Arterial.

And, somehow,
it’s obvious,
raw right now,
I’m dubious,
raised eyebrow,
how scandalous,
I’m over-thinking:
staunch and unblinking,
ever force-feeding,
til this nauseasness,
gets swallowed back down,
And, it repeats again,
its strenuous,
this routine I live within,
life’s tedious,
I ooze falsification,
that’s spontaneous,
I’m unbending:
by extending,
what’s pretend,
every inhalation,
a breathing fabrication,
I know how,
this saga ends,
And, someday,
eventually,
the stain fades,
from visibility,
words said,
defferentially,
in stones marking graves,
these pathways,
to eternity,
paved by anxiety,
are, potentially,
theoretically,
the way out,
of the self-doubt,
raging throughout,
every last artery.

Realities.

Wanna see my many painful realities?

my empty, metallic uncertainies,

the way I’ve cooled by fooled degrees,

how I can’t scrub away my memories,

You deserve not one of these,

wishes I’ve whispered silently,

Me, and all my blackened dreams,

my hopelessly unraveled heart strings,

my deeply embedded insecurities,

my faulty hardheaded instabilities,

the saltiness I spit into the breeze,

has all my shit quite ill at ease,

the truth will keep me on my knees,

foretelling handmade calamities,

these recollections that are killing me,

the days I’ve blazed away halfheartedly,

you’re finally dead and gone to me,

carried long beyond my reach,

I’m just waiting for the thing,

the next eclipsed sunrise will bring,

all my sleepless nights foreseen,

all my words with no meaning,

all my deep depressions and misery,

my outbursts and lack of identity,

what superficial, superpowered inhumanity,

constant sense of impermanence and impropriety,

a silence inside the core that screams,

a violence that wounds me perpetually.

Face Plant

How much of our lives
Will become simply archives
How many more times
Will I forfeit what’s mine
With every passing night
Feeling homesick at twilight
Being anxious and uptight
Can’t say or do anything right.
And the moments still tick by
We both curse the same night sky
Before one of us will recognize
All the ways we jeopardize
The shot we had to eternalize
Has lost the chance to materialize.
And I wish we could rewind
Go back and redefine
We both tow an identical line
Attached to an internal deadline
Born of a universal design
That will eventually unwind.

Chase.

I once told you I hoped that you wouldn’t chase,

the path made by my footprints as I ran away,

not to follow my feet as they endlessly tread,

places called “home” in my paranoid head,

your eyes used to follow my eyes,

As they darted about the night skies,

you’d trace a pinky down my cheeks,

Down the trails from tears deemed obsolete,

do not follow my confused insanity,

into the cursed forest of ancient trees,

I don’t want you to see as I mindlessly carve,

indecipherable messages into their bark,

I‘d rather that you might remember times,

when I still held a more lucid state of mind,

as I was back when I first asked of you

to someday cut me completely loose,

back when my feet could not yet carry through,

with any of the deeds that I still have to do,

do not falter in those old promises now,

you must override your heart, somehow,

you must stifle the desire you’ve come to feel,

to follow me into the darkness of Hell,

I’d rather you carry on in the warmth of the sun,

to pick up, dust off, and carry on,

Past all the times that your foolish pride,

had you believing that we were solidified,

but it’s time to defy what we feel inside,

just let go and let yourself bleed for a while,

the loss will fade eventually,

same as my footprints into the trees,

you must finally stop any pursuit of me,

and let me self-fulfill this unwell prophecy.

 

 

 

Grandeur.

I have been,
listening…

and hearing you…
your every cent or two,
every jerking move,
and yet you prove…
to somehow be,
totally and completely,
shocked to find…
blackened faces,
fill up the spaces,
between the lines…
Hello, big guy!
I will be fair,
I won’t deny,
through my grandeur…
what did,
indeed,

appear and seem,
to be,
a valiant try…

for your part,
at least
but, then again,
surprise!

