Lines of scar tissue trace from the edge of your lips back to the end of your teeth. You run your tongue from one corner to the other. Right to left. You can’t be the only one to have this. Your desire to probe another’s orifices has close to overwhelmed you in the desire to relate to other people. Was this normal? When the fan runs wind over your skin it crawls to create peaks and divots. As they fade, one patch remains on the outside of your forearm. You pick at every little one until the whole population turns red to purple to green. Was this normal? Your teeth poke holes into each other. A corner of a molar no longer holds up a roof and with your tongue’s help you can just barely make out the inner cavity. It felt like porous webbing. It reminds you of the animal skulls you looked at in your biology class and their delicate nasal cavities. Looking at those cavities used to make you very sad. Was this normal? You once had a hangnail on your hallux. They had to numb your foot to break under your skin and pull the left section of it out. It took twice the amount of anesthetic for you to not feel it. It felt good to know you were being mutilated.  Was this normal? You always felt a dip in the upper back of your head. You once heard that newborn babies had a soft spot in that area of their skull, but that the hole closes as they get older. Pressing on yours incites headache. Was this normal? You once formed a cyst on your thigh. It did not want to be drained like its smaller companions that littered your back and face. You are determined to remove the blemish. You dig around the outsides and press inward to find the source. It seems deeper than you thought. You continue to scratch away at the layers of skin as you start to bleed. It doesn’t really hurt. You just want to find the cyst. After about thirty minutes you give up. You’re not really sure why you couldn’t find it. You must have took at least an inch into your leg. Was this normal? For weeks you slipped in and out of lucid dreams. You only got up to use the bathroom, check the news, and take your medicine. Some of the dreams were enjoyable and others less so. You almost started to forget which world was more real, but it all started to become unsettling. Even when you didn’t care where you were, every state felt as if it were decaying around you. And when you did care, the panic caused you to start to shake. In quiet, disabling anxiety, you spun counterclockwise to the world around you. You grabbed the razer from your shower. You gently rubbed the blades against your forearm. Erratic slices cut through the outermost dermal. There was no blood, just redness. It was only to make sure you were still there. But it wasn’t quite right. Your arm was there, but maybe the rest of you wasn’t. You had to make sure. Was this normal? You raced the blades up your arms, over your chest, down your torso, down and down. Certain curvatures ran strange and caused blood to pearl to the surface. Others barely upset the dead layer. You looked at yourself in the mirror. You always felt like your face didn’t look quite right. And right now, it was the face of some sort of estranged family member. Was this normal? You gently glide the razor sideways across your face. It’s the most sensitive yet. You remember some random piece of trivia about the temples on a human head. You start to slide the hand razor to the right side of your temple. It doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. You experiment with more and more pressure until blood starts to arise. The little bit of it running down the side of your face made you feel the most comfortable in your skin for a long time. You start to rotate from your forearms and your temples and your stomach and again. You’ve forgotten about the dreams. You’ve forgotten about the world. You’ve forgotten about the trivial division between reality and non-. You’ve forgotten about normalcy. You feel good. Was this normal?

Her mind's divine
her shaken soul will shine
in the first hour of midnight
her moon will surely shatter
her body's bruised and battered
she is the tranquil rain
she is the bearer of pain
she is the harsh December
and the only star I will ever remember
she is my broken bones
and my journey home
she is my one eternal
my callous and cruel orchestral
my final hour
my infinite meteor shower
she is my song awoken
my word unspoken
and everything I want to say
that I dreamt of yesterday
she is the grace in my lungs
blossoming as my youth falls young

..and then you wake
fall out of a dream because you were not strapped in,
try to return but you can't find the key and so,
you break into your eyes like you're stealing the mint and
the day oozes in with its mud and like clay your feet start to move as you start to sway when the scent of the morning, the sweat of the night lays on your skin and your breath's like a gray cloud, outside there's a shout but you drown it out in the jet stream of a shower, the power in your head ignites, the night's a memory now,
the dream is not it's all you've got to live on.

the sun that bleeds through your blinds
     and makes your eyes burn

I want to be
     the cold shower that wakes you up
          and makes your skin tingle

