everything
tightens
around my
spine
with a
foul
taste
nothing
stands
as decent
or good
i'm
watching
the hours
thin
and turn
to broken
arrows

memory is the
undying
companion
of grief

pumping through
the night
even the air is
wearing scant

decades later
you'll love this
all the thin
slender nights

when you wished
the bones had
more meat on them
but were glad

that they didn't
it is clear now
the necessity
of every thorn

now
i'm on my back
sentimentality
standing on
my chest

it's beginning
to stomp and
all my soft
innards
burst

my blood backs up
my brain drowns
in it
my eyes swell
with it

my vision
fractures

down this
corridor
i've traveled often
but never quite
like this


and this might
be the moment
that i
don't make it
through

the rag
in the basin
looks like
a headless bird
plucked of
its feathers
and deflated
the disappointment
comes in waves
alternating
into desperation
and inert
dejection
this might
very well be
all that you
were allowed
to manifest
which today
feels like
a short coming
like not much
at all

when he saw the white bird fly
his child,
that would soon end up like him,
stole two golden coins from
his dead eyes

he was lost within four years
after his wife died
he often stank of ashes
he stole fortunes,
hid them beneath the stairs

i heard his gypsy song yowl
through the predawn,
his ghost came like a blur,
smearing the night
flapping wings and feathers
against the storm

a cold word
written by
a cold hand
the sun
is ablaze
washing out
the sky
stripping off
its azure

she stood
next to him
putting her
arm around him
a chill
like an
ice pick
shot through
his limbs

he wished
to be
satisfied
instantly
even though
it would
mean his soul
not a word
was uttered
as she did
his bidding

him lying
on his back
muscles tight
with pleasure
sneaking peaks
at pink
marvels
and red hot
daydreams

a multitude
of tasks

perhaps it
would have

been worthwhile
to pay

attention to
the flow.

there is
courage

in the
morning sun

yet it
is still

not enough
to remove

the numbing
void.

there it is,
the television,

what little
peace was

mustered, now
is gone.

the lighters
click

the percolator
hisses and

gurgles and
drips.

i try
not to

vomit.

a hell of
a morning.

... and when
it happened
all that
was left
were bits
of bone

scattered

pure and
sterile
cleaned of
meat
like the
first snows
of winter

he collected
all of
them and
somehow
felt redeemed

i guess you just
had to be there

where the music
made you want to
just drive

glancing into blurred
reflections on other cars

never wanting to go home
dreaming of all those
other distant roads

never thinking of
going home

only pining to
be lost in the asphalt
and doubled yellow lines

she knelt
and understood
that she
has yet
to own
a thought
deeper than
she is.

she'll have
to fight
or go
numb.
she read
the first
one and
wished
herself numb.

but she
wrote this
other one
and stayed
to fight.

to forget
everything
in her
vicinity would
only serve
to release
the soul.

watching distant
memories hold
on to
the air,
she feels
the marrow
rot and
the fungus
spread.

go ahead
and set
something
free.
she thought.

as it all, was put together
with dirt and rust
and all of the other
things that would hurt

it bled from the sky
to wash away
the burdens
of him and her.

his father grasped
the book firmly
and declared, i'll read it
and put it to memory.

so he only stared and
felt his heart sink
knowing that
what was written

would not nor could
not compare
because the words
on pages previous to this

are blemishes
ugly and trite
and if it did any good
he still had no will

to fight.

i know
that one day

my heart
will stop

exhausted and
hollowed out.

i will welcome
the peace and rest

i will shed
my regrets

like a worn
leathered skin

no longer
worry about

unjust things
and wrong things.

these days
are for
the dead
and dying.

a slow
descent
onto our
crumbled spirits

below an
exhausted sky
amidst the wet,
pungent leaves.

this is
how october
began and
this is

how it ends.
used up
but still
undone

with a dull
aching in the
bones scraped
of flesh

and a falsified
notion that
how this ends
is just.

with the rains
the desires to
and images
of war
washed out

great floods
swept away
what little we
have allowed
to remain

in those last
torrents
our reckoning
our breathing
now belabored

took on an
enormity as
of mammoth
beasts doggedly
bleating

beneath the
crude cairn
to the cruel
and sorrowful
sun

in a
darkened
parking lot

sitting under
a street
lamp

with aloneness
on top of
everything

waiting for
someone
or death

and i think
of those i
haven't seen

in a long time
"you still
into bukowski?"

they'd ask
and i'd tell
them, "yes."

feeling
unchanged,
unmoved, stale.

clanking souls
walk by
with their

heads full of
living, getting
on with it.

and i'm sitting,
watching. it all
slides past

and loneliness
bears down.
and my tiny

heart clacks
and clicks
out little dreams.

