Dancing On Land Mines

Years of forgeries and philandering boiled down to a single act of ignorance. Purloined promises embedded on your sordid tongue. I am pathetic, dancing on every land mine you've placed in front of me. Shallow graves dug for every Judas kiss are scattered across Potter's Field. Cataclysmic thoughts now violate this frail, moribund man. Companionship has wilted away like violets buried under eight feet of snow.

Cigarettes and Anti-Depressants.

Summer, an exclamation point at the end of a sentence too long and written with immaterial words. Two decades of seconds drenched in midnight. Plastic reassurances are purged from black holes and splattered on extant murals of a fallen god. He's languid from cigarettes and anti-depressants designed to mold the mind into congruency. Eyes drip dust to a floor of ash and wrists seep rivers down canyons of flesh. A curtain is pulled over his coffin; the audience applauds. A life played in front of a insensate crowd, doomed to end in trepidation.

Heathen!

Some people look forward to God's stead, but I'd prefer a beer and a cigarette instead. Cross-bearers throng dusty pages down my esophagus and I can hardly breath. Promises of a nation in the sky keep you convivial, but it doesn't work for me. Keep it to yourself.

***

Drops of faith fall from your fingertips like the prayers from your mouth. I am not the current, here to wash it away. Rather, I am the dam. Built to withstand that which threatens to extirpate my thoughts.

Your Hands, My Noose

Dark cumulonimbus poise above, a sign of our scabrous homogeneity's demise. Obdurate metacarpals are nylon molecules percolating from the extremities of a wracked willow. Pernicious pronouncements, the lacerations on sentient tactility. Vacate from rebarbative hearths. The solitary way of enduring gaiety.

Lassen Sie Gehen

There's a girl weeping in a solitary womb feeding on lust and desire. And there's a boy with stagnant eyes burning a hole into a foggy mirror.

This is another brief reflection of a romance broken and left to die. Neither of us knew what we wanted, my love, and it ripped our appendages into giblets fed to a beast that only exists in nightmares. So close we came to wrap our arms around each other's cold and pale bodies. So close we came to tying our heartstrings into a perfect noose. I don't believe in God, yet I prayed every night to meld my lips with yours. But the match cannot kiss the fuse without predestined eradication. Black nostalgia swims in our every word. Let's let go of these rusted chains that bind us, honey. Let us smile at the heartache and move on to the labyrinth of future days.

The girl burns a hole into a foggy mirror with eyes like lakes. The boy lies motionless in a solitary womb feeding on loneliness and grief.

Autumn Rose

Depression hovers above my skull like a black helicopter following my every move. I'm an alien on my own planet, out of place and just flat-out weird. A misplaced step can cripple my bones and one person's rejection can set me on fire. Flammable flesh afloat in a creek of gasoline polluted with their words (like matches). They'll sometimes sit next to my bed and grasp my hardened hand, asking how I feel. I tell them I'm a rose wilting away in a grave of autumn's leaves.

You...

I think I loathe you. How you kiss me deeply but won't take me inside. You're free to do what you will but all you seem to accomplish is strapping me into an electric chair and whispering "Never leave." The weight of a dozen pythons are wrapped around the neck of my conscience when I tell you to fuck off. But tonight I'm setting them free, slithering straight to the question mark that is your heart.

Payback's A Whore, And We're The Pimps

Cunt politician, sitting on your chair cushioned from the poor's skin. Signing your name in blood on papers that cut our freedom. Fuck you! You hide in your tailor-made suit covering up your insecurities and penis envy. And you speak of liberty, then rape us with your wooden fist. There will be another war on American soil. Gangsters will clean graffiti and wash the city of evil; the homeless will arrest criminals wearing badges and live in mansions. We will impale you with the cross you use to justify your injurious actions. Our decisions won't emanate from the upper 1%. They'll flow from the commoner's mouth and our children's movements. The broken chains have been buried in your grave. Now you feel as we did, getting sodomized and tossed in the Styx river.

Dead Girl

She's perched atop a mountain, watching me wade through five feet of bile and regret. I would think she gets some sick orgasm from the sight but I know it kills her with every arduous second. I'm buried beneath her sulfuric tongue while teeth are knocked down my throat and I'm commanded to smile. Now the dead girl weeps as she engraves a breakup letter on my chest. Words the scars will remind me of for the rest of my life. Walking away, hair flowing in the air like cigarette smoke, she leaves a trail of tears leading to my bath of blood. A broken home and forceful affection have molded a tattered woman into a cold-hearted mistress dripping with sorrow. She dies everyday only to be born again with a gun in her mouth aiming for her cranium and your heart.

COMPLETE CHAOS!

UFOs circle above Small Town, America, probing the first borns and sending them off to die like unicorns lining up in a sniper's sights. The grains of sand under their feet are innocent fighters caught in the crossfire of camouflaged propaganda. The Earth's ceiling becomes black as a politician's heart as bombs heal it of ugly majesty. Meanwhile peaceful protesters impale the common man with picket signs reading "No blood for oil!" Riots are birthed for the cause of harmony and fires are set to cool down the tempers of citizens. All of this brought to your television by The Heart Of Man: "Forcing everyone into submission since the dawn of time!"

The Problem With Being Kind

"You are a mean, selfish asshole and a failure! You'll never get anywhere in life!" she screams at me through tangled lines. "Yeah, that's what they tell me," I replied before pushing the red circle and slamming the phone down. The problem with being kind is that one slip up will get you labeled as Pol Pot's reincarnation. Meanwhile, the ladies fawn and drown in the aura of those who beat them and put them down. I light up a smoke and lay back, erasing her numbers and deleting her names. I am reborn, or perhaps just relieved. Maybe she was right.

Just In Case

Your pale skin shins in summer's lonely heat. Wrap barbed wire around my neck and drag me through a garden of lust. Force feed me pleasantries and make me chug boiling infatuation. I resist your flirtation, pushing it away like insects hungry for blood. I'm still standing and waiting for you to slip over your false emotions. The sight of white pigmentation sliding across cracked ground will be a saving grace. I will not be pulled around by you. I will not be your little sex toy. I WILL NOT BE YOUR "JUST IN CASE"!