I want to be
     the cigarette smoke that inhabits your lungs
          and makes you calm

I want to be
      the wind that makes you shiver
          and whispers sweet secrets in your ears

I know I'm just
     the blanket that you cling to
          when your cold
                                                            ­                        
                                                                ­                           but I want to be so much more

my mouth is so full of questions

did you ever love me?
or did you love the things i represent?

did you just love the fact that i'm independent, that i'm a feminist, that i write poetry, that i like video games, that i have a nice smile?
did i give you a clear vision of a future, of where we would live in a perfect little teacup house with our perfect little children

or did i make your heart thump?
did i ever actually make you feel things?

did you ever see something so beautiful that there were no words to describe it
but you wanted so badly to try anyway

not so you could tell someone that you had that experience
but just because it made you feel something




did you want me to meet your grandmother because you wanted to spread love and joy in all directions?
or because you saw a future with me
a future wife
and you wanted to be able to say to your perfect future children
that I had met your grandmother
and I could vouch for you
when you said she was great

was it all just a metaphor

i'm so confused

because you
you say that you loved me
but now i don't think that either of us knew what the **** that meant.

we had *** in the shower, pressed up against each other like some **** movie
******* each other, searching frantically for ******

when,
if we really loved each other

we would have been just fine
making love in a bed, kissing each other sweetly




but then again

i don't really know.
does anyone really know

i mean really know when they're in love

or do we all just think we are


because love is such a big scary thing
that
no one can see it.
maybe i'm projecting.

maybe this is all just how i felt
and how i could never tell you
that i wanted to make myself feel something

but, it's a problem that i've had for a long time.
i can't ever make myself feel anything.


because it's like a high

and i don't want to feel numb anymore

my oh my
Why do die?
I dip. I dive.I'm feeble minded.
I ride along trees
Sheryl Crow. Abuse
a list of rhetorical questions
Shut up
Shut up
Shut up
I *** in the shower

These sporadic
slow white
flakes fall
like a shower
of ash
in a town
with no Vesuvius

He is an Autumn shower, he loves me.
He is a Winter freeze, he loves me not.
I am his queen on the throne, he loves me.
I have no home but this dungeon, he loves me not.
Words fill my heart causing it to float, he loves me.
Words fill my heart poisoning it, he loves me not.
His voice speaks so soft in my ear, he loves me.
His lies spill so easily, he loves me not.
I always knew without doubt, he loves me.
Turns out to my dismay, he loves me not.

truths come out in the shower
where we cleanse ourselves again.

my body:
she sits with me under the cold water of the shower and wipes the tears from the lines under my eyes. she lifts me up and wraps her arms around me. she tucks me into bed at night and wakes me each morning, peeling off the comforter and sheets. she tells me i'll be okay, because my lungs still work and my heart still beats. she loves me when nobody else can.

The first time I knew about love, no one told me that it would be painful. The first time I had a feeling for someone, I kept it all in my heart, thinking that he will get the message. Instead, it is all locked up in the tiny little space.

But no one told me that someone is holding the key to my heart.

No one told me that someone could unlock it, releasing all my feelings kept inside and replace it with his own.

The first time a guy ever unlocked my heart, it took time. It first starts out with a mere seed thrown inside my heart but everyday he would shower it with love until it turns into a flower - a prove of the blooming of our love.

But no one told me the flower could die.

The first time the flower starts to wilt, I tried so hard to gain some love from him. But in the end it keeps on wilting and wilting, until it is hard to even save it. When hatred start to fill up my unlocked heart, it was too heavy, my tears fell. Until one day, he came, locked my heart and never come again. The hatred starts to grow and grow until my heart cracked.

No one told me that the person who holds a part of me could easily throw you away.

But now that he had come back, trying to unlock my heart again, will I let him? Can a flower grow back? Would I even let him come near me, embrace my heart and unlocks it again?

*No one told me, that love is a cruel thing.

I can't stop fidgeting.

My stomach is going through a repetitive cycle of being turned inside out.

The voices of bratty adolescents are muffled through the floor.

In front of me are three self portraits.
None of which are happy.
What are you doing.

