At some point every holiday
becomes a masturbatory overload
in the name of insincere flattery,
and gifting is the peak of this.

Everything in motion comes to a halt
as I lie down here and watch the
Christmas tree
sit still like 7 feet of holiday garbage,
and the cats relish it. Black and white cats.

Yeah, we all die in the process.
Successfully, we fail to accept
a single validation of the
handfuls amongst us.
We explore the sandbox
for the tools in our back pocket.

Has there ever been a more
fruitless and pathetic creature?

Ghosts sitting on the trunk of
a sea foam green car
smoking Marlboro golds,
their teeth gnashing at
carcinogenic tips.

Discussing tastes.
Aesthetic pleasure.

The past can't haunt you anymore.

She said, "we all wish to take a scalpel to
our past.
It's like a sore muscle and you need to
stretch it out."

This repressed everything, and
enforced amnesia; more complex
than conspiracy or tacit reality,
because

you're not supposed to hold on
to something that hurts you.

This house in on fire,
not home, house,
and I'm leaving,
and I've taken what I want.
I'm escaping.

She asks if I'd want to know.

I wake up missing something,
and missing a past.
I don't mind
the weightlessness.
This is how I will live now.

Uncharted ground in typical fiction;
all your friends around me and I'm
uncomfortable
unfathomably
alone and lonely.

Covenants between strangers
and maybe a splash of blood
a splash of innocence a
tired man's inner demons,
maybe we're all tired of
pretending we don't want
to explode.

Explode and send fangs and horns
and pointed tails and fire
and tar and dead things all over.

Parties are just riots with their
heads up their *****.

We're all alone, you know?
Sometimes we just drown in it,
and it's when we think we can
**** down some type of atmosphere
that we remember how bad lust hurts.
Lust for life, and living, and *******,
and kissing, and affection.

She holds her face in her hands and cries.
Some of us are used for love.
She opens her arm up right in front of me,
and I can't cry.
"please stop."
I'm convinced we all want to die.
I'm convinced only a ******* idiot
wouldn't consider suicide.

Showed up early for work.
An hour early.
Sitting in the Starbucks out the back door
sipping a tall blonde with room for cream.
No one calls me
whisperhide,
hammerfiend,
lineheart,
professor,
&
shitlord.

Dark. Dark dark circles under the eyes,
I imagine. I could look.
Stayed up with strangers. Stayed up alone.
Unhallucinating. Disengaged.
Sinking a woozy reality in place of solid illusion.
**** it stinks. Job's great, work *****.
At least the coffee doesn't taste like cigarettes,
today it taste like water.

******* in place of sleep. Feeling numb,
where numb is such a relief you'd swear,
you'd swear to your god and stars
you were happy.
At least grateful the head is quiet.
Not silent, but at least quiet.

Switched from TV on the Radio to Death Grips.
Wanna stir the ***? Really?
I'm afraid we're all cowards.
It goes it goes it goes it goes
it goes it goes it goes it goes
...

Overflew from the sewers into the chalice
and they drank it because
it's soaked in
jewels.

Toxic.

Wagging a finger like it's a dense singularity
being hammered into by juggernaut.
No. No. No. No. No.
Smiling because futility,
chuckling because we're so ******* stupid,
blowhards, tryhards, beggars, dancers,
corp. embezzlers, poets with loose morals
and empty wallets.

F is for ****;
like I'm gonna ******* till you **** me over,
waiting for someone to give me a lobotomy in
metaphor or metaphysics, or spiritually,
or actually take a butterknife
to a soft spot in the skull and
drain the fluids with mosquito bites.

I.E; I walked home in the dark alone
and broke down in a cereal aisle
and asked the cashier if I could get
help with the self checkout while
tears in my eyes.

**** whose watching over me now,
white people **** white people just for fun sometimes.
I really don't care how low the human soul falls
even as I investigate accidentally.

Bedlam in the parking lots and Babylon
is burning, burning, burning,
hair held high up by olympian comic book super heroes
[Clark Kent is an ancient egyptian]
tossing egg salad and burnt coffee into
the sphinx's gaping swirling pampered flushing mouth.

We lose ourselves when we follow our moral compass.

We only connect when you cry it seems.
So many different stains on this bed,
and I wish you were here when I was
happy, but not smiling;
Any of the moments that would be
cheaper for sharing,
but stained if you were there, now.
Here, now.

I wonder, (now, and not often)
if those sheets hold more
tears, or *** fluids, or sweat.
I don't dream anymore, however.

I've never had a beautiful dream
about us, and when I did we were
awake
and a long time ago
we shared that common dream.
You don't even feign interest
in me anymore.

You watch me starve and carve myself into
morsels, easily digestible fragments,
and then turn over and, maybe praying,
though we swear we don't believe in god,
that I'll die mad and half naked in your sleep.

Some trees bear flowers and you'd swear
they die in winter and may never blossom again.
They freeze and turn into wonderful spidery things;
fingerbones strewn haphazardly on some streetlight.
Petals that were pink like new flesh,
rotten out of mind and existence.
I wonder what the blossoms become
when the tree sleeps.

Chaotic ***** lover,
skin made of cyanide
a princess made of man.

I get anxious at silence and wait.
How can you love someone you
give so little effort too.
Minimal.
Garbage.

I don't hear whats so beautiful anymore,
so I revel in the filth that I've become.
Shitlord.
Taking time to cough out
fragments of clockwork,
carrying cracked lips that
sway in a breeze
beat on a broken ankle.

Are you somewhere lost at sea?
Are you riding on a storm?
Do you feel lonely when you
turn over and there's another
cold spot in the bed?

I don't expect much anymore.
I want to sit in muttering silence and enjoy
the quiet in my head.
[where]
You aren't real to me.

I relish the chance to yell you into something small;
a field mouse or the belly of a great monster.

Love is tearing me into ribbons,
but with care, they become banners and streamers
for a parade held in honor for a martyr
who hasn't died yet.
The reality is smeared into the genes.

Downgrade in technology.
Lost in your own eyes.
Aggravated.
Always paranoid.

Sleep in for
a couple months.