days bear down.
a tiny thin hope

snaps in the wind,
its end is silent
and deafening.

how can i tell
you it won't change,
not a thing?

this has since
become of no
importance,

now an everyday,
mundane occurrence
and i'd love to help you.

but i know i can't
and you know i can't,
the vapor of this thin

night knows it too.
it is my lack
of will and skill.

too many voids,
where is beauty tonight?
when is it?

as the wheels pull
away from the curb
grand attempts

will be made
to forget it,
to let it slip away.

driving into and
through the mountains

for weeks meandering
on this road or that.

you crest the hill in the
dusted, distant sunlight

ahead the road looks like a
piece of string laid out in the dirt

in the bottom of that valley a storm
cutting a mountain at the base.

the day feels as empty as the world
no one and nothing else around

you descend into it
the storm, that string and you

knowing that down there
it's going to get bad.

my chest heaves
i awake and
can't move
can't see
i feel almost
nothing, just
the tug of
the anchor
holding me
under.

gently swaying
my guts churn
my head lolls
i can feel
my eyes swell
with fatigue.

the walls grin
bare their teeth.
each sound is
thunderous,
maddening.

these pills,
they scrape
the inside
of my head
they boil
the blood
around my brain
they fill my
eyelids with

molten lead

and sand.

the ennui
of this
exhaustion
stretches over
the vastness
in these
hours that
even the
hissing of
insects
and the
clicking of
incandescent
bulbs
cannot span.
everything
here and now
is made only
to strip you
of your
senses.

that waitress will not
give you the time
don't even ask
do not even think it

she'll only break
your yellow little heart
the tiny eggshell
of whatever it is
that you are.

all right than
this place is saved
for someone,
not you

with each analysis
there will be a part
that dies, got rut
shot straight through
into hell.

it turns words
to poison arrows
shooting sparrows
flying through you

covers you with
death and sparrow shit.

and you, too stupid
to move, drowning
drowning in that
poison sparrow shit.

the night
has grown
tired with
you and
your sorrow.

could you
please shut
up?
could you
peel back
your face?

can't you
won't you
give us
something
more?

is this not
how you
measure
success?

filling little
buckets as
fast as
you can.

the night
will defecate
into each
and every one.

tomorrow
you'll have
to start over.

you'll have to
give way to
tomorrow's sun.

waking from
beneath the
filth of this
abhorrent night.

our turgid
souls

plodding
through the

disquiet
ruins of our

filthily livid
yellow days.

i feel you
walk through
my heart

do you see
what i see?

the exhausted
trajectory of
my evolution

do you see
these absurdities
of my untempered
heart

the un-melodic
clank of my pulse,
the wheezing swell
of my chest

as you stand now
you have seen more
than i cared
to show you.

there is a
war coming

and you stand
unbroken, still
and there is that
war, coming.

the bells won't
stop tolling
for this is
the apex of all
my accomplishments.

there is no use
in telling me
you hunger,
for i hunger too.

all that is left
for us to
consume,
the rabid blindness
of the wicked and
the dead.

the din
of this
place,
impossible

but it's
good to
get away

and onto
the streets
and into
the cafes

where you
know
others are
alive

because
tonight you'll
have to
face them

the four
walls,
the horsemen.

you'll have
to stand
brave,
that means

with courage
and without
rage.
still,

like the
equable light
that falls
softly,

slowly
setting all
those little
thoughts aflame.

the moonlight matches
the sound
the music floods
your eyes
you know the pain
will burn
and sting
sweet
like the richest honey
you know what
you know
but it's not enough
someone else
will always have
the upper
hand
the right words

your refusal
will be your downfall
the sound of
protests breaking
like leaves
letting go into
the wind
it will blister your ears
and the world
will remain full
of things
you'll never have
but always want

this space
i occupied
no longer
goes soft
and comfortable

the walls
wept when
the songs played

my blood
boiled as
i slept

i shrank
to nothing
i was glad
to do it
glad to

be rid
of that
anxiety

sometimes
horrors pass
through
my brain
and i feel
every capillary
contract

when i wake
i swear
i can sweat
blood.

i drift into
daydreams

brave
but incomplete

and words flow
and i believed
in then
and i believed
in them

i said i
would do it

maybe it's
just shit talkin'

but something's
right
something soared
now i'm on top
invincible

a god
full of shit.

murdering the days,
even the sunlight
turns blood red
and thick,
viscous with clot

slyly in sorrow
the yellow lights
blink on
blink off

a deep inhale,
hold it forever
exhale and wish
it to be over,
this slavery

and so
no more
words could be
forgotten.

