on
in an aeronautical sarcophagus,
thirty-thousand feet
above broken land.
Grab your lover’s hair,
last resort to prepare for
the emergency crash landing
into mother earth’s disease,
or are they simply parting the seas,
causing darkness to spread
from the unfilled hole in their chest?
Stomachs turn as the
broken wings and sails
fall upon the shores.
An ocean of rage delivers
waves of hatred embraced.
The surf clears, exposing pain
and the premonition
of a cleansing blood red rain.
Shrieks of the banshee
and the howls of the hurt rise
to meet the clouds seeking
to brighten the days afar.
As thousands flee in terror
we make a toast in the French Quarter.
The chariots gain speed
and the wake gains mirth,
laughingly applauding
the approaching dark comedy.
The newly arrived antagonist
has forced the hero’s hand
and now she births forth
a wave of healing epidemics.
The wake’s in the wind
and the funeral’s imminent.
Its population’s been soothed
into a sedated slumber,
but our character has issued
too many warning,
and strikes deep at the heart
of this sinful city,
breaking apart the basin’s barrier,
and lulls its children back to sleep
with bloodstained lullabyes.

I called them our divorce beds
Every night after we cuddled and couldn't
longer stand the claustophobic cover of our sheets
we found ourselves in seperate beds

divorce beds.

You slept on sheets covered in pink owls.
I slept on teal sheets covered in stars.
We were a twin bedroom dream.

Taking full advantage of a single dorm room
Our nights consisted of heavy whispers
Trains that fled our lungs and vocal chords
in search of the next station

Before sleep hit our barren chests
We'd lay awake and listen to our breaths
Sometimes mine turned into snores.
You hated that

Snores reminded you of your father
Something about expanded vocal chords
creating a symphony at night
scared you

Your father never married
Mine found safetey in a women
in a polka dotted dress
Who could transform his symphony of snores
Into an orchestra of love

Your father was bound by his only son
His nights spent in distress
Echoed a chorus of tears

Until he met Melinda
He called her beautiful
Words that hadn't left his lips since his son emerged into the world
A women full of desires and hopes
too large to fit underneath fitted sheets

You told me about her.
The way your father described the outline of her lips
parallel to the lines of stars that filled the sky
Her freckles constellations of undiscovered stars
Some nights our divorce beds
Felt too close for comfort, and
you would disspear in the morning
Claiming there was monsters in the walls
and that my snores were your fathers

You loved your father
A man who kept his word
Even when his life wedged tradegy into his veins
and his heart wanted to collapse into the inside of his chest
Your love for that man
could never be compared to anything

My father
Foud his life strewn apart into carefully
strung pieces of literature.
Words lulling women into the secrept compartments of his home
With authors no one had even heard of
Except himself.

The only advice my father only said was
“Two wrongs don't make a right”
But it is so hard
When you are throwing rocks at my glass house of confidence
I would shout

Shattered by your slurrs
Skipped rocks don't even miss
the walls that were carefully sculpted
into beautiful stained glass

My father was an artist
I told you about how his conductor
was a women with lips blood red
and kisses so sweet they could make his canvas bleed

You laughed
The differences between our fathers
Two men who believed in two different things
Two men who were in a constant search
for something other than the normal routine

As you laughed underneath your **** pink owl sheets
You told me to hurry up and fall asleep
You felt better listening to my breathing pattern lullabyes

Sometimes when those lullabyes turn heavy
and my chest rattles beneath my teal starred sheets

Please don't leave.
Don't flee.
There is too much hope living under our
divorce beds.

Life is a manor haunted by doors
All of its rooms bore my tread
Life is a manor haunted by doors
but there is this door, she said


Dolores paced al-through the nights
with dread in front of the door
Dolores paced al-through the nights
this ill-fated dark Dolor


No lullabyes can lull her to sleep
some mornings bereft of light
No lullabyes can lull her to sleep
for there is a door, she said


*My darling, darling, darling girl
daughter it’s all in your head
My darling, darling, lov-ed girl
your mother weeps in her bed


Oh mother mine allay your tears
to-morrow shall find me fled
This manor with rooms a-plenty to yield
but there is this door, she said.