Nonplussed…
it’s still just,
without compromise,
and really shouldn’t be,
such a novel thing,
that I’m not listening,
after so much,
of the go and touch…
the itchy sting,
ear-ringing,

fucking redundancy…
see the burning,
behind my eyes,
see the hatred,
memorized…

please just let me be.
As, so it goes that,
eyes like mine,
chiseled by,
the passing time…

are not destined to see.

Still Learning.

I got the Adrenaline spin,
not sure
which is the right direction
obscure
the thoughts that begin
to swim
inside my imagination
again.

I do the ADHD thing,
mumbling
heart weighs in heavily
numbing
sweat pours down steadily
panicking
my thoughts race ahead of me
evaporating.

I have scars for all to see,
they fixed me
a return from captivity
a recovery
a horror film slashing
bleeding
just as the final pint
emptied.

I have a heart that’s still learning,
I’m trying
a desire to indulge in humanity
difficulty
to connect with someone like me
a daydream
a baby of Lithium, Ritalin and Dexedrine.

Ultimately.

It was ultimately for naught,

my face tattooed by bird-shot,

an undeniable blanket of doom,

an indefinable pain in the womb,

It was the robbery of things,

my things; weaseled away from me,

stolen from me in my deepest sleep,

secretly spilling the oaths that I keep,

crumbling away the loosened layers,

that block the pathway to my nightmares,

it was the ending of good things,

the increase of physical pain,

our thing just began surely fade,

beyond the recognizable state,

things agreed to in former times,

come back around to materialize,

smacked with back of an outstretched palm,

that threw a desperately driven smoke bomb,

the palm that bears the dead to the tomb,

the palm of the hand you refused to hold onto.

Warning Shots.

Click. Spin. Click.
First warning shot:
Please…
don’t say,
anything to me…
your words,
cut and slash,
my skin invisibly…
Click. Spin. Click.
Number two for you:
See…
it’s about,
the powdery,
kegs full and ready,
to explode,
beneath my feet…
Click. Spin. Click.
Number three:
Believe…
when I swear,
on everything,
dear to me,
to make my way,
someday,
my own blaze,
of my own glory…
Click. Spin. Click.
Last kind gesture:
Leave…
if you’re smart,
if you can see,
the truth,
instrumentality,
the far reach,
of little ol’ me.

Down.

They all stared at me

eyes, empty of feeling

souls, judging and cruel…

rows upon rows of darkened holes

hollowed out eyes of dolls

crusted and crumbling from stucco…

this building is home to ghouls

ghostly spirits of the dead

the Doppler effect of a moaning cry…

overhead, the lights stop burning

the darkness becomes complete and I succumb

falling downward into your embrace…

into your hollowed place

your emptied promises and gluttonous lies

let us go there and not come up…

Unforgettable.

I, indeed,
vividly recall,
the magic
of it all
the tragic
end result
the headlong
and fatal fall
the sad songs
the postered walls
the easiness
that came with it all
I carry
memories
of many things
the days you
simply
let me “be”
the way you
behaved so
exemplary
how you tried
so hard to
show to me
the rule-card
the cue cards
of being free
the things we said
the times we had
the first time
the last time
the good
and the bad
the night you
decided to
move on alone
instead
I will never
forget to
remember
the dead.

Dribble.

Dribbling down the screen,
separating everything,
a permanent blood stain,
that warps my visibility
A richly colored stream,
dark reddish burgundy,
oozing and seeping
through spaces between
Raining bloody rivulets,
covering all the surfaces,
I am very sure of it,
it’s got me on my knees
Gods help me…
and if they’re too busy,
let the devil be,
the one to answer me.

Chaotic.

We never love them,
those flickers of,
Life’s candlelight,
when we get them,
nano-seconds in Love,
in the present tense,
in all its fickleness,
we fail to look deeply,
beyond the warmth,
of such selfishness,
we fail to recognize,
so we sit stupidly,
as nano-seconds,
swim right on by,
like robotic drones,
it is foolishness,
how soon we forget,
our very own,
flesh and bone,
where we came from,
childhood homes,
for we are not,
not a single one,
born to those,
with voices, drowned,
neither did we,
bore the woes,
Of Royalty,
donning the crown,
of the overthrown,
in the halls of the dead,
in the heads of the gone,
we will stand as one,
to the depths,
from the heights,
stars and sun,
days and nights,
like statues set in stone.

