In this town, the tower blocks stand above the clouds,
the street lights illuminate the granite pathways,
as you walk, you will kick a package of cigarettes
depicting a very sick woman -
they sell them in the corner shops.

In this town, I have seen the worst mind’s of my generation,
flourish in the un-fertile fields like
flowers that grow on a soil
of cigarette ends and syringes
chewing gum, coffee cups, oranges.
Condoms, crisp packets, needles,
Rare paintings that hang on the walls of the mind,
torn down by the authorities,
painted over with white.
Lost in a sea of machinery.
And bright light’s.

In this town, in the gutter of the pavements,
vile creatures will reach out there shaking hands.
Varicose veins, blackened nails, drooling mouths,
and beady wanting eyes begging you for pennies.
Dismissed by city boys suicidal from the stress.
Some look a mess, some feel a mess.
It’s all the same, the endless city strain.
In this town, when your eyes look up,
you see the birds flying in pain,
from these ******* factories filling
the air with smoke killing
the natural ecstasy of the sky,
and they fall from the sky and die.

And they wonder why kids
reach for the knives and the guns.
Wonder why they cut their arms.
Smoke and smoke and smoke to feel calm.
Wonder why they hang from structures.
Wonder why they paint obscenities on the walls of schools.
Wonder why they drawl
at the site of death
when it follows them everywhere
from podium’s in the wealthy churches.
To the cemetery gates,
To the news broadcasts.

Wonder why they disappear for weekends
Somewhere lost in a city of escapism
Wonder why they howl fowl verse
Strums on guitars,
hit at the drums.
Wonder why they linger in dark alleys. And dead ends.
With money, clutched by shaking fingers, seeking amends.

In this town, you wake to the marching boots;
The sound of the army that walk the city streets
In a uniform of suits, and guns in the shape of suitcases
All with similar faces, similar hats,
You will wake to the scream of the birds & the cats,
The scream of babies
The scream of love
They scream of could be, should be, would be and maybe’s
The hope.



Suffocated by the marching armies
By the dictators
that are the tower’s, the factories, the school’s
  that stand above the clouds,
   in these towns.

*******. I really love having them,
I have no trouble raving about them
And have categorized them accordingly.
Just a few have ever affected me boringly.
But mostly they were those I did alone.
Still I managed to get into the right zone,
Later, if I didn’t like the outcome of the game
I really only had nobody but myself to blame.

But it is always better when there are two
Then some cuddling and kissing when through
And if there seems more we want to do
We can start it up all over again, anew.
Of course if an ****** is the entire focus
We may not prefer a repeat with the both of us.
Still, it's possibly good to strongly suggest
A another college try turns out the best.

Who can deny that great feeling one has
When the activity changes from waltz to jazz
And two people manage to forget everything
And let the muscles and the juices sing;
Take our minds gratefully to another place
A blissful, mindless, animal kind of space,
Appreciation of what it means to be a beast
And be glad for that moment then, at least.

Those who tell the young kids to beware
And do their well-meaning best to scare
The young from being what they really are
Are following a teaching that is bizarre
When it tells you some crap about god
Thinking *** is something sick and odd.
People should get on with what they need.
The Puritans were wrong, so pay no heed.

waiting for my dealer on the bridge
i open my second hand copy of American ******
for the first time in two years.
i forgot it opens with the gates of hell.
nihilism is seeping from the pages
just fueling my own drug addled reality
that doesn’t quite seem to mimic ‘real life.’
itake my meds twice a day but only
in the mornings do i get klonopin,
the best drug i’ve been on since
my Ativan privileges got revoked.
i used to do Xanax but that’s another poem.
Bateman does a lot of *******
but i’ve only done that once,
and it was just parental leftovers
so i don’t know about good
bathrooms to do coke in,
but i know about popping pills in front
of the mirrors, professors in the stalls,
before class, just to keep me going.
my suicidal intent has turned into hedonism
and i am living for pleasure and i find comfort
in knowing i will die, likely by my own hand
but even then, Bateman makes one thing clear:
This Is Not An Exit.

I buried
my roots
in new-age
spirituality.

It nourished me
with words
like water,
soil
sunshine
and promised
a harvest.

They say
the hand
that points
to the moon,
is not
the moon
and I was thirsty.

My entitlement
told me
I should not
be humbled
by a glass
of water
when what
I desire
is a
spring.

Well the spring
never came
and my
cup became
just another
empty glass.

Now I've
stepped off
my hedonic
treadmill.

My frail
body was
not designed
to withstand
the aches
of running.

I'm a
tall woman,
albeit small.

I was built
to see
the little things
from great heights.

And so it became
my glass of water
turned to wine.