i put on
a one man show
in the base of my skull
and the audience
is dead.

everything and i
have a
cursed relationship.

i hate it
but sometimes
it tricks me
into loving it.

i hate it
so much.

i cant wait to part from it.

she screams at me
and i want to shoot myself
in the back right corner
of my head
and sometimes i laugh.

emotions are
freelance lions

they come and go
as they please

feeding on the free
*****
meat

when there is nothing besides poetry
it terrifies me.

the yolk is more achieved than i.

the shell is what
keeps me waiting.

my landlady
has died.

she sits in
a chair
which i havent
had the time
to make a make on.

it must be nice
because her house is nice.

its all old dead wood
and im satisfied
by its condition.

but my rent is due
and i dont know how
to approach an
old dead
landlady.

i figure if i take care of her dog
it will amount to something.

but i have nothing for
the dog.

i might join her
in her disposition
to negotiate
an agreement.

i might die
in the chair
beside her.

i stare you down
i see the blood in your eyes

i jump from
the ship that it was
into the sea
that it has become.

we are all female

they can chain you down

and skin you

and rip you from the world,

but they can not steal it from you.

they try to take
what it is
inside,

but you cant LET them..
you must KEEP it.

it is not a set of lips.

but many,   many  lips.

but it is one
that i see.

it is one
that i try
to swallow

because she

has more than most,
hers are the only  delicacy.

hers are trains

coming in and out of
the station
all night.

the door,
the doorframe,
and everything locked inside.

hers are the wild dogs
running around the house.


and the forest

eating every lost thing in it.

multipictoramagraph

i dont know how to tell you this, .....but there is a living sloth
inside of your stomache...
..oh, dont worry. The sloth is in PERFECT HEALTH : ) Its going to be juuust fine. What we're going to do is we're going to cut you open, after you die ofcourse,
and extract the cute little fella from your stomache wound. Im thinking about giving it to my daughter who lives in california with her alcoholic lawer **** mother so she remembers me before i move to costa rica with my 19 year old philipino model wife and totally detatch myself from her life and get the philipino pregnant and start a new family which i will also one day forget. Ahhh yes, retirment will be fun..in those years, i think i might start to finally explore my unhealthy interest in little boys and becoming a woman. Transgender, that is. Mmmmmmmm........costa rica.....

Time ate ours.

there are
huge blocks
that dont fit

but they hum
and they vibrate
and make you think
theyre something else.

the spiders crawl out of my mouth
and over my skin
and into my ****
and back out of my mouth
to sing again.

this is a ******* waiting room.

their spaceships
are beautiful.

they come by
and cut off
all your friends heads.

i use spiders as weapons
to **** me
so you
cant have the glory
of defeating
your opponent.

its the glory you want
but i give it
to the spiders.

they deserve it,

theyre good to me.

you tried a neat trick
and fell
and were caught
by the safety net
which cut you
into little squares
which rained down
on the gaping crowd
and crushed their soft
dumb skulls
and got caught
in the backs
of their
gaping
stupid
mouths
and choked them.

i watch the video
of my suicide

over and over.

the dryer
is screaming.
its teeth
are gleaming
red.

the washer
is dead.

it takes a while to boil,
but it will.
it takes a while to ****,
so it toils.
it takes a while to rise,
so it stays.

Evismisalial.
Terrical.
Langarsian.
Perdonatriasic.
Climson.
Talp­aratardenter.
Kiltafair.
Chemsbot.
Strester.
Klemson.
Tilmidair.
­Feltonasodomide.
Percussive.

the bums like my bike.
i tell them it was 50 bucks,
they say "woww"
and "the brakes are nice,.
the left one, not the right one"
i say "you know that guy
over there?"
they say "spider?"
i say "yea, spider, he used to be
my roommate"
they say "yea i know spider,
hes my brother, i got lotsa brothers"

there are bugs
on these words.

they have colonized
my hands
my hair
my head.

down the boulevard
there is a street

down the street
there is a sewer

down the sewer
there is a home

in the home
there is a being

in that being
there is a universe

in that universe
there is a world

on that world
there is an island

on that island
there is a boulevard

the man
fighting the snake
from inside of
the snake

i know
whats wrong
with all the ones
that i know.

their drums drive them crazy.
every time their heart beats.
they have too much heart.

it keeps them alive
it keeps them strong
but life
and strength
arent enough.

theyre searching for
no,   hunting

the thing
the creature
the unknown being

which digs in tunnels
under their skin

lures them
from the sound
of the tranquil mind
and leads them
while looking back
and laughing
flickering its
bioluminescent bulb
into the massive
swelling halls
of the massive
swelling heart.

fury, rage
and shrieking, laughing madness
are the sound of the engines.

the citizens come in and out
with the weather and are
afraid and eventually
never return.

