Monday, November 28, 2011

Push Me Away


Life has turned dull and acrid,
Dust replaced blood; still becomes my bones.
Weeping women wail all over town.
I can’t be awake.
I walk steady in dreams.
The comfort I had once been given,
Had bathed in and glorified,
Is ripped away, leaving only the thick ink.
A substance so revolting that it fills me up.
My throat is black and oiled;
Brain submerged in shadow.
Let me speak to that once mortal man.
I will tell him all the wonders about all the sparks
Lighting up the world in rebellion.

Three words:

I
AmSorry.

White as Diamonds

Demonic voices croon out to me. Venomous words rolling off tongues as black as Pan’s shadow. The pine forest smothers reality, reducing the now into grain.

As much as I want to fight back and to feel my fists caving in their skulls, my own rebel thoughts linger towards the vulnerable. I cannot begin to expend myself around building an opposition against the foundations that have raised me to such despicable heights. How unfair and how cruel; how terrible my thoughts seem.

Tremble beneath the ghoul’s verdict. Grant me one last choice before the world succumbs to fire and deep heat.


Saturday, November 26, 2011

Svefn G Englar

The selfish block of humanity saying, “we got you,” but really no one has anyone. How could they? They won’t catch you as you fall back into the crowd, arms crossed over your chest in a sign of absolute trust. It’s a kill or be killed world. Eat or be eaten. They’ll drop you.


...

The world felt light as a balloon, helium filled and taking me higher. I had a bottle of vino in one hand and a sawed off shot gun in the other. Most of my time on the faery coast had been spent shooting empty tomato cans and arguing with the Chief. He was just as stubborn as I was, surprisingly, if not more iron-willed than I gave myself credit for. Short like I was. Perceived with eyes akin to mine and a consciousness that jumped to petty conclusions.

Rescue wasn't an option. Beached as we were on the cusp of the worlds, only faith kept men alive. Did the spirits even exist? I was lost at sea with a group of scallawags, most of whom smelled like construction site potties. 

I was ready to abandon the metaphorical ship when the mermaids began to assemble. They were beautiful. Earl shot one. Then he shot another. Another boom and the rest of our crew lost their minds.

Ever wonder why no one today has ever glimpsed a mermaid? It’s because Earl killed them all and mounted them on his wall in the ghost ship. Begging led not to mercy yet instead to cruelty.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Serendipity

Killing time, killing the sun.
My skin stretches, stitching along my breast
and the king pin smiles then I catch my breath.
The day bleeds while I breathe smoke.
Coughing takes you deeper, brings you blind to the hearth
That lights our nights with hooded eyes;
Sets rules that bind over turf.
My friends are dead underground.
My stars are lost, like Tootles' marbles, 
And our lady prayed:
"My Blood is warm within my skin
Stretched, stitched, along my breast."

Listed, List, Le liste

A list of things I thought would make me a better person:

1.) A Ukulele
2.) Paintings
3.) Black stones
4.) Indie rock music
5.) Ironic tea
6.) Darth Vader Clock
7.) Fake gold Buddha
8.) Happy pills
9.) A cactus named Lance
10.) A new home

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Friday, May 20, 2011

My Home Ghost

This is my home. Winds howling though the wood, it chills me to the bone. This is my home. Air stale and decrepit. This is my home. Laundry piled up at my door and leaving me wringing my hands. This is my home. Ghost of memories past living inside me. This is my home. I live here.

Friday, May 6, 2011

Something Old and Something Sorry

Your infamy was nothing short of the state of sense and the sense of state. The grotesque beings which you scoff upon are the very ones you are; with your talk of space and ideology you've become nothing but a prototypical being, with all your meaningless nonconforming, and repetitive arguments about nothing.
You said it. You mean it. You want it. You've got it.


(I don't ever want to lay eyes on you again.)

Thursday, February 10, 2011

The Hunt

I had a dream. A dream that’s happened before. In the night it happens, over the patio, up the stairs, and through the hallways. Third door from the dead end hallway on the left. Dark red/purplish oak door with a brass handle and I always open it. It leads into a large dark lit room, full of old chests and a dusty bed. Look outside the window and there is the sea, the night, the day and the sandy beach. 

I don’t want to leave this room. I love this room. I don’t want to go but once the recognition hits then all dreams are lost. I try to cling onto lucidity but it slips away.

My eyes are open and I’m not dreaming anymore. Instead I’m wishing for sleep again, only so I'd get back to that scene because it’s connected to a deep river of ink. It’s a missing piece to a memory I strive to capture. A searing unforgotten movie of the white house, a round wooden room featured in the museum, all of it enduring the maze of hallways perforated with frosted windows. Doors that led into empty dark rooms where chains were strewn about, those chains that held no one and left onlookers very confused.  


So nix the afterthoughts and scram old belly-achers. I’m in this job alone and I don’t want any comrades, square? This deal's cold so drop what you know if the knowings worth the drop and hide it. A body’s bed is curious: light the sheets and leave.


You didn’t hear this, b
ut I had a dream and I’m hunting that mother down.