Pushing Buttons.

What…?
You honestly thought,
that my DNA forgot,
the dealer of
such a lethal drug?
When you’ve
got me tethered,
weathered and wrought;
and you’ve
got me pleasured,
treasure the thought;
What…?
say you didn’t mean,
to imply anything,
through the carelessness,
of your pretentiousness,
When you’ve
got me all twisted,
insistent on foolishness;
and you’ve
still persisted,
pushing buttons like this.

Sweat-Stack Prophecy.

After all that’s been said and done or not done,

they actually wonder what’s struck me so dumb,

perhaps I should’ve sent a universal memorandum,

to describe what’s been specified –

by the tribe where I come from;

when the shamans beat their’ drums,

and the forest sighs sweetly, and hums,

beckoning wakefulness to our Oldest Ones,

and as each awakens, a foundation gets shaken –

they can sniff out who doesn’t smell strong;

I only want to defy right here, under the sky –

close my heavy eyes and let it all be finally done;

I look around never to find anyone,

I have grown weary of trying to be strong,

my spirit rebels in a temper tantrum,

don’t chafe my hands, leave me just as I am,

I’m blessed and I’m cursed all in one.

 

 

 

 

Sapling.

What does this woman want?

She wants to be secure,

wants to be assured,

wants to feel beholden,

to bring warmth to the touch of her master;

And, what does the man want?

He wants to greedily admire,

wants to be twice as admired,

wants to burn eternal,

to forever sizzle within at the sight of his object;

The equation seems simple,

closeness shall draw the rest together, in turn,

a man and a woman are natural companions,

the admiration one holds for the other,

is not enough – has never been enough,

will never be enough to purge,

from the spirit of the man,

or from the soul of the woman,

the sapling that lies within the belly of both,

grown from the seed of Lust and Blood,

one, the child of Fear and Jealousy,

the other, born to War and Desire,

now together – now ripped at the seam,

the dark hours are the battleground,

on which we strike our most memorable,

and powerful of blows,

to behold the single rogue,

sweat drop as it defiantly rolls

from your brow down the bridge of your nose

and disappears in the corner of my eye, as usual.

 

Shortcomings.

Why must there suddenly be,

so much daunting irony,

out of thin air, magically,

from nowhere, seemingly;

faceted edges glittering,

smell of engine oil burning,

a billion ions shimmering,

anywhere my eyes perceive;

materializes instantaneously,

recollected quite unexpectedly,

jaw-dropping moments of clarity,

from the mirror and back at me;

long-standing silences in between,

questions I’ve posed so desperately,

and answers returned, in-comprehensively,

from Gods that supposedly see everything;

I, too, believe in such a possibility,

of the Gods taking pleasure in our misery,

when every day brings yesterday’s injury,

nobody can say that the Gods smile upon me.

Pocket-less.

When every single face becomes
just a reason to divert my eyes
and every carbon-based “human”
alerts my nerves to stand on high
when every time that I try to break ahead
just enough to finish this looking alive
a backpedal finds me a crack in my head
and then I stupidly struggle to survive
where progression is stunted by stagnancy
and my clothes are all pocket-less
the place between strength and subjectivity
where I stand without answers to this
And every day brings another slap to the face
every night finds me hollow and numb
each decision that I’m left unable to dominate
every turn of the screws in my thumbs
where I’m hungry often but hardly ever eat
and my shades stay drawn all year round
there’s no word for such charged irritability
every day becomes just a target to take down
I am overly tired and I am deeply annoyed
there is a train wreck surging through my veins
I’m living in the body of a fabricated android
being taunted by the distant cries of a runaway.

Future Reference.

I most certainly
won’t turn out to be
a textbook reference
to “romance poetry”;

the words I write
only seem to spite
the rest of me
with a venomous bite;

perhaps if I wait
they will appreciate
my left-field prose
made from concentrate;

or perhaps, maybe
in the next century
my poems won’t be read
by much of anybody;

damn the legless hypocrisy,
can’t let the critics bother me
no poet ever lives to long enough
to see people fall in love with his poetry.

