tired nights of manic thoughts
cut my rope with the knife i bought
fill the silence with perpetual talk
got my bed all lined in chalk
stupid feelings may come or not
i don’t care and it wont stop
4 am songs
my nerves rot

after sitting
for hours on end,
drinking,
hoping,
wanting to feel,
hoping to forget,
and finally,
with a little scotch ice,
the chill sets in,
and i’m good to go.

because mine’s not,
and at least one of us
needs to think good
and to be able to
open their eyes,
despite the harsh fluorescence,
and the bright computer screens,
and the dull pain
just behind the right eye
and the feeling that all i want to do
is close the door
and lay down on the cool,
rough office carpet
and sleep

but for now i’ll settle
to rest my eyes
as i type,
hoping that no bosses walk by.

I was checking the tags in the back of my shirts
when I realized, you know,
once upon a time we were just a bunch
of dumb punk kids.

But time hasn’t once upon’d in a minute,
and we havn’t been kids
since at least back when,
so what’s our excuse this time around?

I am wearing a suit today.
I have hidden my tits inside this prim blouse as if to say ” I will not f$$k my way up.” I am a professional. My foot is inside the door, I am cut-throat. Look out. I discarded my soul a long time ago along with my college boyfriend; the sanctimonious sod.
I was raised by a feminist when feminists weren’t  simply thought of as lesbians( bless them), ugly loud men-hating frigid bitches.  There was a time when feminists were women seeking a fair and better place under the sun. Today, even half naked skeletal creatures call themselves feminists eventhough they have relinquished their brainpower and conformed to a distorted image of what a woman is supposed to be. I am no exception; I have assessed myself by counting all the body parts at their market value ( my ass is moderately tight, my face palatable, my brain fully functional but the extra pounds, the somewhat sizable breasts, and the average height are a deal breaker) . My brain as my only asset, I have optimized, kept my feminity under tabs and let my soul go. Now, I am a successful career woman. My name is modernlady, I am a feminist failure, and a kickass cunt. Bite me.               

never worrying about whether
the answer will come,
or not,
just keep talking,
in a constant tirade
of ass pulled words
until in a moment of clarity,
the perfect idea arrives
and all of the asses are rolled away.

as the train approached our stop
we saw the edge of the storm
a wall of rain quickly advancing

when we stepped onto the platform
into the deluge the other passengers
laughed at our misfortune

we held our umbrellas like shields
they flailed and failed to protect us
the wind carried water in all directions

in seconds our shoes were sponges
wet clothes clung to wet skin
three blocks never seemed so far

but laughing beneath our umbrellas
loud enough so the other could hear
three blocks never seemed so near.

today i brought something into this world
which was not here before
i birthed the non-existant into the air
giving it oxygen to taint
tomorrow i’ll set me sights higher

i promise to bring for you
something more than poo

Some days it’s awful hard
writing songs about pictures
of things you havn’t seen in a long long time.

Nine days out of ten, though
it’s harder still to try and
take those pictures again.

The light never seems to hit
the same way these days.

i’d give away your smile
to rid of your stupid ass
if only i could stand it.

i can’t write beautiful words with you
my beautiful
looking over my shoulder.
i’m sorry but it’s true. your eyes of judgement bear down on my every letter and i feel small. as insignificant as i truly am in the midst of your presence.
and frankly i need delusions of grandeur to write.

trees absent in this barren land
i don new lack of shoes and grip
every bump, splash every puddle,
grinning as when i was a boy

I only hope
the truth of life is
not so divine
that I won’t understand it

I see you’ve got the look down
and I smell you’ve got the smell down
(ain’t showered in weeks I reckon)
and with the nonchallantness of your grin
and the way that perfect Ibanez shines
in the late afternoon sun, I would almost
see you hopping trains right out of here.

No worries, no stress, everything in the
little hand-sewn bag that you’ve slung over
the one shoulder, just right. Absolutely picturesque.
I would almost bet the money that you’d
had to run from railroad bulls, especially
when that hobo tune comes ’round
on that guitar again.

Everything checks out
but that one little thing:
That Ibanez is just too damn clean.

I hope that there’s a baggage claim
at the end of all of this.
Some grand processing system
to sort through all the things we brought.

Hopefully it is an improved system.
Hopefully it only returns the things
that are worth a damn.

I fear we are not so lucky,
and that the processing was, well,
you know,
sort of our responsibility.

But if there is a baggage claim,
whatever the modifications,
I’m taking someone else’s bags
and hoping that they packed
a little better