The chemicals are caustic
How can you call this
Drinking water
You sleep and dream
Of the past when
Buildings gleamed and
People seemed nice
Then the cracks appeared
And we feared the worst
Firing our guns into the darkness
At anything that moved
I fight to keep my eyes open
Our fire is getting low again

***** from the bottle,
Warm.
Hot dogs from the package,
When your down and *****
The grotesque becomes magic.
Pawning a guitar for a pellet gun,
To procure breakfast.
Squirrel stew in the back of a scamper camper.
Spotlighting bullfrogs,
And mopping floors for a hot meal,
And a cold beer,
And a sympathetic ear.
Nights when the blacktop turned into void,
And the painted lines became a tightrope to nowhere.
Full circle,
Bangor to Frisco,
Any woman who was willing to sleep in the bed of a truck
Was a queen for as long as she stayed,
Always had **** concealed on me,
The copper piece of road currency,
To the gold and silver, of *** and gas.
The exchange rates would change overnight,
But syphon some gas at a truck stop
And it all will be alright.
Misspent youth, following bands
And getting lost along the way.
***** from the bottle,
And hot dogs from the package.

if it were possible to tag
an individual in a poem on this site
i'd syphon tulips from the ground
and lay one  across her ear in the sunshine.

likewise, i'd talk lots of ****
and single out cowardly writers
hang them from the flagpole by their underwear
until they're humbled by their nakedness.

Do you ever get that feeling
The feeling
When you're ten pages away from the end of a book you love?
You know the one-
That ache
That mingled fear and longing and nostalgia
A strange, electric urgency, a need to race to an ending you don't actually want to arrive at.
It is such a distinct, such a strangely painful feeling.
Do you ever feel it
When you look at your own eyes in the mirror?

I am sat in a cramped seat on a dimly lit plane
And a child wails somewhere beyond me,
Something between a giggle and a sob
And for the first time since I can remember
I don't know where I'm going.
And I want to drown myself in books.
Other people's stories.
I want to smother this feeling in them,
I want to live in the middle of someone else's life and never emerge again.
For the first time ever
I don't know where I'm going.

I can't explain this feeling.
It isn't the feeling I've had before, the tired sort of feeling you get when snow begins to trickle from the clouds on a fall day
And you just know in your bones that it will be
A hard, brutal winter.
Nor is it the feeling I've become familiar with
Of a spring which has somehow become lodged in my sternum and pressed to its breaking point,
That excruciating, itching tension and worry.
It isn't the feeling I've woken up to on countless mornings-
A creeping dread which feels like nothing so much as cold, clammy fingers running softly along every inch of your skin, except inside.

No, this feeling is one of total newness.
It is blind uncertainty.
It is a feeling of transition that I suppose I've suffered too much, previously, to have noticed or lingered in
And yet this time I find I've stuck fast in it
Like a shoe in a particularly deep patch of mud, when you tug and pull but the earth perversely refuses to relinquish your foot.
I've snagged, like a new coat on a briar bush
In this feeling of unsettled, unfinished, unsatisfied... expectancy.
Not of anything bad but certainly as well
Not of anything good.
I have, suddenly, upon being truly alone for the first time in a long time,
Discovered that I am moorless
And yet stalled.

And it isn't just that first feeling, no.
It is half of that feeling, that
"I don't want to finish the book" feeling.
But it is also equally the feeling you might get
If you were ten pages to go in your riveting novel,
Only to turn one and suddenly find that the rest was blank,
Halfway through a sentence
Halfway through a word
Nothing resolved, and nothing explained.
And maybe you'd keep turning, hoping for a mistake in the binding
But all ten are the same
Smooth. White. Blank. Waiting.
It is that feeling of grief and frustration and slight fear
A fondness for all the pages read before
But a craving for more that will not come
As if the ink would simply syphon away, even if you were, in your desperation
To write them yourself.

Yes, it's that feeling
Only about myself. About my life.
And I don't know when it will end
Or what it will end into.

I don't want it.
Tell me stories.
Tell me stories for the rest of my days
And never let my mind
Fall silent.