Grandeur.

I have been listening
and hearing you
your every cent or two
every jerking move
and yet you prove
to somehow be
totally and completely
shocked to find
blackened faces
fill up the spaces
between the lines
Hello, big guy
I will be fair
I won’t deny
through such grandeur
what did indeed
appear and seemed
a valiant try
for your part
at least
but, then,surprise…
It’s still just me
without compromise
and shouldn’t be
such a novel thing
that I’m no Lady
after so much
of the go and touch
fucking redundancy
see the burning
behind my eyes
please just let me be
so it goes that
eyes like mine
are not destined to see.

Legacy.

I have started to write this so many times
Replaced certain words and erased entire lines
the curse of this message is veiled behind
the fact that its author seems frozen in time;

At times its content strikes me as absurd
I lose my last nerve upon finishing the words
the truth of my sadness is vague and obscure
By the time I’m done writing, I’m left feeling unsure;

Yet it’s plain for all to see through such futility
the desperate force that keeps on driving a need
of the author to express certain points clearly
before there isn’t time left to convey such things;

So then, the permanent pen of this sad story’s end
may help ease the hollowness suffered within
may offer release from the binds she’s wrapped in
may turn out to be a good bye to her friends;

Either way, the result disappoints all the same
the unfinished manuscript prevails once again
as a mockery of things too harsh to explain
until I resign and throw the towel back in;

Even so, against the fading of productive days
I strive to somehow put my sorrow into paraphrase
to pull the anchor from my chest and toss it far away
by writing down concisely all this shit I want to say.

Clutch of STFU.

Admittedly
I never found
The time to read
Hitchcock’s ‘BIRDS’
and now
I’m wondering
Was the story-line
About being driven
Bat-shit crazy?
Or bird-shit crazy
More accurately
Because that’s the kind
That pertains to me
And the state of mind
That I find lately
The chirping
The clucking
The fucking audacity
I’ve had enough
Of the finch clutch
Known as the Society.

clutch of stfu2

Me.

This villainous fiend that is me,

the shadow in firelight,

the beast waiting to spite,

such villainous things I perceive;

this slowly emptying sea,

the waves that break,

the breaths they take,

what a fucking tragedy;

this temper tantrumming,

the punches at air,

the utter despair,

such a childish identity;

this condition that’s underlying,

the highs and lows,

the last to know,

such a burden is mine to carry;

this unforgiven monstrosity,

the one under my skin,

the one who I am,

such a hideous monster is me.

 

 

Dissatisfaction.

I do not like things,

the way they have been,

two weeks from now,

I still won’t like them –

and two years away,

as a New Year rolls in,

I likely still won’t like things,

the way that they have been.

I can’t describe things,

with the words I’d like to,

mouth won’t speak the sentences,

I need to say in truth –

nothing’s down the road ahead,

to cure this pseudo-mute,

no finish line to run toward,

or spectators throwing food.

I just can’t seem to feel things,

in ways that I can almost recall,

this bloodlessness has dropped me,

til I have nowhere left to fall –

the truths behind the tragedies,

will seep through hairlines in the wall,

no…I do not like things,

the way that they have been, at all.

Fishing Boats.

I’ve never washed his laundry,

or tasted his sweat in the dark,

I don’t clear his dinner dishes,

he doesn’t fuck with my car,

he’s never seen me naked,

I’ve never whispered in his ear,

we live in different time zones,

yeah – he’s there and I am here;

We never watch movies together,

I don’t get to sleep beside him,

we have no friends in common,

no secret spot that we meet in,

we don’t see the same sunrise,

or the same one sink down at night,

our streets are lined by different trees,

we don’t observe the same wildlife;

it’s strange to know such vastness,

of space between, lined by surrealism,

space solidified by the grace of time,

passing in between me and him,

he never slowed in his loyalties,

and I never changed my mind,

any union between is cursed by the Gods,

through an invisible territorial line;

yet, somehow I know this man’s essence,

I hear the ticking of his heart,

mechanical and permanent,

fused with light from dusted stars,

in an abandoned office space,

the crime-scene of an epic opening,

bullet holes in the glass that separated,

this man from connecting with me.