It's not time to go out yet.
I don't think i'll shower, either,
because there's no real reason.
I wont be seeing you tonight.

My nine year old sister and her friend are cackling in the room over.
Your smile comes to mind.

All these medications are driving me insane,
but in a way i've come to love it.
Being able to talk about things,
even though I really don't want to.

Why do so many people say live every day like it's your last,
yet judge the ones that do.

I feel like I'm sinking in a ocean of growing up,
and doing work.
With only a slice of playfulness out of the corner of my eye.  

what on earth is going on outside my door.

I've chosen to stay in
because today,
I like the company of my thoughts.
Even if they're not pleasant.

Right now
me:
girl
at desk
can't stay still
ankles crossed
light blue jeans
on the edge of her chair
gray shirt
long blonde wavy hair
glasses
energetic fingers
makeup run down her face.

Being in love with you has slowly killed me over the years,
but I still don't mind it.

I only wish that I could be for you
what you are to me.

Been reading poems lately
And they've led me to thoughts of you
Memories just came up
Of all that you wrote
In my high school yearbook

I write often now
Not sure if you were aware
I wrote back there
There, then back when
We were a pair

I hope this does not muck up
Your day
My plan is just to
Open up
And breathe

Past feelings have come up
Due to these memories
That I have stirred awake

I made plenty of mistakes
Of that, I am sure you know
All I hope for now
Is for your intelligence
To be brought out
And shown to the world
Because I always listened when you spoke
Words on the phone
Or those that were on paper

You've got quite a rhyme scheme
You always were so clean
Often just stepping out of the shower
It seemed like, walking towards me

In the airport
You held such a handsome smile
Blue eyes that could shine for miles

We never used to let go
Not back then
We would hold tight
With an iron grip hold
Breaking briefly to make a mold

Cried tear after tear
Back then
Those days long gone

i. I've never really believed
those people
that say we are made
of stardust. but the
constellation
of bite marks
you left across my chest
might just change my
mind.

ii. I'm glad a shower
is on my plan, because
instead of me
I smell like you. and don't get
me wrong, I love
the way you smell
but it might drive me
insane
with longing.

iii. being the one to leave
in a way
is easier. but please
don't think walking away from you
doesn't break me
a bit
every time.

I really can imagine-
what it would be like
to live in a home
where there is no love warmth compassion affection
rights equality truth love sympathy freedom believing and dreaming
because the truth is my dear
Its a life ive been blessed with-- from an optomists perspective.
Life.
It wont get the best of me.
Ill learn from there fuckups and toxic wrong doings.
If I should make it to produce offspring of some sort--
I know I will shower them in More love than I have ever felt in 21 years
They will be able to confide, love, dream, speak, be honest, respect and talk to me
face to face.

The notes of the songs we heard are falling like rain.
They shower me in nostalgia and pain.
The poison filled memories won't bleed out.
The words you said keep screaming so loud.
And you...
What you said was absolutely true.

There's a monster in my mirror that pushed you away.
I'm sorry I couldn't keep it at bay.
Lets ask each other questions and tell no lies.
Maybe then you'll see all the love in my eyes?
Haunt my dreams and slice me apart.
It's impossible to stitch back my heart.

This sudden change has made me sick and sore.
God how I wish I didn't need you anymore.
Let me go and I'll free fall through traffic.
I want to scream in your face but you're holographic.
Come back and pick up this mess!
This mess you've made in the whole of my chest!

And I don't think you realize, just what's been done.
I'm ******* sorry you weren't having any fun.
Love me in my dreams, because you hate me out here.
Watch me never wake up, it's not like you care.
Put your hand to my chest, can you feel my heart race?
It's racing like yours did, it's matching the pace.

It's pounding so hard, it'll pop out of my skin.
Exposing the desolate world within.
Come creep in my head, let's crawl into bed.
Why don't you beat me till i'm black, blue, and red?
I'll hide in my pillow as these tears turn to glass.
Just show some affection, that's all I ever asked.