there is a knocking
at the base and
sides of my skull

i struggle for words
as the drowning
do for air

there is a constriction
and interference
and everything starts to
shudder

the world blurs
the air turns to lighting
my ears, eclipsed
with a high pitched hum

i feel nothing
except for the blood
pounding against my veins

when it gets like this
i wish to set it free
spill it out so as to

keep my heart from
rattling the cage
in my chest

my eyes
grow dark
and dim
bleared with
ravenous
desires as
the glow
emanates
from your
center
burning holes
through the
crisp skies
that even
now the
birds will
avoid

your smile
quickens
the pulse
and my blood
thunders
down my
veins
everybody's
going down
no one
will be left
standing
you bring
the bright
morning
and i
the night's
murderous
intent.

i think of Lorca
in the field
beneath spain's
cruel sun
field wrens
screeching
the gypsies'
lament
startled by sharp
and abrupt
reports
rending the
drowsing
afternoon air

the soldiers
merely boys as
green as the
early summer
wheat
as their own
uniforms
turning back
toward the
muddied jeep
thinking of
lovers
and eager
for pussy
heading back
into town
to sip some
sour
ruby wine
and disregard
their deed

and i dream
of his heart
in that melancholy
field
splintered by
the youthful
bullets of duty
into those violet
and crepuscular
dragonflies
skimming
hovering above
the backwaters
of his tender
solicitude

the rider's bones
clattered and
clanked behind
a dusted horse
on the cobbled
empty streets
awash with the
early rains that
brought us all
this gloom..
in this, the last
of our seasons.

here is where
i long to stand
undeserving to
witness even
a glimpse,
i have
prodigiously,
wasted its beauty.

yet i have
dragged through
pained days,
searched and
scoured through
this bleeding
heart, just to
make it
back home.

trembling at
the abyss
overwhelmed
by trepidation
and wonderment,
paralyzed by
this beleaguered
choice.

i harrow
the barren
soil of
these days
to find nary
a word
or thought,
to sprout forth
anything from
the unyielding
earth of my
frozen pneuma.

the rains
came fast
and hot.
washing all
our dreams
tangled
on the ends
of their
pitiful
little ropes,
swaying from
the belabored
boughs.

the winds
rattled the
splintered
rafters in
the washed
out belfry.
tolling faintly,
the bell
for all
our wicked
imbecility.
and our
mesmerized
benefaction
fooled by
our own
gadgetry.

there are streets
not too far
from here
lined with ruins,
burnt down
and out.
a dull and raw
nevi revered in
disgust. a
forlorn stigmata,
in disbelief.
perhaps, it has
been mused,
beauty sleeps
and is scarified
there. a sluggardly
return to a
pungent humus.
and when the sun
escapes from
there at its end,
little whispers
float about and
all around
in the empty
and nearly
silent wind.

they can't be
saved and they
won't be,
if there was
just some way
to show it
to you as
it sleeps
gentle and brutal
in its malevolent,
violent silence.
it wilts and
it thrives and
i can't make a bit
of sense out
of any of it.
it is all there
in all its
blankness.
nameless, just
beyond the word,
beyond the
abject fascination
within the
salted tears,
without a
flowering reason.

two more
swallows of
this coffee
gone rancid
and cold,
i'll be on
my way
attempting
to make it
back through
the trenches
and barbed
wire.
praying that
it won't
be there,
waiting
for me,
that trap
i've set
and fallen
onto and into
so often.
each time,
forgetting
where
exactly it
has been
laid.

she tears
into it
with rusty
dull tools.
pain flows
like a slow
spring stream
and no one
smiles round
here anymore.
it soaks
through
everything.

there is
really
no use in
hiding
anything.
without
exception,
it is always
the same.

we build
addictions
and routines
as skyscrapers
and
monuments.
we swear on
the graves
of mothers
and saints,
that there
is no way
in hell
we'll succumb
to all
of this
again.

there is grandeur
around every corner
and it is
in the trees
and on the
leaves that
have collected
themselves on
the sides of roads.

sometimes it ebbs
forth from dented
speakers serenely,
quickly and it fills
the mouth
the nose
the eyes and most
importantly, the ears.
it fills the lungs
and stops everything.

the room gets
quieter, warmer
even though the nights
come swiftly and time
emanates relentlessly,
still out of reach
but still somehow alright.

and these, our torn hearts,
we mend every time
using stronger cords
and wiser stitching
believing that
each time we
have immunized
our rickety pumps.

nevertheless, the storms
always come and
they bring their love
with their spears, knives,
and cold razors.

in the shadowed
corners, in the
darkest moments
there is the devil
with his sleek and
slimed pitchfork
his eyes alight
like glowing embers
his toothed and curled
smile, sharpening his
blackened claws on
my regrets and misgivings
stamping and stomping
his cloven hooves
counting out all the
things i hove around
this great big world.

