Us

God have mercy on the High Street suckers and their liquid sorrows on tap. Yuppies exhausted from the endless prostitution of anxiety stumble on straight sidewalks, suicide bombers ignorant of their ultimate fate. We're already in Heaven. All our mistakes turned to angels when they inhaled the burning forest. They blessed us with blemishes and tainted minds. We once rode into the sunset with a rusted pick-up truck while the jury gave chase in sports cars. For a split second, life exploded into a mess of contradictions only to reappear in the shape of a flower on the their mass grave. We deserve no less. Life has lost its edge and the ghosts keep spiraling into futility.

The Brittle Dandelion's Last Vision Before Getting Trampled Underfoot

Fuck you all! I'm taking my cannonball and going to the deep end. You'll never stop me. The crows encircle a new moon and pieces of me are in each of their stomachs. Reality cracks to reveal two entities laughed out of Heaven, scarred and burned with stunted thoughts. Lord have mercy on the corner man playing marbles with his own bone marrow and the child who embraces nihilism. The bottle is pointless. The heart is pointless. The cross is pointless. Mr. Denton has broken his glasses on the front line of a personal apocalypse. I can't read the words on these walls with my cerebellum hogging the spotlight. Persistence is futile.

To No One In Particular

You have hands of gardens, voice of oceans. Eve contradicting the unwashed heathen at her feet. I know I have not been well but place me in that jacuzzi in your eyes and I'll be born again. Watch the scars peel from the flesh and down the drain to oblivion (where the ex lovers go) Let's ride high on a chariot through back roads while my esteem drags on the gravel below. The horses may cry into pure midnight but your skin flashes with miracles that put all the doctors and saints to shame. Take my discolored palm and lead me to your bed where I can dream wide awake of being a God instead of a beggar. You can give me your sorrow and foibles. I'll place them in the black hole within for you to stitch with your lips as the Mongol Empire burns in our embrace.

...But I'm Not Bitter

I could tear her down from that tightrope leading to the gator's belly or rip apart the curtains shielding gorgeous noon. Galaxies birth, die by minutes and the oceans have dried to featureless canyons. They seemed to have dissolved on those nights I never got to speak (countless words never uttered.) Friendship teeters like a snow globe balanced on a needle during an earthquake. Can she pinpoint when all the playful nudges and kisses become fatal domination and control? His love runs on sugar in the gas tank but all she can feel is the sweet taste before ignition. A million insomniac wars and suicide mornings could be avoided if I still gave a damn. It's not even worth an “I told you so!”

Glitz Pig

This game of strip poker has been drug to the morgue. Shed the skin that took you hours to process and toss it to the semen-soaked floor. Just dance! Show us your stuff, lady. They'll go gaga! Claim the snowflake and grab the sand grains. Pyramids have lost their tenets, mummies stripped down and bedecked in severed stuffed animal heads. Desert air tainted in cough syrup pushes the remedial army to some bad romance. You're not qualified to speak for a generation that's already wandering. Seas can't split if the leader is cracking graves of those who aren't even dead. Go ahead, show me your po-po-poker face. I'll call your fucking bluff

Pornography

Justice in blowtorches. Childhood sweethearts lose their virginity at the front line of a gang war. Bullets and semen shake your hand at the 5:30 traffic jam. Stuck just as planned! Every doomsday plot is hatched at a red light. Cubicle villains write a series of manifestos entitled Erotica for Fecalpheliacs. The pages line cribs of future strippers and street walkers, bred to imperfection. No sympathy shown to babies baptized at whorehouses. Place bullet casings in their rattles, tie a paper noose on the swing. Little boys make their first dollars with lemonade laundering. Little girls get their first kisses under a roofy's influence. This is our future. An orgy of lepers dehydrating under an exploding sun.

Would You Dance With Me?

Wishes beget construction of atomic weaponry beneath the dance ball. Glass slippers tapped patterns of withdrawal on a plutonium floor. The song was forgotten decades ago but I love the sentimentality. Some star is mummified in the urinal and Sergei Yesenin is perched above on a clogged pipe. A group of girls showed me the view from Hell on a white line between numbers. I saw my mom there for a split second. They drug me to the disco ball that flickered along with my aphrodisiac yearning. We danced until I passed out next to a poster that read “Reach for the stars!” The morning reminded me of poverty and a thousand regrets. There's no women here, no euphoria. Just glass shards scraping a bomb like some feline scratching a pole of nails.

Misanthropy As A Defense Mechanism

Soak the air in thermite

Light a glass pipe

Conflagration shields

Broken phone lines

Four letter liaisons

Condensed rejection

New age Salem

Outcast's tears glitch

Weightless stones resting

A jury of sun skin

They claim venom

I'm a goat

Not a snake

Jagged lines in fur

Grazing 180 degree plains

Desperation falls on apathy

Reinstate the immortal

Holidays of solitude

It's all self defense

All psychology

Lupus

Sidewalks of our old neighborhood detached themselves from distorted roads. The concrete serpent constricts me from time to time. It's the only embrace that's really true. A woman with red skin avoiding the sun like her emotions. Used to nothing other than death. Every want I had was punished with a trip to the prison you constructed in your yelling. Condemned to feel sympathy for things I didn't understand. There were middle schoolers writing my condemnations in the hallways and beautiful women trying to burn me from their minds. My nylon fantasies boiled worry in that heart you occasionally put in the refrigerator. Our home was my shanty asylum where the armed villagers could never find me. Contact is cancer. Today everything is gone. The safe home whittled away with your immune system. Society grows on my conscious like malignant cells. Touch me, embrace me like I never did. Bring back the days of the first diagnosis. I'm holding on to a stone body with your name etched in it. And years...

Scavenger

I can't admit to meeting Luck. Never saw her face in the flood of damsels. Black, blond, purple hair skipping across a city of aquatic graves. I'm dry but still soaked to the yearning bone. My hands stained from scavenging in troughs filled with atria and ventricles. They were out of key to the symphony of an ashen psyche. Every beat is stuck to me like filth. The flower voices, galaxy eyes, jaguar bodies. The peaceful yearnings that project home movies on storm clouds. I've placed them all next to me in bed where dozens of attempts have slept and slipped through my arms. I am lucky.