Rough wheels run circles
Around a static background
Passing the same horizon
Over and over again
Like some old cartoon
Driving in place
As he races to his next stop
To live unload his next drop
Early bird waiting hours plus
Hoping they can fit him in
So he can hit the road again
Before his electronic log
Locks him down for the day
He brings his paperwork
And waits
He pulls his tandem back
Then waits
Drops his trailer in the door
And waits
Rest stop gas station shower
On the road
Smoke stacks cough up
Black clouds
Yellow lines
Become yellow blurs
Another load down
Another pick up
The road rides him roughly
Home beckons him on
Fifteen hundred miles
To his own bed
Coffee break and **** stop
To clear his head
And the sunset runs seventy miles
An hour
While he pushes seventy-five
Two million miles down
Two million more to end his life

Awake again, another day
Coffee as brown as her eyes meet me from
The mug she made me.
The heater keeps the cold away
But not as well as her breath
Or her skin against mine,
The shower head begins to spray
Steaming water that I ever wish were
Her fingers, streaming down my back.
Our frustrated feelings start to fray
As we play witness to others begin life together
As we've worked so hard to achieve.
But I will be the ceramic and not the clay,
Steadfast and unyielding until mine is mine
And hers is hers because by god --

Awake I will be in the suns first rays,
Wrapped in arms and light and soft brown hair
And eyes like coffee that will beg me back to bed.

To feel love, and taste love, and be love again
But all I feel are the words that come from my pen
And as I lay my curly locks upon my bed
I think of you and everything that you once said
And though I shower to wash off the memories
The feeling of your lips on my skin remains on me
I remember all the nights that we didn’t fight
When there was never enough time during the day or the night

I wish I could blame you instead of me
I wish things could be the way they used to be
But I blame myself for trying so hard
For not letting go while I was unscarred
For wasting so many tears on someone who didn’t care
For missing you for all the times you weren’t there
I know I am young and I have plenty of time
But I feel numb and wonder if I am alive
But I can hear my heart pounding when I run
So I run and keep my eyes on the sun
And I feel the heat upon my face
And then I know I am in a good place
I can run away from the thoughts in my head
And stay content until I go to bed
When I cannot run and I cannot sleep
All the thoughts of you begin to creep
And though I hid away all your things
Like music when it’s turned off, still rings

And though this poem may seem a bit much
I hope to read it and not miss your touch
I will read this and know that I have grown
And hope someone will read it, and know they’re not alone


So I will wipe my tears and let my fingers fly
And write down everything I have held inside
And I will keep my face towards the sun
And with faith and hope
I will run.

I miss the beach on Cape Cod
And the little cottage with the outdoor shower.
I miss selfies at 3AM
And big hugs.
I miss your black and white comforter,
All the comfort you provided while we huddled underneath it
In the cold winter months.
I miss the laughs,
Movie marathons,
Ramen lunches.

I miss who I was when I was with you.

Breathe...and see the sunset...
Drink some water...and listen to a sonnet,
Dance, write a poem, if you need to, cry
Get a good night's rest, draw the starry sky
Go out, see some friends, and play the guitar,
Feel angry if need be, it will take you far,
Step away from the phone
And spend some time alone
Have a good old shower, a good meal and then
Above everything else, let yourself ask for help,
It is not cowardice to let yourself seen weak,
It only shows the courage to change the life you seek.

Actually,
You're it.

_M.

Hope was selling
dreams to the hermits
on the street.
Empty stars filled the carts
paying a price that was too
high.
In debt they left
and came back broke with
butterflies in their dusty pockets
and moon kissed smiles upon their frowns.

Aspiring the rocky dust of crushed stars,
feeling high, feeling new
shooting up, falling down-
A shower of meteors lighting up across the horizon.
Crashing the earth's crust,
addicts for another fix.