lock yourself
in here
until you are
able to move
freely
without worry
or question
without
dependence

you've bred
demons in
your skull
they tear
apart their
home
kicking at
your heart

you swear
you are
dying from
internal
hemorrhaging
i swear
it is
an excuse
to justify
cowardice

to start without
declarations
to begin with
no proclamations
just pure movement
motivation, empathy

how good is it
going to be
when we will
be allowed to
stand straight
again

but our thoughts
incomplete
short lived
perforated by
a death wholly
constant now

it cares for nothing
except the means
of our redemption
we become
beautiful when
we forget ourselves

when we stand
in corners so as
not to distract from
our accomplishment
and work

when we allow it
to flow as our
blood flows
as time does
unending

more rooms
must be built
to hold it
all in
more space
must be allocated
to maintain
such containment
they say that
this is it
and nothing
other can be had
such definitions
such delineation

atrocious inhibitors
killers of beauty
killers of songs
murderers of art.
weep with
the sinking sun
because it will
not be the
same again
all those thoughts
that came uninvited
but welcomed
have now left
disappointed at
such inhospitality

i've busted
up my arms
just trying to
get out of
this snare
its teeth rusted,
pointed and
in to the bone.
i did it to
take on a love
and pass on
fear but
the gamble, rife
with fell intent,
has cost me
the use of
my heart and
not to mention,
again, my arms.

this part was never expected and now
it is probably doing more harm than good

everything froze and numbed
these tears fall gratuitously, now purposeless

it has coalesced into another dereliction
another squandered night

today fell unpropitious, more than normal
the demons run wild

tearing, clutching, taunting
merciless, they won't let go

the attempts to push them away
gummed with futility

everything blazes orange, unsettled
burning down and away

do you not
fear that
all of it
has been
done, used up?
extinguished,
no place to
go anywhere.
it is a nickel's
worth of an
excuse.
but still,
does it
not frighten
you that
there is
nothing left
to gain,
to discover?

time stacks up these
forlorn duties,
beauty is lost to the
cold, wrenched hand
of procrastination.

drift in soft dreams
of traveling down
to those streets
where everything
seemed immaculate.

but that too, gets
lost in procrastination.
this bleak routine turns
into the black serpent
of habit.

winding itself through
the veins, poisoning
the heart, the mind,
the soul and the trinity
dies.

it is seldom
perfect
but it is
most often
preferred.
as the coastline
meeting the sea
ever changing,
asymmetrical
and beautiful
in its
misshapen form.

to learn how
to truly
embrace that
fluctuating and
crooked grace
with action
and faith,
not just words,
but genuinely..
is to master
life.

then everything
starts to surge
even in the
low times,
it rolls
past us
cool and quiet.
a silent vigil
through nights
that cover us
serene and tender,
like soft
blankets.

taking a good day
working it over
until
a heap, twisted
and bent up
bound by each
misgiving
by every page,
beats out its
final measure.
full of scabs
and scars, you
can't stand to
let it heal.

watch this, he said
pulled out
a straight razor
and began
carving big
sinuous strips
of flesh
this is high art,
he said
the highest,
the best,
and the most
i have to
offer you.
this is the rhythm
and flow of
my soul.

they all cheered
but were still
unsatisfied
and called out
for more,
give us more!
the way you
cut and slash
is unaesthetic
inadequate and
decidedly low
brow.
this is cultural
buffoonery,
they jeered,
and you must
give us more!

a light drizzle
from a dim grey sky
and the reminiscently
efferent light,
echos from years
now extinct,
exhausted.
luminescing from
a time a bit
more jubilant.

words swell
with inadequacy.

allow for it
to happen.
the whole world is
drenched in memories
and rain.
for these days are
our training
grounds.

all of this,
soft with sorrow.

it is a rather
and rare thing of
beauty.
and that flickering
hum is enough
to kill.

this darkness,
often mistaken for
misery
and curiously,
a seldom perceived
necessity
ebbs and flows
through all our parts
and bones and
cells
it is there forevermore,
inefficaciously ignored
and always a quizzical
surprise,
as if this was
all new and
undeserved

shoot forth
beams of light
from my
dead eyes
so i can
see the
festering, mangled
meat that
humanity has
become.

breathe in
the fetid air
that spews
from our
drowned dreams.
promise nothing
it is better
off dead.
it has been
for a while
now.

could it be?
i have
the foreboding
sense that
all of
this is
slowly
drying up.
in the tense
aching of
my muscles
in the
shallow,
hollow knock
of my wrists.
that sense
permeates
throughout the
worn crevices
of my
mind.
throughout all
those undone
things.

at 1:41 a.m.
the car moaned.
it took me
away to where
my soul would
ignite.

if only i
could do
something
with this
restlessness.
this immobility
and inability
to tend
to my
responsibilities
constricts around
my panicking
mind.
this purgatory
manifests from
myriad and
banal moments.