Chase.

I once told you I wished you wouldn’t chase,

the path made by my footsteps as I ran away,

not to follow my feet as they endlessly tread,

places called “home” in my paranoid head,

you used to follow my eyes,

darting about the night skies,

you’d trace a pinky down my cheeks,

trails from tears deemed obsolete,

do not follow my confused insanity,

into the cursed forest of ancient trees,

I’d rather you don’t see me as I mindlessly carve,

indecipherable messages into the archaic bark,

I‘d rather that you might instead, remember times,

when I still maintained a much more lucid state of mind,

as I was back when I first asked of you

to someday cut me completely loose,

back when my feet could not yet carry through,

with the deeds that I still have to do,

do not falter in those old promises now,

you must override your heart, somehow,

you must stifle the desire you to feel,

to follow me into the darkness of Hell,

I’d rather you carry on in the warmth of the sun,

I would that you pick up, dust off and carry along,

all these times, your foolish pride,

had you believing that we were solidified,

but it’s time to defy what we feel inside,

just let go and let yourself bleed for a while,

the loss will fade eventually,

same as my footsteps into the trees,

at which you will stop any pursuit of me,

and let me self-fulfill my own prophecy.

 

 

 

Wasteland.

I often wander out there in the graveyard,

like some spirit longing to escape from limbo,

pacing paths in the dirt between markers,

where I’ve buried too many beloved bones;

 

Every spirit belonging to every ghost,

even those bones turned to ash,

seem to grasp and reach from between,

a far-away future and most distant past;

 

the moon beams become enlightening,

through smears of the tears in my eyes,

the metallic taste of every drop of blood,

becomes a bile slowly starting to rise;

 

I wander out there through Eternity,

as the exiled daughter of some cruel God,

I wonder at heaven’s sheer insensitivity,

and at the end, can’t help but to applaud;

 

at the vastness surrounding such emptiness,

such an ice-cold touch of our creators’ hand,

the Dead have been warmed through the passing,

and the Living remain frozen in this wasteland.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shortcomings.

Why must there suddenly be,

so much daunting irony,

out of thin air, magically,

from nowhere, seemingly;

faceted edges glittering,

smell of engine oil burning,

a billion ions shimmering,

anywhere my eyes perceive;

materializes instantaneously,

recollected quite unexpectedly,

jaw-dropping moments of clarity,

from the mirror and back at me;

long-standing silences in between,

questions I’ve posed so desperately,

and answers returned, in-comprehensively,

from Gods that supposedly see everything;

I, too, believe in such a possibility,

of the Gods taking pleasure in our misery,

when every day brings yesterday’s injury,

nobody can say that the Gods smile upon me.

Numbered.

Like the razor-edged bite of barbed wire,

a brander freshly pulled from a bright bonfire,

a kind of rhythm that does little to inspire,

this heart’s beat to slow it’s lethal rapid-fire;

Like a carrot stick that snaps in half,

an old and dog-eared photograph,

a forgotten joke and forgotten laugh,

a wall built up with a million death masks;

Like an eternity and how it cruelly passes,

killing me slowly as it rolls like molasses,

the bee that stings in the sweetest of grasses,

the ancient tire swing in the pine tree branches;

Like the moment Father Time finally catches up,

when you finally see the empty bottom of your cup,

when everything you’ll ever be is just beyond your touch,

no need to take a number when it’s yours that has come up.

 

Diorama.

I count the many drawn-out days,

pass through this feebly clinging brain,

walk in the shine of a sun that is fake,

I exist in a time made of Paper Mache;

A tableau that depicts alternate ways,

the many varying twists and turns of my days,

the illusion of a normalcy frozen in place,

the gentlest wind blows the facade away;

the wheeling of paper-thin figures that blow,

from the set of this warm and fuzzy side-show,

the diorama scene that rips, and tears and folds,

beneath my fingertips as I fight to keep my hold;

the pieces burn and sizzle in my palm as hot as coal.