The three little pigs had it easy
they were destined to be blown away
into oblivion
But,
expectations weigh me down in my sleep
and I have to greet the sun and the moon
with open arms,
and I'd rather be curled up in my bed of rocks
that I made with my own wretched hands.

My nails have dirt under them
so when they find me
when they dig me up
they'll realize
I was more alive than dead.

Perhaps perhaps that is true,
but I'm unsure at the moment if I can breathe anymore
without the man upstairs jumping on my chest
and rattling my bones like
windchimes in a blizzard.

They forgot to take me in from the porch
so now I am covered in ice.
Hypothermia is contagious.
I learned that the hard way.

My mother doesn't know any lullabyes
so I fell asleep alone all my life
there is no such thing as love in a world where
doors are always sewn closed.

My brother doesn't know the meaning of the word death
so he doesn't know who I am
or where I came from.
It's a divided house with splintered shutters
hanging only on one window.

My grandmother handmade the curtains so my mother
wouldn't have to spend any money on décor.
It is important to be fasionable yet frugal
she said.
Know your odds and ends
and always sweep the dust under the rug
at the end of the day.

Clean freak.
Everyday.
Shine the house. Shine her shoes.
I think she mistakes them for her soul.
But, it's okay
because ***** things teach important lessons in life
like who can bring the most to the table.

Honesty is the best policy.
I lied to my aunt so I could go smoke
her cigarettes and drink her *****
while she was gone on vacation.
She doesn't know I've slashed wrists
and doused pills with beer and dry martinis
on Sundays after church, but
Honesty is the best policy.

It's hard to explain to someone that addiction's not
addiction because you sound like
you've been shot
when you ask for the stuff you've been dying
to hold.
And they look at you as if you were the one
that ran over Princess Di.

Back up.
Back up.
Sit down. Breathe clean air and tell them that
you're not
suicidal
you just like the way the word sounds
on your tongue.

Aftermath is fear.
Intentions
always change last minute and as they
stuff the tube down your throat
you question if you are you
any longer.

People like that shouldn't rely on such
demeaning ways to be found,
but I can feel my skin rotting
and I'm terribly afraid
someone is going to cover me in
buffalo sauce and swallow me whole.

I was drunk
but does it still count
I've never truly known a woman
because I know the one for me will be
unknowable.
I am drawn to the things I can't have
and oh god
I can't have you.

I hear that if you lick the alphabet
they will fall in love with your tongue.
No one has made me fall yet,
that is no one I have tasted.
I don't trust they are worthy
if they can't look me in the eyes.

I pray to god no one ever inhales the carbon dioxide
I contain.
It is spoiled rotten with ash.
In fact, I am confident the dioxide
has turned black
by now

Little dormouse,
nun trying leather,
desperately cleans up her stigmata.
I hear you whisper prayers,
I see you twitch to stop yourself
to sign the cross
and I feel your foreign fear.

Little dormouse,
can you only muster
a half-riot, a part-furore?
Do you need a bit of blasphemy
to wash in dirtily
in order to be forgiven again?
And know, When you’re an angel,
floating up to live with the lullabyes,
will you grip your shoes
with your little toes?

Little dormouse,
moving your lips slow,
to look better to the snake.
To be new-born, translucent
In the half-light.
Such sanguine wine,
your flesh and your offer is.
The drugs and our pleasure
the pressure of our nature,
which we will not bow to.

Little dormouse
wants a bad habit,
not a good man.
Wants to understand,
things forbidden to think.
Wants an unhealthy metaphor,
not enough,
she wants to want more.
Under smiles,
there's proof the world is anything,
you’ll find whatever you look for,
but not the love.

Here come the Irishmen,kilted up and celted out,
about to to take the mic away and throw a smack into your mouth,
think they're ready lads?(nah I don't think so man)

No-one really wants a ****** sleeper hold from Sandman,
that's a pity cos your ****** rhymes are out of time,
cutting your umbilical-severing your lifeline,
save the fairytales skitz is reading grimms books,
looked into your future it was two words "you're ******"!
so **** the atmosphere,biosphere,feel the fear,
Grim Reaper in your sleep,lullabyes in your ear
like an earwig earworm but positive,
even though half the time the time things say are negative,
never mind blood type,rip the bag drink it off,
A Celt vampire,not sparkly with me shirt off
If I get me shirt off I'm Skyclad painted blue,
howlin'cross the battlefield to stick an axe in you!