these woes
can come from
nowhere. it's
ofttimes there
in the light
when sunday
sets the sun.
in the heat
or the
treacherous
and insidious
night,
in these
paltry words.

consumed and
weepy i feel
its iced grip.
it beckons me
and i feel
the thief
pushing hard
for it
but it only
abates if
i can
muster the
resolve to
look away.

the bottom
has corroded
out of my
tiny tin
heart.
and as with
all broken
rusty things,
they have
their momentary
appeal, like
how could
this thing be
allowed to
get to such
a state.
then they
are regarded
as what
it is that
they are,
junk.

the infection
is spreading
it has been
for millennia
this just
might be
the cusp
the pinnacle
the miniscule
almost
imperceptible
moment
where a living
world is
now a dead
one

death
the fickle
bitch,
i no longer
fear.
it is the
road
toward it,
littered
with human
iniquities
that terrifies
me
the most.

the athanors
burn high
and bright
incandescent
is their glow
shafting through
the dead
forests.
nothing grows
anywhere,
anymore.
it has all
become fuel.
and they flash
so hot
and bright,
enough to
etch our
shadows
into stone
long after
we are
gone.

the morning glares
and i feel shame
choke me as
i open my eyes
from restless
slumber.
i have no hope
i have no food
and my soul is dying.

i have failed to
witness my mistakes
and transgressions.
now i fear it is
too late.
rectification of this
will be a long,
expansive endeavor.
one which the
circumstances of
these days
do not allow.

i fear these,
the days of our
extinction. inescapable,
inevitable, destined.
what can deliver us
from such a
foreshortened fate
but nothing.
not even our
so called genius.

acrid are the nights
in the days of this
extinction

bitter are the ropes
hanging from the
gallows

burdened with the
innocent

toward the end
gazing onto their
steel, dead eyes
with aversion
and finality
in unremitting
seconds

with a whispering
flutter of
a finger
those eyes
blaze up
with hellfire
to strip the
measly flesh
from my
chalky bones.

on these days
overawed blankness
digs itself in
there is
not much
but consternation
and memories

running
a river
overwhelmed by
rain and tears
all things have you
and all things
hurt.

grope through
darkness, unending
the needles
of every
minute
bury themselves
in every
square inch
tissue turns
black
sliding in
deeper, further
no thing
stands still
all of it
goes beneath
the skin and muscle
churning, igniting
every nerve
every capillary
swelling
aching with
infinite exhaustion
feet made
of brick
and the thoughts
of running away
dissipate, vaporize
teeth grit
another hour
just died and
i measured
up to
nothing
not even a
whisper

docile
is the day
and my
heart beats
slow but loud

with each
thunderous clap
it promises
to abscond from

my chest,
past the ribs
into the
salted air

i feel this
thick sadness
it turns my
blood to tar

i dream
of rooftops
and the space
beyond them

fever of panic
incinerating what
is left of my brain

the bewildering
cruelty is not so
easily understood

to stand in the
storm is foolishness
to try and avoid it
is imbecility

on sundays, in early
spring, death is beauty
magnificent

this is the return
i longed for, the
survival of your iniquity

our broken
hearts cannot
soar beneath the
weight of the red moon
because the
nights are now
so long and brutal
and we are our
only true enemy

it comes,
it comes down
with leaves,
it comes down
with rain
the blood we spill
comes down
it colors everything
it colors the moon,
forever these stains
have altered what
we are

this pain is as
illusive as the sunlight
we shunned
oscillating through
the scattered remains
of these ruinous hours.

the ropes cut
my hands to
the quick and
the flesh of
my arms to
ribbons.
the precarious stilts
of my legs
wobble, split and
snap beneath my
own weight.
i collapse into
a wheezing, glistening
heap.
and so the
day has only
just begun.

tour the lumbering
hulks of what used
to be and what
might have been.
notice the chill emanating
into the drizzling ether
of your spine from the
mammoth skeletal towers.
and you, supine and
recumbent in the thin
air of night in that
cheap and tiny coffin
made of wood and razor
wire and flesh and bones.
in each passing minute
it all shakes and shudders
and the concrete and mortar
loosens and it rains
bricks and stones.
impenetrable tombs
clutter the now open
and vast horizon.

out there
the wind
turns the rain
into razors
cold and slick
and unrelenting
it will freeze
car doors
and turn
the asphalt
to glass
no punches
are pulled
so take your hint
from here
but
don't ask
how or why
you have brave
thoughts and
words teetering
around in
your skull
but that
is just bullshit
and its
obvious
the world is
a cold dying
place.

it has
been
clutching
at the
heart
for days
now.
the temperatures
of the day
and the
clouded
shuddering sky
bring everything
back.
there is no
story to
tell,
if we
try too hard,
we ruin
beauty.
if we
do not try
hard enough,
beauty dies
of neglect.