Dreamers stealing the stars,
tasting paradise for a little while.

drinking warm whiskey... isn't so bad...
it could be much worse:
it could be warm *****:
     not cold enough to reach a gomme syrop
consistency...
life's so tragic... sometimes...
       a warm ***** is like a warm beer...

what am i supposed to say?
i'm just tired of wanting to be in love...
i'm tired of hating...
   i'm tired of being angry...
i'm tired of being preditable and also:
slithering in pickling juices...
i am tired of love because...
               when it was "love"...
it wasn't dog eyes and a leash...
         or: never mind the solipsism of cats
when they still desire to mark your
forehead when sniffing it...
or come up and greet you:
with a "bodzio"... a head-****...

    so much of my cognitive capacity
became a wasteland from having
both woman and love on a peddlestool
of the ideal...
                   it's terrible waking up...
but that "terrible" sometimes becomes
as... exhilarating as taking a cold shower...
or watching a flock of sparrows chirp...

and the ***: cocoon ***... under bed-sheets...
all my one-night stands happened this way...
under the bed-sheets...
i'm happy to give a comparative literature of:
well... at least in the brothel we did it
under dimmed lights...
****-naked on the sheets...
having showered first
and downed a slacker of ms. amber:
oh you know it's bad...
that i have to call whiskey a very personal
investment narrative...
it's not whiskey... it's... ms. amber...

i should have been drinking long ago...
come shoulder to shoulder with
both my paternal and maternal grandfathers...
cocoon ***...
and if you don't think a man can be "*****"...
at the brothel?
  there's the concept of: creaming-up...
if the oyster isn't salivating enough...
yes... "****"... cocoon *** with a sawdust ****...
sanding paper **** more like...
oh the agony: but to my liking...
yeah bud: stick your lesser want of limbs
into a meat-grinder:
is that penetrating enough?
      who would forever suppose...
it's a kangaroo pouch of safety...
the nadir of lucifer's birth:
     free-falling: head first... but not through
a ****... not some floral pattern...

     cesarean... cesarean... are we going to give
births to kaisers or dull-eyed: deer...
i very much like to imagine a band
of mad-laughter hyenas...

               coal-burning black eyes...
      i am tired of giving up my thinking to any
and all ideals of love...
i could have invested my (th)ought i
into... conjuring up an electric bulb...
        a frankestein...
                i became so tired of love...
i had to come across a brothel:
to steal kisses from prostitutes
     and attempt a theft of the halo of st. augustine...
mummify letters in books...

which i have done...
        but love is such a never-dog...
                    one relationship that involved as cooking
together: beside the already necessary
prerequisite of *******-for-free...
her period, the ******, and cooing her
to do it in the bathtub with the water running...

or this: moment when enough ms. amber
is in me... and i turn to...
         the chants of the templars:
            crucem sanctem...
                   dum pater familias...
          da pacem domine...

that clarity of a transaction...
              the growling dog overwhise
teased with food already presented to him
in a bowl...
          count of fingers...
                    
     i'm tired of love... of all of my body...
this nail blunt head from being hammered
too often...
           it escapes me:
why should my libido be compensated
when it requires: exhaustion...
to find the most fanciful thought:
only when the libido is exhausted:
   and if i have to do it myself: so be it...

but of so many people worried:
i am indeed... "worried"... when will it...
subside... die off...
this quills': marquis de sade:
leverage of: to read books using only
one hand...
                        if the acne is so prolonged
to make me...
belzeebub's favourite ***** of:
what precedes ****** / anti-wrinkle creams...
one maggot 'ere... another...

it is simply exhausting to love:
as one is expected to love via fiction...
and it is too costly to love:
poetically... anything but language...
esp. acquired language:
a language learned... most certainly
not passed from a grandmother to a mother
to a son...
some could claim to call these words:
in vitro...
         and on that matter...
which part of me is experimentally "dead":
the mind... or the body?
i am not... a native of these parts...
a native...           a native...

this is the part of the year when
winter is crucified... and reborn as spring! no?
all ******* rose buds and sparrows chirping!
who can love... so... ideally...
idle though: to make the burdens
of the most... boorish matters needing:
stressed concerns for "detail"...

  am i one of the last ones that still
bought a *****-mag when
the free **** was available online...
                     twitch... i'm an old ****:
in a 34 year old body... because:
keeping up... became synonymous with
being distracted...
                  cam-girl... etc. etc.
            "soz": but there just isn't any bragging
to be minded...
or a:        h'american striptease... d'uh: tease...
the carnival of the wriggling maggot
came to invoke
kissing the eyelids... gently teasing
the tip of the nose with a bite...
                             this body... or that body...
an a sculptor...
   in the brothel i was only robbed... once:
well... "robbed"...
this coke-head distrated me with:
do you want to use this *****...
          the proprietors' henchman...
a little turk by the time: i presume to be:
Osman came up with a bundle of stolen cards
and asked me: which one is yours?

