she’s real sweet
he says
crying outside of my door all night, too
i hope you can
find a good place for her

and just like that ~

a bus ticket
a backpack

he says he only eats vegetables
right after purchase
and runs everywhere
now

and
there are ghosts all around him

working for food
trim plant
cut weed

make nice with zombies
as
the ghosts just grow
and grow

while endurance starts to fail
the drugs and money
come back

like cancer in the
lymph-nodes

a rush of euphoria
a gasp for air

let the beat ride out
because it’s feeling tight
leave your stupid fucking
artist persona at the door
the vampires can’t get us if
we’re in the woods dancing
let’s all become one
and kill our grandfathers
they can’t fool an athiest
a post-modern punk fuck up
let’s end the song here
before we get off track
and they gun us down in daylight
or we lose our faith

you are tiny motors
driven by light

beg like the rest

make deals with
the devil

refuse
to understand
yourself
as an object
in space

never take
a best guess

at how you are perceived

by others

and i cannot decide

whether or not

to breath again

you just let me so i started to eat you i was so hungry but slowly for it to last and you laid yourself down for me night after night the only other person i thought for miles that i’d see and i left your lungs so that you could breath i left your heart so that you could bleed together in a bed in which i could not sleep i was intense and disgusting and covered in fleas i got so mad at you eventually that i ate your eyes so you couldn’t see all through the night i would wail and scream and i puked up all the parts you had given to me you covered yourself in ink to hide away and last we met you revealed unto me that all along you’d saved pieces of me too and in the graveyard there was something poetic about me cumming in your mouth near decomposing bodies neath the dirt and i miss you like a heroin spoon in my dreams you still look tasty and i know you don’t feel the same you never had the stomach to keep down human flesh we were so young we just couldn’t tell that you can’t eat people like i do you can’t eat people like i do

was slow on the way to the river
born with bad eyes, you know
oh
please don’t leave me behind

was last to get round the bend
to see it brown and shallow
y’all got your fill up stream
but i’m still thirsty

and when we tried to go there
together
someone always runs ahead
they run with the devil

and after 28 years
not that i was counting

i’ll step on backs to get to the head
i’ll bend glass round my eyes to see
i’ll cover my ass with animal skin
i’ll dig a hole to the fucking core
i will pass you and crush you completely
to behead the devil whom sits at the mouth
oh
i hope that i have the spirit
to crush that damn

it is because the worrying won’t go away
that i must stretch out my standing with
long bouts of meditation
hiding, and looking away from
the beasts of currency and wealth
this failure is not a destination but a
bitter road to travel

it is a neurotic compulsion
that drives me to such barren solitude
to stop from sifting through your pedals
i, desiring
via morose curiosity
to feel disgusted by the microscopic bugs
that actually live on every flower
where there are some

slander, definition:

inflammation

also calamity

vindication

a condemnation inspired by
my 16 year old penis

an obsession with your lungs
and whispers told at me
enrapturing or capturing me
or holding me down like gravity

i am unbecoming

i am hallucinating that you
are falling angels from the sky
and a soothsayer
perched on you
is lying about me

from you to me and
between you and i
a false light shines

not bright but loud

i shake
and shake with
anger
confused and hungry

a dog with no name

i find strange comfort in
the wind amongst the plains

of which i fight to keep
this light aflame

need find new fuel i may
for cracks have formed

which let the wind through
twixt my angry arms

what then could i use to
generate light and heat?

reach deep within my chest
at a heart that ne’er did beat?

stumble blindly toward the horizon
with eyes that ne’er could see?

gradually i become the dirt
no longer able to protect this
naive light
no longer to protect this
ignorant heat
unable to save this
stupid flame

i’m watching coachella
on youtube from kansas
wondering what God’s plan was
for all those dead middle
eastern babies
and what the fuck kendrick means
in his new album about God this
and this is what God feels like
and God chose the brown skinned
that are the true Israelites
and i can’t wait for the day that
He comes back down
oh my God i can’t wait for the day
He come back down
our male biblical salt pillar great flood
myth
i will take the full brunt of His might
like walking to a bunker in the hot, arabic
peninsula
American bombs raining down atop me
enough lava to wipe clean the soil
a plague of insects growing out of
my dead body
and i will know of hell, then
and the purgatory before it

you can’t love
a fuck-stick
you love fucking
not the stick
like getting high

it is difficult
to love
a non-fuck-stick-human
their value
is more complex

as complicated as you are
and reliant
symbiotic
it’s a different game
in that it’s not a game

or not at least supposed to be
yet is one, to but laughter
at an unshared thought
such as yourself
bouncing off cement walls

you can’t love but the
sound of your own breath
or feel of chemicals
oozing through your
narrow veins

not corporeal but a laugh
entropic and singular
molesting the
air in
desperation

i don’t know i don’t know i don’t know
if the words to the songs wear away
if the thoughts escape and never come back
if the feelings are trains off their tracks
if it might be better
to strip off my clothes
and run naked through the streets
making a mess, not pretending
that i don’t want to make the mess
anymore
i don’t know i don’t know i don’t know
if i can build a clock
big enough
to make the seconds matter
i know they did in the past
but i still don’t give a shit now
i look into your eyes and cry
if only i knew how you felt about me
if only the whirlwind of words in every
dictionary were writing a story that i
could fucking understand
i don’t know i don’t know i don’t know
if that means that i’m failing
or winning
or if i care either way
or if i love life
or if i hate life
or if i love you
or if i hate you
i don’t know
i don’t know
i don’t know