A haon, a do. The only way to go is
a belt of the Celt and we're here to let ya know.
Me word is me bond and me eyes don't lie.
And I've danced with the Seidh in the dead of the night.

A haon, a do. The only way to go is
a belt of the Celt and we're here to let ya know.
Speak truths clearly,me head held high.
And I've danced with the Seidh in the dead of the night

See your guts drop,fullstop flip flop
just like 99% of all new Hip Hop,
what a mockery,you **** your pants in fear a me,
you're all the epitome of me me me me me!,
did me best to to help you out back in the day,
you spat it in me face so now I love your blood spray,
all brats,all backstabbers,not Celts,
if I take me belt off,the buckle leaves a welt,
across your facebones,skull+bones smashed bones,
are all's left if you step into the thunderdome,
to take a one on one,**** it bring your mates too
dental records-only way to ID you,
ICU will be your last place last breath,
you're literally starin' in the face of grim death
cause all your hatred is fuel for the fire-man,
its just like Thor shooting lightning bolts at Ironman.

A haon, a do. The only way to go is
a belt of the Celt and we're here to let ya know.
Me word is me bond and me eyes don't lie.
And I've danced with the Seidh in the dead of the night.

A haon, a do. The only way to go is
a belt of the Celt and we're here to let ya know.
Speak truths clearly,me head held high.
And I've danced with the Seidh in the dead of the night

You're so illiterate,words are illegitimate,
the Old ***** ******* Skitz still spits raw ****,
try try cry,cause you'll never reach the top,
best sounds like you're throwing alphabet spaghetti up,
*******,philosophy-horrorcore-got em all,
the length and the breadth of my mind is immeasurable,
so while you're miserable,wishing for some company,
I'm x'ing off the names on the list of who's dissin' me,
keep ******' me off if you want to,
I don't need a glock to blow a hole right through you,
use my skill set hackin' you old school,
modem in my left hand,right holds a power tool,
run,run,fool 'fore I let the dogs loose,
hip hop strangle hold,Sandman with a noose,
take a lesson in,kid you got your cards dealt,
whipcrack,smack!-you got a belt of the Celt.

*A haon, a do. The only way to go is
a belt of the Celt and we're here to let ya know.
Me word is me bond and me eyes don't lie.
And I've danced with the Seidh in the dead of the night.

A haon, a do. The only way to go is
a belt of the Celt and we're here to let ya know.
Speak truths clearly,me head held high.
And I've danced with the Seidh in the dead of the night.
Yes I've danced with the Seidh in the dead of the night...

his voice syllabic brushes
against canvas whispering
lullabyes within dreams,
lingering...

his musky fragrance flush
upon flesh, dallying like
verbs still whispering
between folds of rumpled
sheets...

every noun a soft whimper
uttered. lips openly inviting;
stirring tenderly like a breeze
echoing poetry with passion...

ensnaring heart in web of
his muse; each beat looms
copulative, sliding seductive,
awakening senses...

abandoned ache slips and I
pirouette, rippled within his
verse; succumbing to his
poetic thirst...

still whispering lush verbs
while easing between
silken sheets and breath
quickens...

as ****** of tongue licks
nouns of passion, sipping
spills as labials quiver
against tongued invasion...

and he softly murmurs across
brined flesh, touching, nibbling
trembled aches; inflaming naked
desire as each stanza seduces
me again and again...

drawn to masculinities tease
verse by verse...

the sea made Henry
knot a fishline 'round his ring,
tie one end to his wrist
and throw the package in the water

as he stood there, he sang lullabyes to the ocean
tugging often at the line to make it sparkle
but elusive:

"There are no hooks to catch them with
There is no catch for me to keep
I tempt them with a promise and a song
Once sung to me."

separate the petals from the cobwebs on the floor,
and grow roses from the life that remains;
but if their lullabyes have faded,
leave them be
to eat the sunshine
crawling through the cracks in your window-
***** with handprints of laughing children
“they don’t come around anymore”-
maybe,
the petals could grow stems of longing,
growing orchids
in your field of ashes.

Today I wore pink
And all through the hours
I felt wide - expansive,
Like a Sahara of embarassment,
The blush of recycled shame.