that's a pretty good effort...
        i must have been up to no good...
once we stopped ******* because: she started
seeing downton abbey in an epileptic flicker...
yes: and me ******* her wasn't,
exactly... a ******* chocolate fondant...
          
it seems so... pristine when...
two bodies are allowed to touch...
without all that extra baggage...
that is desired to... "beside" the otherwise...
readily available carnality of the act...

e-girl vidoes: teases...
                                    what can be the best
compliment... one could possibly give to...
byzantine culture / the "modern" greek?
   ah... Αγνή Παρθένε... the singing...
                          
   mulier... no... not a woman or wife...
             hardly a property right...
something to boast and concern oneself for
the rattling of feathers of peacocks...
     mulier... the french playright...
ugh... molière - yes, him!
            molière donning a mullet! yes...
and not one of those charles II wigs...
from one wig alone...
               you could have made...
oh... roughly... an orchestra's demand
for violin and cello bows...

              pissy-pant french of 14 year old
past: one direction fandom...
                            for every male fan of tool...
a declared ownership of a *****...
better still... a screwdriver...
    that would be something...

                                or when stand-up comedy
was communist enough to entertain:
a cabaret form... an **** oddity (bottom)...
can't enough not tire of
stand-up solipsism...
the stand-up solo project of...
back-and-forth with an audience of canned
laughter?
cabaret... doesn't have to be switz
ja herr doktor voltaire...
         but some sort of ping-pong...
a game of squash...
i do not know... of a single concept of
sport... where there's only one...
concept-riddle of engagement...
can comedy... or rather... should comedy
have "evolved" beyond the cabaret...
famously: in theatre-land...
stones in his pockets...
two bodies on stage...
  with a plethora of...
how the sequence went...
   BRONSON...
bronson "vs." or rather:
"nursie" vs. "mr. petersson"...

          two names: Conleth Hill and
             Sean Campion... oh look... capital! letters!
yes: of note... circa 2001...
and that's when...
   this... stand-up... hard-on "comedy"
of stand-ups...
no... no cabaret format...
internal-monologues extending into...
an octopus attempting cliff-skimming:
climbing... failing miserably...
   if it's such a "comedy"...
    where's heidegger's hammer?
last time i heard: even by ol' martin's standards:
you'd require two people to talk
about philosophy as a "side-project"
when hammering in nails...
how can one person tell a joke?
oh but they can...
on special occassion(s)...
         the joke is better translate via a dialogue...
rather than a monologue...
last time i heard...
  
comedy doesn't require these stand-up
geniuses...
imagine... ******* is actually...
a *** act...
taking a **** is actually a...
        get together meal for three...
and that's the loaf... equally spread...
for the devil's dozen...
   ******* will satisfy any champagne socialist
get-together...
      
   i have to become bored of love...
the sort of love that would never come with:
the impetus of darwinism's ideologues...
for: now that i have become a father...
           i'm less and less: a ***** satyr!
               wish me 70+ age and being freed
by dementia to curse like a cobbler
and a seafaring man...

              that overbearing: no room for impromptu:
when solo...
otherwise... no otherwise...
just that strict: regime of... an expectation
for and with: canned laughter...
all that's missing are two tin cans
and a placenta of stiched-up tongues...

... for all the movie buffs...
it's not enough to blunt your eyes on movies...
actors: and their subsequent roles
in 3D... why did up stand-up...
the grand mass-orchestrator of giggles be
allowed to cue the audience...
like any minor dictator might: from
argentina or romania?

                 back toward the ***...
yes... stealing kisses from prostitutes...
this was never going to be one about Wordsworth's
"celibacy"... which you would be expected
to partake in... just having bit into
the forbidden fruit of ****** with your sister...
or so... they might say...

daffodils and that "doris" of the...
will the word ****... somehow prevent
you from seeing ****** ****...
or ******* ****?
then at least there's the hope...
to make minors of ettiquete standards
of the: proper social contract approach:
with civility... or therefore: none...

i am finding a rare occassion for:
an as to why, i would ever do anything to begin
with... grow a beard (1)
grow a beard to stop myself shaving (2)
grow a beard to hide my double-chin (3)...
grow a beard because
growing my hair long became boring (4)...
grow a beard because i wanted
to scratch my ***** on my face rather than
scratch them on my "eden region" (5)...
the other reasons congregate under
the status of... rubric and tally...