Blokes in the bar sure do say some weird stuff
Like "love to **** her ******* and eat her ****"
Seem to have animals on their mind all the while
"I'd like to see her ***** or do her *******"

What does all that mean? I'd really love to know
And how does a woman have a nice *******?
If a woman comes close and she's a real **** one
One of them may say "I'd like to give the ferret a run"

A bloke went to the toilet seemed quite annoyed
Said he was gonna shake hands with the unemployed
"You mean syphon the python" asked one of the men
"Not really, just shake hands with the wives best friend"

He said he wanted a ***** to his wife late last night
"Gee mate you shoulda seen it, I had a mongrel alright"  
Apparently she said "no" and he threatened to leave her
Said he wasn't hanging around if he didn't get any ******

Fred said his wife was gorgeous and he had always adored
But lately she was off ***, didn't want any more pork sword
Frank's wife was the same and she hardly left the cottage
Would never let Frank touch her or play hide the sausage

Max, reckoned he'd nearly had more than a man could take
Couldn't get near the missus with his one eyed trouser snake
As for Gerard, He said "think my wife's taking me for a sucker"
"Told me to keep away with the blue veined custard chucker"

A **** dark woman walked past, Marty said "I'd give her a ride"
The barman just laughed and mumbled "they are all pink inside"
Jack joined in saying "leave it alone Marty or you'll get blisters"
"Besides, if you turn them upside down they're definitely sisters"

In the bar I heard a bloke say "I'd give her the old Wham Bam"
"Sure would like to get the old love muscle up her  bearded clam"
As the bar closed Jerry joked " If the flags are up at my place"
"I'll put my ***** between her *****, give her a pearl necklace"

All these men laugh and joke as the barman says to the group
"You buggers won't get any because you'll have brewers droop"
As I finish my wine and leave someone says "on ya bike ya miser"
Do you know what they are on about? because I'm none the wiser

I think that you and I have always met.
Wherever there's a world big enough for two people to get lost.
And wherever the lost lay their heads down too low to see.
Right when we both get tired of the pain filling the lamps in our eyes.
But right before the bags start blowing in the wind
or the dust dances in the corners,
Or the blade hits bone.

I think that I always hear you first.
And your voice is a bagpipe war cry.
And the hand on the top of my head is removed all at once.
And I break the plane of the ice water fast.
And as we rise we lock eyes.
And we smile.
And our smiles explode open to syphon as much life as we can inside.
And we pour our pain into each others lamps.
And our lips will light the wicks.
And we dive back down.

And this time we choose the floor.
The coral bouquets.
The hotbeds.
The shipwrecks.
We are the bright lights moving in the dark now.
We are the ones we were afraid of.
And we are not together.
But we don't get lost so easy anymore.

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.

To be a lawyer is not a difficult pursuit,
To be an astrophysicist
is not a complex occupation.
To be an actor,
To be a general,
To be a professor of the most mesmerizing numbers,
of the most perplexing and alien symbols...
Is not confusing in the least.

For with the right ambition
and a mind with but simple intuition,
Nearly anything is within our reach.

But there is something that is not so simple.

We can put men living men in the heavens
and map the deepest trenches under the propellers of our ships.
And although we can replace a liver
and syphon off entire rivers
A cloudy clump of confusion sits upstairs...
Lying in the dusty attic with a chain woven through
the rafters 7 billion times.


A courageous cacophony of credence and passion
That physically sits just behind our eyeballs
in a wrinkly gray sack that laughs at us
every time we try and break that chain that keeps
our eyes fixed forward.
Fixed far away from the very source of soul that makes
sense to no one but ourselves.

Only here till’ morning, so the night’s an open road and,
the beaten path only leads to mourning. An off-road traveler,
who escapes the chase of a pursuant sun.

Slow walking through river reeds.
A cupped handful of running water reinforces his state of being;
all but free.

Marathon of miles between, the first date on his gravestone and
the last number his mother reads at the bottom of his eulogy.
The hyphen shorthand for life and,

Missing the meaning through the seams, that connect his first day
to the day he leaves. An often-bereaved purveyor of shattered dreams,

Who stops to smile at every waving tree because,
even in despair he found belief beneath
the bared teeth of the machine trying to syphon from his peace.

A flower born from concrete.
Escaping through the cracked city streets;
out past the horizon line.

When something purely sweet becomes bitter from want of bitterness itself, it is indeed a tragedy. Because of the absence of this bitter seed (the bit of yin surrounded by yang), the bitterness instead overruns the sweetness as a ****.

     Today, I plucked the first **** from the ground, and in its place grew two new bitter weeds.

     I know in time, they will spring forth from the Earth with exponentially-increasing frequency, and I will perpetuate my own doom, compounded by the Hands of Fate spinning the Wheel of Fortune. I see myself yanking weeds only to watch them multiply with helplessly guilty eyes.

