Inward.

You don’t need
to know the science of
how a supernova glows,
in order to see,
so vividly
with clarity
these scars;
I sport them
proud, like how,
you probably sport
your caviar,
your mini bar,
Cuban cigars –
Dom Pérignon,
yawn…
this bores me;
shall I go on?
act like you don’t
secretly adore me,
forcefully,
bitterly,
lips sewn closed,
you’re confusing me…
how should I
have somehow known?
It’s not like
it’s rocket science,
my compliance,
I’m submissive
dismissive,
ever renewed,
do I ring true?
You bet I do…
Again,
Big Man
spin my head
around the room,
you’re mad because
my spirit doesn’t
comprehend the likes of you…
But you know the feeling…
good and well, too…
don’t you, Blue?
Mr. Passive Aggressive
in designer
spit-shined shoes…
never did I question
what the fuck
I see in you…
your horns curl inwards,
just the same as mine both do –
combustible
ignitable
you’ll see no surprise
in my open eyes,
I’m already onto you;
too ornery
too lonely
to look me in the eye,
even on the days
when they happen
to stay dry…
no time,
you’re driving,
or flying,
or speed-writing…
no time to talk to,
the Ace up your sleeve,
make my heart
childishly and stupidly
waste time in belief,
of anything
more than what,
we were, already,
turn inward again,
backward
wayward
can’t open your eyes
unable to stir,
the ash back to fire,
this place is absurd,
chasing the promises,
made inward.

Dreaming in the Color Blue.

I’ve been a bad girl, haven’t I?
not really though –
I’m afraid,
it’s all in your mind…
the come, the go –
made unmade,
just side-steps in time…
when did the bridge begin to smolder?
I didn’t know –
pre-occupied,
a cheek turned to the shoulder…
the highs, the lows –
de-mesmerized,
turn the cold season colder…
In which direction did the gallops go?
stampeding through –
heart is filleted,
opened seam, for you…
the yes, the no –
nocturnal dread,
dreaming in the color blue…
forbade be me by my own spirit?
a shame to know –
over-analyzed,
too loud for you to hear it…
the quick, the slow –
self-sold and bought lies,
to become truth because you fear it.

Death Song.

How will the final tune play itself through –
as it haunts the halls with melodious cacophony;
as it swirls like smoke from a smoldering flame;
as it tells the truths you’ve hidden from yourself;
it’s no wonder: when I look at the whole of it –
nothing profound or groundbreaking or bold;
nothing novel in the face of my weary stride;
nothing that offers any true shock or surprise
just more of the same of a really long line –
those two steps ahead of your own falter;
those who singed my flesh prior to your stab at it;
those who have been dismissed from view;
erased away from concern and thought of mine –
life is too short and there is no time;
shuffled card-decks and matching footsteps;
another falls neatly and indiscreetly into line;
What does your Death Song sound like –
full of many meaningless fabrications and layers;
reverberations, skipped beats and scratched vinyl;
all the dramatics without the shine of the stage lights.

Fugue.

Temper-treated,
pressed ‘n pleated,
pre-disposed and superseded,
diagnosed,
but poorly heeded,
over-psychiatrically treated,
super-imposed,
pin-up prose,
cake-layer completed,
centrally distributed,
locally re-heated,
self-stimulated,
pseudo-violated,
over-chewed,
nearly spewed,
swallowed up,
oh fuck – regurgitated,
won’t sit well,
if stacked up to,
the tried and true,
another epic fail,
shoddily fabricated,
horizontally situated,
systematically nauseated,
linguistically and verbally inebriated,
an atrocity,
a featherless Crane,
singed into the brain,
of the Herring,
a forsaken queen,
been busy,
out bone-collecting,
well beyond her means,
never satiated,
by her plundering,
blindly placated,
by the obsolete,
of the broken-spirited,
broken down,
rotted through,
to an army paraded,
beneath the sole of my shoe.

Huh?

Based on the fact that she is my Mother, and wasn’t present in any way, shape or form throughout my youngest days, she has been glorified in my heart and my mind somehow; in my mind over time, she has morphed into some painted-faced Goddess with great power and control over my actions and sense of self; she continues to have the carrot to dangle before me, and I continue to focus on it and follow her lead.
She is my Mother, yes – but she is not right in the head, and never was – so I’m told…she never had any business having babies of her own with a head as twisted as hers – never had the stuff it takes to be somebody’s Mama. My Mother doesn’t really know how to care about other people; she is just hard-wired that way…some people call it sociopathy, others call narcissism; she’s a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic – she has the history of getting way out there at times, if not medicated and monitored regularly by a “specialist”. She is aggressive and violently explosive in her mental instability; this is the trait about her that she has most impressed upon me throughout my lifetime in observation of her behaviors; she is ruthless when it suits her needs – I have bared witness to this many times, as well as played the role of her “victim” during such instances also.
I cannot trust her word – it is mud in my book; despite what she says, her actions always speak horribly louder than what she tells me. Anyway, our relationship is the epitome of awkward and edgy, because it newborn for the most part – I am only barely getting to know her, I’ve never made the effort in the past. She is a nut job, no doubt – and oftentimes, when I have a conversation with her, I find myself hardly able to control myself from just bursting out:
“The fuck are you talking about, Man?!!!”
I just can’t relate to any of the things that define the daily existence of my Mother, Willow…she is seriously on another planet in my opinion…all I can do is just shake my fucking head over it, I suppose.

Inward.

Huh?

Huh?

You don’t need to know
the science
behind how a supernova glows,
in order to see, so vividly
these scars;
I sport them proudly
like you probably sport
your caviar,
your mini bar,
the Cuban cigars –
yawn…
this bores me;
don’t act like you
do not
secretly adore me,
forcefully, lips sewn
confusing me…
how should I
have somehow known?
It’s not rocket science,
my compliance
is a choice I make,
ever renewed,
ring true?
You bet I do…
Again, let’s spin
around the room,
you’re mad because
I can’t comprehend you…
But you know that
feeling…

all too well, too…
don’t you, Blue?
Passive Aggressive
in designer shoes…
never did question
what the fuck
I see in you…
your horns curl inwards,
just the same as mine do  –
combustible
ignitable
it isn’t any surprise.
That you’d be too ornery
to look me in the eye,
even on the days
when they stay dry…
no time,
you’re driving,
or flying,
or speed-writing…
make my heart shock
harder than –
a hundred bolts of lightning.

Dreaming in the Color Blue.

Accountancy

Accountancy

I’ve been a bad girl, haven’t I?
not really though –
I’m afraid,
it’s all in your mind…
the come, the go –
made unmade,
just side-steps in time…
when did the bridge begin to smolder?
I didn’t know –
pre-occupied,
a cheek turned to the shoulder…
the highs, the lows –
de-mesmerized,
turn the cold season colder…
In which direction did the gallops go?
stampeding through –
heart is filleted,
opened seam, for you…
the yes, the no –
nocturnal dread,
dreaming in the color blue…
forbade be me by my own spirit?
a shame to know –
over-analyzed,
too loud for you to hear it…
the quick, the slow –
self-sold and bought lies,
to become truth because you fear it.