(6) to grow a beard is better than growing
the hair long...
no chance of becoming bald...
long hair attracts too much female attention...
last time i heard a woman who grew a beard
became a circus-act...
a beard is the safest territory to mind...
when there's a woman that...
somehow needs to compensate!

         all of a sudden: i have forgotten *****
envy... when i came across
beard envy...
   i am... very much so...
envious of mel gibsons beard...
in general: but esp. so in the role...
of prof. murray... with him donning
a cravate and a top-hat to boot:
the epitome of what all men of the world
could have wished for:
the victorian gentlemen...
fiercer still: an autodidact...
a dog without a leash... eh?

     i pity the tattoo of ethnicity:
given that: i would be english...
an ukranian would be scottish...
or a lithuanian... the tattoo of ethnicty or a past...
that i would be the ******...
and there was this tide of cossacks...
i would be... the ******...
           and there would be some
ingenius pict equivalent...
            in my abode...
                      
    i am tired of love...
the most attired love of idealism...
as i am tired of hate:
and anger...
i am tired of both of these latter:
when there's no boxing match interlude
to match-up with...
i'm tired of love as i am tired
of retribution and of justice...
i am tired of gambling...
what right is there fore me:
to steal from the blind?
           i am tired from: expectations...
i am tired of ideals...
i am tired of hate because:
if i wasn't i'd still find it...
egregious to spot the minor offences
of citing the prefixing n-...
                                        as... nothing short
of an "oops" of b-               and -igger!

i'm tired of being: a civil monkey...
if i'm tired of love...
if i'm tired of hate...
i can never tire of language...
but if i become:
zoologically kept: inept...
                      ha ha! ha ha! ha! ha!
i: dodo: tire: and Tod:
of: ******: improm:     p'tooh!
         savvy or the sinking ship?!

                       RATZ!

better a concern for prostitutes:
seeing that... there's no...
jackie ol' myth to be cooked from my "affairs"...
i thought about:
how about... now was the best time...
to not **** prostitutes...
i stole kisses...
an exercise in making videos...
bring back blockbusters!
             bring back blockbusters!
**** the content creators of youtube!
give, me, back, my, *******, jukebox!
give, me, back, my... thesaurus algorithm!
give, me, back, my, *******, jukebox!
give, me, back, my... thesaurus algorithm!

           once upon a time: dubbed:
paupers... the homeless...
prostitutes... now... eh... one sly loss of calling
these... the... leeches of: welcome tomorrow!
so the price of... being...
astounded... that's it?!
                the magnified statement
of karma-phobia...
there has to be a concept akin to:
karma-phobia when islamophobia is already
too bogus to touch...
there has to be: karma-phobia...

a ******* a canvas:
i went down this alley because...
i just... wanted to show-off...
for myself...
the most better part of myself i could never
show with... a girlfriend...
and showing my best:
armed with merely a dog and a leash:
just wasn't enough:
or a fabergé egg: missing a matryoshka doll
"detail"...

like kicking a dog in the *****...
like... attempting to catch a mosquitos
by the ******* donning boxing gloves...
the lowest of the low:
of picking the "fruit"...
jackie ol' burrow: ripe-kipper...
and that merry-o-round of...

                give me enough upper-body volume
to rummage and ruminate...
to clearly identify the psychopaths
leisuring themselves over a thursday's
afternoon worth of sun-soaking
a metaphor of bath...
         and all those minor grizzly detials
of swathing a mosquito or two...
because we are inclined
to spare the flies...
because: we just, are... thus inclined...
i hear an argument: i will: without a doubt...
also hear a guillotine do us all a favor
of detailing the: "chopper"...