     And though I know Our fate, I will not tell Him of the tragedy that is forming (swelling, swarming) within Us and between Us. I will not let Him see the weeds syphon away Our love and sap the energy of Our commitment, nor will I let Him see my futile but frenzied desperation to salvage it all. I would prefer to allow Him to think it all happened naturally, that We grew apart and it was really all okay, that it was all in order with our respective natures and we would simply be better off because hey, **** happens.

     And in the end, We will lose each other in the bitterness, tangled in and smothered by the ugliness we spawned.




-LP

Oh to say it so dearly, It was a great show.
I stayed out and watched it for a good hour.
The wind had come out of some hidden pocket. Like a thief in the night,
it scurried out excitedly through the screen door flying shut behind it,
and looking at the stark line drawn across the horizon;
a wall of cloud with so distinct an edge of gray, and at the same time
so thin
as to see the shadow
blue sky on the other side.

It was just a sheet.
The wind like a blanket,
energy surged, and the blood pumped a little faster at it's touch.
Then leaves began swirling,
as if fleeing for cover around the legs.
sweeping over to the porch,
while the canvas of clouds pitched its ever looming tent.
On over to get a plain view of my street lamp,
watching the tree's now twisting like spaghetti;
branches twisting in ways you would expect to break them,
all with a humdrum pitter-patter of rogue raindrops,
accompanied by that shrill electric thickness...
that makes your skin simmer, your mind hum, and your eyes glow.

The light of the streetlamp showing all the rain more clearly,
and all at once coming like a horde en masse down a hill.
Someone had given the signal,
and so it began.
The floodgates were released.
The opera had begun in earnest, with it's effects and sounds, lights, action!
The foreplay had given way to the full force of wetness.

In the pith of the light it looked as though the lamp was now a fountain.
The lightning being so evenly dispersed, the sky like a screen to see a stroboscopic chaos, so serene.
The wind and rain so perfectly mixed,
so perfectly so to syphon off a single breath of mist upon the face.
I stood like a boy of six in a parade.
Enthralled by the power, the nonchalance, and the purity of might.
Humans and animals, cars and bicycles, birds and branches, all pulling a hasty retreat.

I watched and watched, and watched more, and never got bored, only a little damp.
I came in and went up to the bedroom above the porch and lay on my window cloud
and drowsily watched the show in a bubble, til the end.

Nothing lets me see so clearly like a good rain.
People who wish for sunshine everyday are idiots.

Nyctophilia

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.

There were so many dead wasps on your kitchen counter
You
thought they were bees
insisted it was okay
But I knew
Like I know
You
Like I still dream
Of getting stung  
Or of feeling an airbag on my cheek
Metal twisting into my body
A Rubik's cube of proof
It was too much for
You
to carry
But enough for
You
To plunder
To damage
To chain

You
You You You

I syphon poison out of my body
Drop by drop
Every morning noon evening and night
Ripping myself open
Jagged scars
Screaming for mercy
Face whiter
Voice failing
I cry
Again again again
But
I know
Finally, dear god, I know

I

Have to let it bleed
To let my hair grow
To scream and pull those talons out
With my own hands
To soak them in seawater
To cover them
In the honeyed voice of my grandmother
In the sounds of the train station and the rails
Like I did
With
you
On top of me
Or beneath me
Or like
you
Are
Still inside of me


I
Do not hold
I
Do not cherish
I

am
cloaked in silence




you
slept through the alarm

“In my opinion,” good advice is nothing,
except bad habits and malnourished dreams.

A syphon of learning,
experience,
and reason.

So, please.
Take my heart to your guillotine of hate
and chop off a chunk of grace from my life.

“Did he really mean that?”
“I knew it.”

Unless you want to hear the truth,
Which no one does.

Go on.
Push your bad habits
on to someone else.
Some may call it good advice.
I call it alienation of individuality.
Arcane knowledge of the mind with one’s consent.

To those seeking this knowledge:
You don’t want to hear this.
Create
your
own
personal
truth.

“Is that enough advice?”

art keeps getting
smaller and smaller
like we have
less and less time
to really create a body
of work strong enough
to break through the
barriers of the mind.

i can make a list of
the people i have kissed
and call it poetry for days i can
write an anthem on **** culture
with words i do not understand
or use

and judge my creativity
based on all my views.

there is never the right time
to sit down and syphon the
truth from your palpitating heart.
sometimes you find the time
in between the spaces of
the mundane and draw
or paint or
film or
write

something that will
take someone’s breathe away.

even if it is your own.

there is no easy way to
make a lasting impression
on a soul you don’t quite
know or understand.

but

if your heart feels lighter
at the end than when you began
then you are making

progress.