The color made me think of you,
And how you purred over the shade
When she inked it into her hair,
A blonde head turned to bubblegum filth;
How you smiled and fell in love
With everything but me.
You used to carry sweet words
In the pocket of your cheeks,
******* them like peppermints,
Tumbling them like a dryer
Until your teeth turned red
And then your tongue went sour
And your mouth grew mad,
Spitting sparks and catching my skin on fire.
She wasted you, with her cotton candy highlights
And that incessant, stupid need to be free.
She wasted you, and made you new
For everyone but me.

My mind is a carousel, and my thoughts are
Bumbling to catch one another,
Waltzing and reeling in spirals,
And dizzying the dance with canned lullabyes.
The girl at the bookstore has a smile
That's all teeth and pink gums.
She's pink, if pink were living,
And she's following me like a lost silhouette.
He asks me if I'm okay and I
Nod my head and feed him excuses.
He doesn't spit them up; its easy.
Truth is, I'm a whirlwind,
A pink whirlwind, and the color makes my stomach knot.
The muscles in my chest are whining,
And going stiff with self-disgust.
I'm starting to think I'm only happy
When I'm torturing myself with you.

i spent the back half of freshman year as a ghost, drifting through these halls without ever touching anything, haunting my own bones with nothing more under my skin than an echo, watery lungs and glassy eyes that couldn’t see past my own transparency. floating. i don’t like to talk about it.

i spent the start of sophomore year as a zombie, revived but not quite alive again, less like glass and more like porcelain, trailing my hands along the murals and trying to feel again. i existed, but i was still searching for existence. in january i found pieces of myself in a meteor, and in amethyst geodes and lunar eclipses i found that i was less undead and more E.T.
either way i didn’t feel quite human, like i was off by two shades, so i doodled UFOs into the corners of all my notes and wrote poems about people who smiled like stars in the halls, whose laughs made me feel like i was finally home.

i’ve spent all of junior year driving. nothing feels okay in the same way that leaving does. highways sing lullabyes with road signs, other late-night cruisers sending Morse code messages to the helicopters overhead. i don’t have to think.
i’ve spent all of junior year side-stepping every single pestering question about what i’m doing with the next ten years of my life, signing away my soul to banks for student loans, all for a degree that statistically i won’t even need down the road for anything past sharpening my job resumes, like “hey, look, i’ve got all this debt in the pursuit of a higher education, please hire me.”

i’ve spent my junior year catching up on breathing.
i’ve spent my junior year catching up on sleeping.
i spent the first two years of high school half-dead and fully awake, chugging along like a train destined for nowhere, nothing.

i want to spend my senior year moving.
i want to spend my senior year running.
i want to spend my senior year finding life through expelling the ghosts in my bones and burning the skeletons that always left dust on my conscious whenever i reached past them to get t-shirts out of my closet.
i want to spend my senior year shouting.
i want to spend my senior year knowing that i am already everything i ever will be combined with everything i already was.
i want to spend my senior year forming galaxies with my fingertips.
i want to end my high school career knowing that there is a universe of possibilities inside of me.

i spent freshman year as a ghost, but ghosts are best used as metaphors for memories,
and something i’m best at is forgetting.
there are days where i still feel like a zombie, but who doesn’t feel like that at least every single monday morning?

The Slobber Mouth lives deep down south,
hunting the Ner' do wells.
with candy canes and wooden trains,
with buzzers and with bells.

With fur of green, that's never clean,
and eyes so big and red.
Four filthy paws with unclipped claws,
he fills the woods with dread.

Spiked tail and horns and teeth like thorns,
fixed in a scarey smile.
A ******* nose and ragged clothes,
make up his unique style.

Baiting his traps with midday naps,
false promises and lies.
with wasted hours and April showers,
and soft spoke lullabyes.

Dust bunnies hop but never stop,
and never are they caught.
For they are wise to slobbers lies,
and all the gifts he's brought.
 
The Mites and Motes in winter coats,
so quickly scurry by.
for they too know never to go,
where Slobbers presents lie.

The feather bed floats over head,
the carpet thick with fluff.
He stamps his feet knowing he's beat
and screams enoughs enough.

He packs his sock and checks the clock,
so soon the house will rise.
Stomping away to sleep all day,
and hide from prying eyes.