but this is where
the ones that i know stay.
because the animal
will never leave.
and will only die,
finally die,
when staring them in the eyes
laughing and choking
around their necks
only satisfied
when their enemy
smiles and shines
golden joy
green glowing excitement
and chokes just
a little bit harder.

their love is cruel
and untameable
and makes crooked grins
with broken teeth,
kisses just to spite.

father nature
sits with a hard-on
drinking homemade beer
watching mother nature
tend to her garden.

and she tries
to ignore him
but she likes it.

how many clowns
can you fit
into your
tiny
mind

before they start
licking off
all their paint
and
*******
from their
many different
*** organs?

and the audience
rushes from the bleachers,
a sounder of hungry swine,
devouring
every puddle
and every pile
from the floor
that was rejected
by the paintedclownsbodies.

and,
eventually,
the hunger,
its madness,
makes famine flower.

there is a layer of soil
cultivated from this scene
of ****** cannibalism.

flies
are the
sole patrons
of this flesh market.

the other patrons
have turned product
and start to turn.

the only spectator left
is you;
the tiny
frail
child
shining
pale
naked
in the stands
with hands
clutched around
their privates.

and when you go
and curiosity brings you
to the center
of the circus,
to the center
of this zoo,
you tare your hand
from the safety
of your privates
and kneel.

you find a piece
of face left,
a paintedclownsface,
and you reach down
and peel back
a piece of the paint
to see that underneath
was nothing.

just clear.

the unkindness of ravens
was the ****** of crows.

i shut my eyes
like the moon eclipses
and total darkness
smiles.

to look like a presentable person,
shave your face off;

whether court room occasions
or marriage.

goodnight, noone.

i hope youre dead
in the morning
next to me.

the table is an animal.

ready to attack.

i treat it well.

stripes are terrifying

tell a tale

im sad

ive had not what its had
but have
what it has not now.

Kxxkfnsjdfmdnfi work out
so i camxmsndjdjdnfjgnlsndnb x x fkd d d didjdbrj
waste my time f dkdjr
on
considering my yshwhdiody.
Zgwuusudiziooshspwmxbody.

there was a tiny bug
on my screen:

i did not squoosh him
so i did not
write this.

no blood, guts.

nothing.

it has three eyes
to mesmerise

you never know when it is winking

seducing

you never know what it is thinking

deducing

it is always
just tricking
and tricking.

its a neighbor
i want to light
a fire of
to their house
but its connected to mine
so i sit
and i consider,

smoking cigarettes
with a can of gas
as an ash tray
to pass the night
and that racket
they make.

with my foot tapping
on the foot
of a chair
in the yard.

i would not
give my life away
to the perfect piece
or let a sham engineer
take its credit
from me.

i love myself too much
and hate him just enough
to recognize
the difference.

but the perfect piece;

that is painfully
beyond my grasp.

i would quickly cut
my hands from me
and train them
to walk
and to find
what it is
that i seek.

pay them in gold
or in
the beauty of feet.

take myself
from my body.

leave it laying around.

i can hardly
train a cat,
much less
myself.

and cats display ballet.
the music to accompany it
plays while i watch.
no words can describe
what no words can describe.

a signature
is stepping in ink
unaware
and walking across
the page.

cats and mice
are the only ones
with names.

i dont write well when i drink
but i do drink well
when i write poorly.

a white ghost stares at me
and dares me
to tempt.

battles sing
deafening
the opposing.

a ghost child haunts my body.

possessing a dead man.

singing through
skeleton-beak
and
hollow eye-sockets
he floats
on
bone-wings

circling death

and i watch.

the field around me wilts
the crust in the corners
of the spectators mouths
turn to stone
and break.

flesh leaves bone
all that is left is
decorating the past.

i grew thorns.

-no flower for a head.

i lived in dirt.

-i grew;

i grew thorns.

her dress
makes me naked.

i cant wear it for long.

drinking
drowning

dead.

a chair is unnerved
by the weight of your head.

its legs tremble

a leg breaks.

the ground is flattered
by your closeness
but unaware
of how it goes
unnoticed.

...who wrote this??

the fish catches itself
with its bioluminescence.

its prey has nowhere left to go.

and the man starves
into the sunrise
to feed.

fish swim.
their body floats.
their soul rises.

but fish swim.

and a human catches one,
but catches nothing.

what we want
swims
floats
rises
dies
within.

elegant are angels,
but devils too.

shoulders are not patrons,
and not ears.

and the mind is but a gateway;

to the soul
the crucible
lives its course
and shaves the body
of its life
and of its skin.

dust is made
from the petals.

a mess is made
of the floor.

a trail is made;
it is heaven.
it is war.

Slave songs

im sitting still
waiting for the paint to dry

breathing it in
it gets me high

i hope
the paint
it never dries

it turns into an animal

it turns to me and smiles