If I’m gonna be heartbroken then I’m throwing my shame into your lap.
I have no use for it. This is a brand new theatrical performance.
The guilt can be your footwear, not mine. I’m a map not a floor mat.
This chest is a windrose and the terrain is a glory that beats behind my ribs.
My spinal column will surge up like a barometer, bobbing to the nape,
but you’re not my storm anymore so sit down, stay still, watch me.

These directions aren’t so cardinal now; I swapped them around.
I was born facing up, my laboring mother cursing her derision
like she knew someday I would raise up, face the sky again
and let loose a fury that began in me when I was conceived.
I am a violent flicker and I can syphon out the light until I swallow it whole,
until you’re begging me to swallow you again too. I am not seasonal.
Keep frantic at that compass in your hand. It won’t bring me back.

butterfly>
biscuits>
olive =
get emotional

butterfly>
needles>
stitch=
me up please

something
is very wrong

tis the season
to smile
go home
and cry

hope??
haven’t seen her

it’s all
blood vials
dead dogs
expired wine
fruit dropped
on the floor

children walking by
looking for a
drunk nutcracker
named tipsy

and i can’t even
syphon off some
of their joy
because something
is definitely wrong
and they’re fresh out

where do the
butterflies go
when it’s winter
and hopeless?

why do they
leave when
we need
them most?

get emotional
stitch me up
rinse
repeat

happy holidays
let the worry
creep through
the greenery

drape some
guilt on the tree
wrapped in twinkling
strings of panic
cranberry flavored
family fights

anxiety but
make it festive

depression but
make it seasonal

could i get a
butterfly down here?

just some kind of
hopeful flutter
a dog
a needle
anything to
grasp onto

just to get
through
december
find a butterfly
on a ransacked
holiday shelf
70% off and
picked over

get emotional
stitch me up

something is
very wrong

depression
but make it seasonal

As my hands comb through my hair,
I stare between my knees
looking into the depths of this
unfamiliar wooden floor.
The foundation creaking
from the wind howling outside,
its feral cry
full of pent up emotions,
filling the night with chaos,
mirroring the landscape of my emotions.
Pictures so lovingly framed,
propelled by chaotic winds,
splash
into an unbroken lake
sending ripples scrambling away
as they try and escape the touch
of these cherished memories.
The golden light of a sunny day
spent laughing and crying
under pine trees,
shines from the depths.
The cold grey light of a rainy day
spent looking out the tear stained window
trying to make sense of this hurricane of emotions,
cuts through the inky black water.
The constellations of so many memories
seems just in reach
as I syphon this inky black water
through my pen,
drawing from the depths of my soul,
a straight IV
into these flatlining lines
of this black notebook
that holds my soul.

Life a series of experiences that I lust after so let’s lust, lets love, let’s make this something fun
Helping caring let’s start sharing our adoration for each other like it’s contagious
We could start laughing and spreading happy like it’s wildfire
We will be two lovers that cross, like flowers stock that holds our heads up high
Accidently shine so bright that we cease a fight and it inspires more
Stumble on to world peace, like you stumbled on to me, just because we love right.
Silence struck when we touch tight
Inhale, exhale and your breath runs a fast highest
Stealing my breath from my lungs so I am alive like...
Shining fire flies beating thrumming life’s high, High on life let me get my words right ,I’m diving in without the stars light, because the dark isn’t scary, unknown quite as Leary if you lived a hard life, and words don’t fit or sit right, rolling around my tong like, a switch blade knife, curdling like milk that’s spilt last night, syphon sadness from addictive madness but that’s just fine like, I have my happy and I have my light ,and ill beam brighter with you by my side….so smile. Burn bright, be wild. Whatever the unknown holds, we will have it unfold, lay down like a red carpet for us to walk on, spot on, we are a symphony, rock stations getting rocked on, whales song in the ocean, you always said they are like boulder of the sea, sweet sound captured and encapsulated in a Stoney twinkling, like the color in your eyes when stubbornness arise…you are my pleasure wrapped inside a sigh, future wrapped up inside blurred lines, and I’m wrapped up so let’s untie. Kiss me back until we fly. Sorry for the cheesy love poem but I’m not, because you’re the hot spot, you’re the bomb.. Word rolling off my tong like smiles curl... corners reaching up like we move through this world… you have a white girl nearly rapping, just stop and feel what’s happening… what’s happening