feel its
claws,
feel them grip
and reduce
you.
it is lost.
feel that in
the pit of
your stomach.
in that fetid
belly of
the beast.
a thousand
disappointments,
a thousand
worms turning,
twisting.

there is
noting to say,
there is
no one to
listen.

the days grow
more insane
as i cannot
control what
it is that
i am
turning into.

another day ends
up in
frustrated procrastination
no hope and
i am
not set free.

there is a
rift where
i used to
stand, looking
toward all the
gallant heros
but now my
head hangs
low and heavy
with shame.

i know this
ineptness drains
my thin veins
my heart
pumps putrid dust
i've lost
the flow of
life, buried
beneath the throbbing
wretchedness and
all the things
pushed over
the edge.

it all began
with the
exquisite
extinction
of great and
plodding beasts.

ebbing through
years immemorial
the sands
shifted and
grasses
grew, in
time, rendering
all things
unrecognizable.

masterful tomes
have been
crafted,
devoted to
the fallacies
of those
last days.

but those
last days truly
were a
spectacular end
a finish
scintillating
in a scope
cinematic.

today's hope,
just as
yesterday's,
was smothered in
dislocated failures
debauched filth
and disgust.

fog thick
with ash
swallowing trees
suffocating the
day as its
hours slump
into tiny coffins

one at a time
you can stand
there in the
small church
at the end of
your street
weeping
quavering into
the last moments
of this,
the final
minute put to
rest.

the grinders
rip through
and away
his
thoughts.
pining for ten
minutes
of rest
from relentless
fears of
forgetting
something,
anything,
everything.

its easy,
he can lose
himself
in coffee
stains,
the fractured
lights of all
the dead
stars and
the melancholy
realization that
perfection is
nowhere,
nothing.

fleeting
like time,
the sirens
wailing, the
horns blowing.
its totality
fading.
the grinders
start once
more but
they never
really
stopped.
now did they?

he's searching
burnt out
burned down
memories
for courage,
he's looking
all wrong.

oh yeah!
the satisfaction
of taking
someone's teeth.

the glistening
pap of
what used
to be a face,
brings forth
such uncontrollable
jubilation.

rejoice in
the cantos
of their
choking
gurgling
bloodied pleas.

and the
insanity of
this and
other actions
is that you
do not protest.

that you
stand in
the shadows
a thin smile
slit across
your tight face.

appeasement
shimmering in
the holes
of your
eyes.

these are my
gnarled and
knotted fists.
useless but
for pounding.

today inside
everything melted
caved in
on itself
we tried
to dig
into it,
beneath it.
the more we
dug, the more
it fell in.

empty, tired, fragile
it sits raw
and heavy.
every word
they uttered
was a stone.

at one a.m.
i just want
to eat,
read, listen
to the sorrows
of nightly
songs and
dream some more.

a time
when i'll
be strong
and certain,
shaking the
hand of
a friend.

the oil in his bones has turned black
the smell of burning diesel
permeating from the pores
and through his clothes into the
blankness of the night.
declarations of dreamt fulfillments
a routine so restless
fills him to the brim.
unspeakable anguish


sitting at the kitchen table, dreaming
all of this has been said before
has been promised before.
the formulations of plans
knotted, twisted and fallen down
like punctured heros in distant forests
twigs snapping beneath his feet.

silence,
snarls
sinks its fangs in
injecting hissing
emptiness

an end has
been reached
hollow and clean
devoid of
catharsis

nothing else
to do but
to fill this shell
nowhere else
to go but
upward, onward.

there were
seemingly indelible
things that he
was certain of

betting it
all,
the whole world
and then some.

to no one's
surprise
the deal fell
through
and so
now his payments
include:

the endurance
of being
bitten by solitude,
deafening silence,
the punishing
embrace of
trifling emptiness
and a
host of other
horrors.

which, by the
way, are not
horrors at all
if you look
at them
in the thin
light of
the endless
night.

a group of yellow flames
with a thick scent of vanilla

dance and mingle
waiting for an occurrence
waiting for something to break
to give in

taunting and laughing
rejoicing with spastic flickering
all the failures they've witnessed

he awoke
twice
last night.

he fell
apart
both times
and broke
a promise
or two.

it was
enough to
scare him
enough to
leave him
gasping
with that
cement
in his lungs.

enormous gods
with gigantic infections.
searching for the antibiotic
of my confused
suffering.

i'm high on thinner fumes
and am dying for not much
at all.

an inexpensive death

clench your fists around
my throat,
my heart,
my dick.

not much left but the
hollowed carcasses
of words.
overused and spent
shallow and
devoid
of their intentions.