Beneath your bed this sleepy head,
sits down to scheme and plan.
Tomorrow night if all goes right,
I'll catch the Bogeyman.

On tippy toes in bedtime clothes,
his teddy in his hand.
He waves goodnight to all in sight,
and leaves for faery lands.

I by fate and tragedy,
have been appointed to the childrens keeper.

We pass through empty streets,
the city in ruin around us.
We search,
salvageing what food we can.

We live in fear that destruction will return.
Wild dogs run about, baring yellow teeth,
threatening to attack.

We take refuge in a tall building constantly keeping watch.
We can not be the only survivors. Someone will come for us.
Where has everyone gone?

It is just I,
and to many children to count.
Sobbing tears,
that I wipe away with hopeful kisses. Restless dreams,
that I banish with sweet lullabyes.
I can not repair the damage that's been done,
but I can give them love, hope, comfort and warmth.

I by fate and tragedy,
have been appointed the children's keeper.
A task I accepted.
Now these children of ashes are my own.
They are my life, my everything.

I wish I could say it all smooth,
blue skies and butterflies,
peaches and cream,
sea glass gliding the edge
of the tide and the moon's soft glow
steadying our fragile night.

But the world is too sharp,

darling, and the lullabyes we
whisper before morning dew are
dashed to pieces by noon, the promises
we make suspended somewhere
unreachable. Slashed and stitched but
the scar is elusive. Tenuous.

Till then we conspire.

Whorepaint does not do her justice
So much prettier than her disquise

As she paints the sound of beauty
in her voice
Singing love's lullabyes

My pillowy lips that you love so much,
I'll use them to kiss where it hurts so much. 

This rosy pout that you adore so much, 
Will sing you lullabyes that you need so much. 

This full lip that I bite so much, 
Is caused by your desire I can't resist too much. 

I say no never, 
I'm sane no longer, 
My Sweet Monster, 
I'm yours Forever.

Summer creases
Memories in pieces
Undisturbed lullabyes
Drifting away
Earthquake wide awake
Moving in sound dancing
Not in the air but on the ground
Stained pages drip's of
Sages drink spilled
On letters not in ink
But lead
Keeping starshine
Wears it on my sleeve
Catches my collar
And so you leave
It sounds like a beach
Nights without sleep
Stayed awake
Grazing memories within
My mind's eye
I'm in love with my sadness
We have an affair
On again
Off again
But it lingers in the still air
Still there, Budweiser
Oh nicotine!
What wars with white sails
And blue oceans were fought for
You, Marlboro
Only to give me headaches
California
California
California

( Don't talk, speak )
The need to move
That need to sit still
Periforate the fabric of
My design

It brings me to tears
Some nights
Thinking about those highway
Roads and street signs

Miss the ocean
I miss the pier
Miss the salt in the air

Sweats flowing like falls
She fell

She fell-
             inlove at first sight
From that day on
            you became her kryptonite
Your cries
            made her petrified
Your smiles
           became her home at the westside

Sundown.
Dark town.
Beneath the twinkling stars
She craddled you in her mystic arms
Singing lullabyes of rainbows and charms

12 in the midnight
Child, don't be terrified
This is not Cinderella's tale
The magic won't be gone
Lift up the dress's veil
You'll see
               - the one who fell
Your lady in shining armor
              - the fairy god mother
The one who stays
                        lifelong
         till the hourglass breaks
She'll be there
                    forever

I once knew a man,
One who played all the instruments,
And sang all the tunes,
And cried with the lullabyes when children bedded down.
And when I last met him,
On Father's High Hill
He told me, "Music is the only language you are born with."

I once knew a lady,
One who met with all the people
And loved with all her heart
And laughed when she saw the children run.
And when we last spoke,
In the summer's suburbs,
She told me, "We live to await the next emotion."

I once knew a couple,
One who lived with all their might,
And climbed every cliff,
And carried all the children in thier shoulders.
And when we last past,
In Leconte's thickened forest,
They told me, "Trying times are not the times to stop trying."

I once knew all of those people
And sang and loved and lived,
And played with my fellow children.
And when I last saw them,
Through the course of my life,
I would reply simply, "That's a truth to live by."

River low mountain high
I said hello you bid goodbyes
I felt sorrow, yours a merry lullabyes
Your love I borrowed, mine you coloured with dyes