what i do know?
is that just because you threw it away
does not mean it ceases to exist

i’m sure you’d hate me
like i hate me mrs.
brodhead
because you were always
better than me
and i was a step behind
and probably am
and all i can think
the moment i almost
touched you
among the dead
and the dying
grass of the cemetary
where i came
so close to being
better, like you
are
in radiance
mrs. brodhead
when you used to
have a different name
fresh like the fallen
snow

i’m sure you’d hate
me for my shitty
tendancies and give
more than just a nod
as i do —
mrs. brodhead
doesn’t think of that
trudging up the
mountain with
beauty all around
and inside,
too
a place where i once
dreamt of being
warm and opposite
your intellect
ever devouring

a fearful hush is felt
as a blanketed pressure
of extra gravity falls
upon the suburbs
as everyone tries to hold
the same looks on their faces
whenever the law sulks
around

but count yourself lucky
if you have forgotten about this creature
the law

who started innocently
as homework, chores
but has grown with you

now with eyes that pierce the night
like spotlights in the sky
like magic
walls can materialize around you
cold and thick
thrashing you around
the law will grab you by the neck
sudden and deadly

the law exists to traumatize
those who do not fit the mold
whose faces cannot hold long enough
when the spotlight is upon them

i must confess i still see you often
well, parts of you
that is
in other women
whom i dare not talk to
selfish
embarrassed
i feel
that i wish those parts were whole
and backwards in time
always backwards in time
like out of a cannon we would go
on fire, too

i think
if you could see me now
able to lift both feet to walk now
and quickly,
even
you would smile that
hungry smile
for a cut of meat deeply within
and i’d have no choice but to smile back
i never had that choice

when a man’s an empty kettle
he should be on his mettle
and yet
i’m torn apart

just because
i’m presumin’
that i could be kind of human

if i only had a heart

i’d be tender
i’d be gentle
and awful sentimental
regarding love and art

i’d be friends with
the sparrows
and the boy who shoots
the arrows

if i only had a heart

picture me
a balcony
above a voice sings low

“wherefor art thou
romeo?”

i hear a beat
how sweet

just to register emotion
jealousy
devotion
and really feel the part

i could stay young
and chipper
and i’d lock it
with a zipper

if i only had a heart

(Originally written by Edgar Harbug)

i left her
writhing there in
my rear view
feeling all the pain
of a dying nervous
system

pointless, severe pain

caused by the meeting
of an innocent
young
squirrel
and a man too tired
to care

it will all be over soon

in the moment when match
strikes for flame

that i saw in the deep
of your eyes

and where there’s smoke
there’s fire i know

but i am high and the
air martial says

that now is not the time for
a smoke

as i thumb the lighter
in my pocket

although my soul is an overgrown
jungle
where both the smallest and
largest things exist to eat you
wholly
you perservere there, in the middle
carving out a home and making
friends with the monsters hidden
by shadow
you are a great adventurer
and what’s more, you are still beautiful
even as the vines encroach upon you
while you sleep
to hug you in a deathly way
your smile is the only light around
as you carefully trim your way through
looking for me

i don’t know where i am and why
you would look for me
and it is my confusion that grows the
jungle, anyhow
yet you search for me
with a warm embrace
you, a great adventurer
whose heart is warm like a million suns
whose beauty shines beneath layers of
jungle-trash
and i love you very much
for searching
for finding me
and so much more

up ten stairs
through the bare wooden
door with no handle
and around the 180 degree
turn passed the small room
on the left and the attic
door on the right there
is a white door with an axe
mark just up and left from the
fading gold doorknob

on the left there is a big,
wide bed and on the right
a CRT tv sitting on a
flimsy wooden stand with a wooden
facade and broken plastic wheels
next to maybe sometimes an equally
flimsy corner-desk with similarly
broken wheels and ugly wooden facade

i can stand here whenever i please

in the middle of the room
with two windows facing
west raymond st
and maybe a 6 foot ceiling (if that)
a converted attic room with strange
stucko patterns scraped carelessly
on a ceiling that feels eternal

there is a large, wide, white bookshelf
in the middle
of the two windows where so far
all i have are two pictures inside
one manilla envelope
one of myself, wearing the vicksburg
bulldogs junior varsity soccer outfit
at 16 years old, young dumb and athletic
and the other of my two parents before
they hated one another
holding me in front of a tractor somewhere
my mother was pretty with big hair
my father had bleach white sneakers

the newest addition to the room sits
in the right windowsill
he looks black but in the sunlight you
can see that his dark fur is brown
he has big, loving green eyes
and although i used to come here to sit
and contemplate things and store away
memories in devoted silence

i now just sit with tiny

his purring so loud that it clicks
as he rubs his head against my arm
and licks me a few times
as he is happy to see me
frozen in time