you've broken me down
crushed me into a powder
i just could not stretch any longer
and i held on just a bit too long
dehydrated and asthmatic.

his eyes were
heavy,
dull
like a blizzard

in his veins
there were
train wrecks,
wars
and other
atrocities

his veins
were full of
victims,
a caffeinated
nightmare.

the sweat
on his back
glistened
like mosques
in ancient
deserts.

he knew
what to do
but couldn't
do it
couldn't
save it
couldn't
live
couldn't
die.

i'm not going to make it!
i can't sleep and
reality is falling short.
all the sounds are muffled
laughter, derision.
the medicine keeps me up
it crushes my spine
and pulverizes my soul.
to even bring this up,
to mention this is
the ultimate sign
of infirmity.
i wait for the
world to implode.
the dense epicenter
of the darkest finality
is the lump in
my throat.

i see beauty
as it comes
from everything.

this is no gift,
there is nothing
special or extraordinary
to it.

watching the leaves'
descent, their smell
after a short rain.

it fills the lead
box in my chest.

i can see it
clearly
and the act
of observation is
a silent comfort.

the cellos slowly saw
the night in half.
i watch the clock
beat out verdicts
against me.

i have everything and
nothing at all.

here are
the accumulations
of all things

killers, healers

the clouds break
and the sun
pours down like
molten lead

the air is
thick with death
even over these
plains and open
fields.

my head is full of cement
it is difficult to focus on
the simplest of tasks
like breathing or speaking.

i fall silent, rude
and incomprehensible.
my thoughts struggle
for survival.

a low dull ache
at the base of the skull,
this coup de gras is
too slow.

the administration of it
is a disappointment.
its final moment is now
stretching into infinity.

what horrors,
witness them all.
vivid in the splendors of
their terrors.

clenching down
the venom that palpitates
hatred through the
veins.

the vipers' spit
elongates the expiration
of the protracted
night.

salvage from the storms
the damp chalk
of our
bones.

take their heads
swift and merciless
the waters boil with
blood.

spilling, unending
this is the eternal
hanging of the damned at
dawn.

a gap
leaking gasoline
through the shirt
through the heart

please don't
strike your match
i just need more time
just a bit more
it is what i have always said

and it never gets filled
and i've burned it
i've buried it too
beneath willows and birches

i cannot fill it
and it never gets done
i can't tie it together

moving purposeless, wishing
for unawareness.

the roofs smolder
as the rain blisters
all the things it slants upon

and the sun
bullied by the billowing
greyness of clouds

slithers
beneath the horizon

they will play,
shifting around,
some absurd session
of musical chairs.
they'll do it
in the name
of progress
or happiness
some type of warped
righteousness
taking more than
they deserve.
just a matter of first come
first serve

i'll stand still,
sitting motionless
without proclamation.
i know their rules
but i don't
understand the purpose
to kill beauty
in order to embrace
the illusion
thereof.

spread yourself open
for their greedy
yellow teeth
dripping with carrion
the wolves have come
for your children
born and unborn
and stillborn
change is gonna come

why hold back?
why not spill out?
white hot nightmares
and uncontrollable days.
let the blood flow
let it ebb forth.
scrub the capillaries
cleanse the veins.
wouldn't you,
couldn't you
for a better
tomorrow

bloodletting.

we are the youth, ascetic
giving our time away
we build our religions
deny ourselves for love
for instant digital dreams

all we love has been deemed
ignominious

we are scattered and disparaged
suffering our own torments
we do not ask forgiveness,
not anymore

we surrender our courage
and our heros are shunned
we are our own worst enemies.
sanctified

the beauty of these days
grows larger
as the nights do too.
sadness whimpers in fear.

fear of eyes and mouths like
ravenous vulture's claws

how many dreams have i
shaken to death?
how many lovers have i seen?
how many killers have i
greeted in the streets and
shaken hands with?

all the times i looked death
in the eyes and was unaware
of what it was i was gazing into.

it comes at you in this
expanding beauty of days
and the ever growing night.

this day has been tired
warm and grey and quiet.
these words can't and won't
circumscribe the proximity
of the visions alight in what you feel.

the leaves whisper their last words
as they let go their branches
singing in the wind.
how is it that they can take
that engulfing glowing beauty and

surrender the agonizing twisting
skeletons, dancing in the dusk
to the brazen fires
that herald the night.

beneath the yellow of electric lights
men generate what the ruins of their
souls will allow

watching spiders live with purpose
unquestioning, insatiable.
weaving the symbols of life and death.

a few will survive to be the paragon
forgiven but not saved from their
own torturous demons.

with the sun you will learn to smile
when your heart is cleansed
in the fires of agony.
it will be the gift of forgiveness.