 

Decomp.

Each day’s sunrise shines;
against history’s version;
of what is my truth.

And what is my truth…?
according to Father Time,
it is a sad one.

From one, come many;
more sad truths to give names to;
bloated by decomp.

Skin – whitened with time;
a centuries-old rag doll;
missing arm and eye…

Carried off downstream;
against a fatal current;
chased by my nightmares.

Chow Mein.

It isn’t so bad,
when I think on it;
the way that my brain,
becomes like chowmein,
after taking so much of it,
the dumbass bullshit…
it doesn’t surprise me,
maybe not even slightly;
how much it might take,
before I finally break,
cut my nose from my face,
just to spite me…

Dig In.

When I have to be,

one of the community,

it exhausts me,

uphill hiking,

non-comprehending,

distrusting,

not even vaguely,

a foreign dialect,

to my hearing;

I just want to scream,

“can we end this meeting?”

so that I can fly solo,

and avoid the battering;

I’m just,

no damned good,

at this group therapy,

sharing of my feelings…

no disrespect,

but I’m gluttonous,

for the punishment,

of these comfortable,

and familiar things.

High-lighted Pages.

Okay, then –
fine;
in the spirit,
of saving time:
allow me,
please,
to admit,
whatever deeds,
that you need,
to claim,
as being mine,
well, Hell,
oh damn…
it’s all my fault,
somehow,
once again;
see my arm up,
see it waving,
see how much,
bigger I am?
Gods’ damn,
“Little Man” –
who designed
your B Plan…
as it was,
just because,
so stupidly,
you now stand;
all alone,
left to hold,
a Mystery Bag;
no trigger piece,
left on your hip,
and suddenly,
that tongue of yours,
doesn’t seem to slip…
maybe you,
don’t really know,
how serious,
how deep this goes,
the importance of,
your admitted love:
for being in control,
Red Flag,
hash-tag,
highlighted pages,
deciphered by:
all the ages,
with the exceptions,
in each generation,
of the ugliest spirits,
with the prettiest faces.

Still Learning.

I got the Adrenaline spin,
not sure
which is the right direction
obscure
the thoughts that begin
to swim
inside my imagination
again.

I do the ADHD thing,
mumbling
heart weighs in heavily
numbing
sweat pours down steadily
panicking
my thoughts race ahead of me
evaporating.

I have scars for all to see,
they fixed me
a return from captivity
a recovery
a horror film slashing
bleeding
just as the final pint
emptied.

I have a heart that’s still learning,
I’m trying
a desire to indulge in humanity
difficulty
to connect with someone like me
a daydream
Lithium-esque, Ritalin Babies and Dexedrine.

Ocean of Trash.

Since everyone else has their’ hands out –
patting other backs,
ill-humored wise cracks,
“Well Done, Bad Ass!”…
let me be sure that I’m sure –
to fit into the mass;
to expel –
all that goes unwell
as I pass,
I notice the line of faceless blood vessels –
waiting along the tracks,
that make a body intact,
“Hello? Anyone home?”…
open the fucking door –
to the last-ditch,
burnt bitch –
mysterious panic hatch,
the Gods have not yet left me alone on my knees –
begging for scraps,
starved of the pats to my back,
“Get up and walk, dumbass!”
it is Life, itself –
just ONE great, long pass;
through one Hell
in an ocean of trash.

Fatmouth.

If a shooting star spent all of eternity
in being stricken across the night skies…
ever steady, blazing through the E-40
a distance, never closing –
between two massive, lying eyes…
the bell’s constant tolling –
a sound patterned to symbolize…
one of the fighters is face-down –
lights out, three – two – one
stars still twinkling,
sun still sinking –
along with the well-honed
bare-boned,
dramatic fireworks show,
I belatedly recognize…
the shooting star
fired from the smoking barrel
of Misery’s own Sig Sauer .45 –
no room to wiggle
no time to grow in size.