my my: that ripe keeper of a pulsating
neck's worth of a rhubarb...
salmon teriyaki...
                                       n'est ce-pas?!

in between: calling it learning to tie one's
shoelaces...
having no better synonym detail
of comparison other than...
             with depeche...
                                no song to be worth
any particular: sort of... originality...
and or in... detail...
                   there's only a hope for
giving a particular sort of wind:
associated with a month...
and with a month: a sorting-out of a year
within and beyond a decade...
a century...
                    
this had to be forever: and one...
enough for the worth of tonight...
and with it... no other, better, compensation
other than my own input;

ha ha!                          grace?!

My night sky has turned into a distant blur.
Staring out
I manage to lick the edge of it.
And I receive a now common taste
of numbed pain and sleep full nights.

Everything is a haze
and I'm the center of it.
Feeling everything I needed.

But what was that again?
Oh yeah, nothing.
Feeling better than before
I crawl into bed
and my dreams blossom more than the sun's sky.

Every morning I wake with the taste of the night before.
Feeling everything that wasn't wanted.
Feeling everything.
A sore head and an un easy tongue

I crawl into the shower
and thoughts start to fall on me.
I see the distant sky
and poke my tongue out at it.
Mr. moon tugs at it, and pulls me in.

Brew tragedy tea
and drink without
tasting it.
Keep checking the meaning of
'forever',
in case it's been redefined
in less absolute terms.
Shiver through the heatwave and watch
the colour bleed out of the summer.
Dig a hole that won't be deep enough.
Shower off the crazy sweat and grave dirt
and pretend like maybe
you'll do the dishes.
Rupture your inner workings
as you scream at the universe
for ******* up so badly.
Lapse into the cold, sterile embrace
of catatonia, grateful
to feel nothing for a while.
Cry so long and so hard you forget
why you're crying,
then remember and cry
longer and harder.
Try brokering a deal with fate's
Appeals Department: offer
your organs, your eyesight,
however many years off your life,
to get him back.
Search for meaning and find none.
Rage against the perversity of it all.
Howl that death shouldn't feel derivative.
Remind yourself that this
isn't just a sick joke.
Hate Elisabeth Kübler-Ross for being right
and yourself for being so generically human.
Realise how little
knowing helps.
Reacquaint yourself with anhedonia.
Try not to hate the blue sky
or the birds who have returned
to sing in his back garden.

6:00 a.m.
It was her 28th birthday
She loaded the ***** laundry into a washing machine
and looked at the toilet that she needed to clean
She fixed her hair, she took a shower
without even looking at her own reflection on the mirror
She grabbed a cup of instant coffee
and gulped ounces of it to steer away the terror
She tossed the cup in the bin
but missed because her hands tremored
And as if time was racing with light speed
she saw the sunset fading away in retreat
She goes to work the next morning
with layers of concealer under her eyes
but she could never conceal her wistful smile
She comes home with her daughter sleeping in her bedroom
And on the sofa was her tired husband
still in his party clown costume
At the corner was the telephone with five voicemails from her mom
but she never found time to listen to her qualms
She glanced at the night sky from her window
with an almost unnoticeable sorrow

One day she woke up and she was 70
Still doing the same laundry
Still drinking the same instant coffee
She looked at her daughter walk down the aisle
with her father who almost never smiles
She brought flowers to her mom's grave
but she couldn't hear her from the other side with the distorted soundwave
She still walks out her doorstep with the same shoes
Almost getting tired of hearing the same news
She still sees the sunset from that window
And she looks out from them with the same almost unnoticeable sorrow

She woke up and she was 28 again
She started to make an effort to notice her face on the mirror
She took time to look at her mom and cheer her
She hugged her husband more and this time tighter
She sank her lips into her daughter's soft cheeks
And never dared to miss a moment when her innocent lips speaks
She walked out the door before the sun could set
to finally buy a new pair of shoes, they were red
She walked the earth as if it were her first time
and she locked her gaze into the golden sunshine

Time passed and she's now 92
And on her deathbed, she said
'If there's one thing that sunsets had taught me,
It is that transitions can be beautiful too.'