all the luck is spent.
all has lost its intention
its pulchritude.
hope is eclipsed
by denial
or maybe it is the other
way around

there are gods
indifferent
they have no ears
no blood to give.
efforts elude these
thoughts.
these words
dismember the soul.
inevitable.

these bones
feel a thousand years old
the creak of each movement
startles.

can't remember being this old
can't remember feeling satisfied

the birds outside shriek
the trees whip around
and the dark winds howl.

i try not to move lest i wake
you from your restful slumber.

waiting for this year's blossoms
the skies yearn for sunlight.
and if this night could stretch
for several moments longer.

i could witness you
peaceful, dreaming.
beautiful.

there is a wretchedness
as illusive as
sunlight
it comes from the
moments of incompletion

you remember where
you have not yet been
the days are fast
the nights long and brutal
you look at yourself
the only true enemy
a comrade you cannot win.

it comes, it comes down
with leaves
it comes comes down
with rain
it comes down as she
finishes you.
today she is gone.
everything will kill,
today.

emptiness when the sun goes down
night kills the day much faster now
all the days in the memories ache
stuck in hope, waiting for something
other, better
but the wall of impossibility is much
too great
what beauty lies in the pain
in the end
in the death

this reduction to nothing is the
least of my deservingness
the words, broken arrows,
will not take flight.
nothing helps to lessen the blows
of an imagination that is thine enemy.
the faults lay with no one now
but i am beaten
longing for you.

you are right to move on
i have nothing to offer you now
i never really have
it was your realization
and my end.

i read words that have
broken my heart
i looked at memories that
did my heart in too
i watched time slip away
smooth like razors
how do you see past these ruins
and emptiness

show me how it is to smile
at the sunday evening glow

has not all of this broken
your heart?

on these days of blankness
intimidation digs itself in.
there is nothing but fear
and memory
running, a river
flooded by tears
and eulogy.
all things have you.
all things hurt.

a thousand breaths
spent in the fields of concrete
of brick and mortar

evaporating into
the stench of tar
thick as phlegm

passing through the hours.

it pines...
this heart

...the smoke
rings around
the sun,
beating out
indelible bruised
moments
stretching into
unforgiving

hours.

i don't understand laziness
but i do understand exhaustion
which is often mistaken for laziness.

the inability to move
the inability to see to your responsibilities
is only slightly different than
the unwillingness to do so.

but it is a difference,
as thin as a human hair
and capable of breaking worlds apart.

2 a.m.
and something is dying
as so many things do
at such an hour.
i almost fought
so i could be dismantled.

the thinness of the air.

the call to senseless violence
as to die
or to lose yourself,
if only until tomorrow.

lumps in my throat
swell
when stars revolve
around my
heart.

my thoughts are
short
and inconsistent

when the shoelace
snapped
i thought of
madness

as the sun blazed
horrible,
through the bruise
of sky

into the winter snow.

acrid stench of
brakes

hurry homeward.

the clouds were
clenched fists

pummeling the day
into a humid
haze.

there were siphons
sucking in
my guts

and i could scarcely
walk.

just like that the silence is gone.
solitude is raped
violated in the most egregious
of ways.

my thoughts explode
in a thousand different
directions.
frustrated by preoccupations
i dream of things
long gone.

there is nothing
now but this.

each foot step stubs out
my soul.
and i panic. i lose.
my days become
ashtrays, overflowing.

ashes of things incomplete.

the reaper dances around my brain
points his skeletal finger at me
wickedness spews forth from the corners
of his deadened smile.

it won't be long, it can't be long.
my heart shrivels into a tiny black vapor.
if you got something better than this
give it to me
a cure for my crippled, limping mind.

administer the killers of pain.

can't make out the words
this mania turns to indecision
what is it that we are waiting for?
we can't hear anything
we succumb to the hunger and desire
we are lost.
emptiness, is not enough.
the birds and the sun laugh at us.
taunt us.
they have us by our throats.
emptiness is all we have.
but our minds remain scrambled
and our souls choked out.

trying to get the fog out of my head.
bring me something to save my soul.

hurry, think of something
there is no room for refinement.

just get it done.
get it out.

like shit into the ether.
breathe in deep.
now you are infected
like me, you must die.
slow and merciless your expiration

like shit into the ether.

the swine of humanity
chomp through
our
buttery bones.

do you have
something worth while?
you must surrender it.

you must give it to them.
they are entitled.

there is no quiet.

only demands
ultimatums.

there is no peace
only fear.

breathe in the cold air
breathe in fire

the heart nearly stops.

just a faint whisper
and no one understands.

i've got nothing
nothing new
just a stomach ache.

i feel death near and
justice far.

i had words but they're
gone now.
it's too loud here and i'm running short
on breath.

i wheeze and shit
and try to save what's left of this night.