Hiding behind my smile.
Hiding  behind the sparkle in my eyes.
Hiding behind who I am inside.
Hiding behind the tears I cry.
Hiding behind one big lie.

Hiding from the voices in my head.
Hiding from the blood I've shed.
Hiding from the pain I've caused.
Hiding from all my flaws.

Hiding all the scars I've made.
Hiding all my razor blades.
Hiding all my feelings still.
Hiding what i wish wasn't real.

Deep down I can see the real me,
that's all covered up by this scarred body.

One day I won't have to hide who I am,
I will come out from my mind, be proud of who I am.

Pale scrapings of people
with lipstick ringed glasses
and cigarettes burning,
and laughter trickling up and down
their knotty throats.
What is this,
a gathering of henhouse critics?

My father's voice in the back of my head,
saying, forget that I'm dead and if you
can not do that than pretend.

I am standing
just outside the gallery
beneath the shadowy bough of a birch.
The moon is floating in the sky's dark lap.
Faraway I can hear the ocean sigh.

Now father, I am asking,
what smile are you wearing?
What color are your eyes again?
How many teeth have you lost?

Don't you think I want a kiss.
Perhaps I don't. Perhaps I don't
want to stand and pretend you
not dead while the wet, champagne
mouths of the living tell me how wonderful
your paintings are.

As they crook their fingers and strain their necks,
lose their vocabulary inside the artwork's depths
and colors.

Father, I want your reputation to outlive the pursuits
of others with their iron-on reviews after an hour's
worth of browsing at a lifetime of your work.

Father, are you crying?
Stop that sound.

Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb—
Quite unexpectedly the top blew off:

And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing—nothing at all.

I lay awake...
Again...
Unable to sleep.
Replaying those words you spoke to me tonight.
Over. And over. And over.
As if my whole life had led up to those few words.
As if nothing else in the world mattered before those words curled up at the end of your lips,
And laid down to rest by the fireplace of my cold heart.
Over and over and over,
My inevitable smile never straying from my cheeks.
Falling... Falling... Falling...
Until I realize "falling,"
Does not quite quench my desires,
For maybe by dumb luck,
Maybe by fate,
Maybe an unlaced shoe,
Or maybe your straying, clumsy foot,
I endo'ed.
Brains above my unlaced shoes,
And heart somewhere in between.
And to stand up,
Would mean I had the strength,
And the will to do so.
So here I lie.
Never to stand up,
Nor fall again.

compulsive
uncontrolled
consumption.
I'm just coasting.

detrimental
addictive
dependence.
For when life brings trouble.

physical
mental
toxicity.
Watch me float away.

changes
structural
chemistry.
I have no struggle.

chronic
abuses
brain.
Just relax.

An unholy night,
these two know those nights well,
it’s raining God’s blood
‘to the cracked gates of hell.
The demons are out,
the lechers and fiends,
a good chance to rob, ****,
and listen for screams.
The Vicars head’s been cut off
on Joralemon street.
And such Neck-rophilia
seems just shy of obscene.
But that’s not why these two
are out on this night;
They want little kids
to make Angel’s delight.
You’ve never heard of it, have you?
It’s quite delicious in fact.
First they start off with the skin
from their ungrown, weak backs.
They’re peeling away
where their wings would soon grow,
but made too sore to fly
they fall down below!
And so catch them the wings,
shave them into a cheddar,
oh, but if it’s a girl,
make sure you be-head her.
Then break the legs like wishbones
and twist off the feet.
Make sure to save all that,
sssllurrrpp, succulent meat.
Last off’s the marrow
de la moelle épinière.
Get every last drop,
And let sit in stale air.