Shutter, stutter… sampling; we are the best taste on a platter of now happenings. So stop sampling and start gathering we have a feast of the now and happening! Mind blowing intricacies, how we bob and weave, we are a fabric of all the love we haven’t had yet and are about to receive … of all the opinions not had yet, lay me down in a bed get me wet and, I bet we light up like fireworks… life just made ups meet…organic always tastes this sweet, because we make time spent together feel better then diamond rings. So sit down next to me and we will grow in to something even better <3 so here is a song, a poem some words to say we matter.

I'm nothing but an emotional drain
I syphon every bit of good from your life
And leave the bad in the tub

Oooh it's not intentional
It's just the way I am

And the way I am is something missing
Just the H and the O

Oooh I'm emotional
The tears are always gonna rain

And they'll rain over you
If you choose to stay

And I can't be any good to you
Because a drain can only take

Oooh I'm emotional
I think you made a mistake

You should go and seek her out

'Cause towels are better than the drain
Let them soak up the mess I've made

Just be careful not to slip as you get out

Oooh it's not intentional
It's just the way I am, am I, am, am, am I
I am >>
Nothing but an emotional drain
I syphon every bit of good from your life
And leave the bad in the tub

Fatso
You are and you aren’t
Whale
You are more than the labels they give you
Cow
It’s over now
Their insults cannot hurt you
Giant
You are not in middle school anymore
Ugly
They cannot hurt you anymore
Lard
You are a grown-*** woman
almost thirty,
unapologetically queer, hairy,
with curves and ******* and wide hips and pretty dips and
They cannot cypher their words,
syphon their insults by
relating you to a beautiful big creature
Cow, Whale, Lard, Fatso

What is a Lard but a singling
A bright beige soft nosed creature
with brownie eyes and long lashes
like a taper with a hooked nose
soft and long like an elephants
Flappy points of ears
that hear well
with tiny sharp teeth
like a land-locked manatee
or a furry caramel Beluga whale

Their insults only refer you to necessary creatures who give their life to feed you and their intellect to empower you

A Fatso is a bright blue animal that has shimmering rainbow wings (like a dragon) and thin curly white horns and milky grey eyes with a fabulous feathers and a fanned tail of royal purple that soars through the skit at light-speed and can bring the rain with its melodious cries

When they or you or they or you or
They are you you know
Insult you they are not insulting you
because a Lard and a Fatso are both such intelligent creatures
mystical and fervent
glorious and gargantuan
Large, yes
But beautiful all the same
They have sharp teeth and move through the earth or skies whenever and wherever they like
These animals have freedom
Just like how you have freedom
in how you think about yourself
which is
to think of yourself as
the sexist, prettiest, cutest
person alive
now isn’t that great?
now isn’t that grand?

You are gold plated and steel incorporated and glass blown and light shadows thrown and haggling heights and shaved delights and a hairy symphony and a harrowing city of sparkles that twinkle in the night.

You are beautiful
and might
just
save the world one day.

You are a mystical creature of the highest creed
and no one
can tell you
otherwise.

If this black,
Blood red,
Billowing fire
Could rage any higher
Burn up the oxygen
Your false words selfishly syphon
Convinced they require
It would be a mighty
Heavenly force
Indeed
But within the grand canvas,
Quite a minor feat
For theatrical,
Impassioned,
Merciless me
Never so kind
As to stop at your feet
I’d bury you alive
Cut holes for your
Lying
Eyes  
Force you to watch
The horror of melting earth and trees  
The irony  
Of the rain so closely watching,
And choosing to leave

Every other moment,
beneath my feet,
I feel the ground's metamorphosis
into open air.

Truth is a tightening noose.
Trying to syphon anything but lies
as white as the proof is deniable
is useless.

Spoonful after spooonful flying
into a smiling mouth;
no airplane sounds.

Missing the tentacles writhing beneath
the detritus on the Earth's surface
is as close we orphans can get to
being detrimental to a cause.

Claws marks on the inside of coffin lids
scrawl their own metaphor for the squall
that drifts slow and minimal
but ends at The All coming to a
screeching halt in the middle
of the walkways connecting
the land of the living with
the dreams of palms outstretched
for what we will never learn.