Splinter little trinkets
Fastened with rivets and copper solder.

Shrinking, biting steam vents
Passed over duvet covers and sing a little louder.

Blasted, offensive convents
Massive ******* oven tidbits.

Tragic gas based slaughter
blotted with blood and shriveled cygnets.

Just trust loneliness
Adjust to lust for fear
Loving liars, living with hate
Abate sorries. Create stories
Catharsis is a species
Masochists list pain as love
Have a content look at horrible
and have a terrific funny funeral

I've eaten fire food.
And read a sad story made of soup.
I remember well the boy who tried to sell me some salt goop.
Good food is good medicine.
It's sinful cake in carrot broth.
It's cheating without cheating.
Showing a story of love and hope.
But if you eat garbage,
Then a ***** of sadness bears on you.
It's a sullen sorry stew.

And unhappiness will not do.

Fashioned air had fell apart.
Passion showed me her flag on the hill when I started.

Before I parted from being a frail little fish,
I started to miss how hard she had been on me.

I'm a cold person.

And I'm good at being cold.

I've been told I'm an old soul,

But I'm not so good at being old.


I'm not sold on the oversold notion
that being old means being tired.

I've felt the most old at my youngest
and my most ancient is when I'm most wired.

Flecks of salt

Clumps of flavor.

Sealing sound.

I'm Jesus' Savior.



Make it last.

Just so you know.

Life takes water.

And needs smarts to grow.

In an effort to make things more friendly everyone was instructed to leave their dogs at the party,
while the rest of us were kindly asked to go home.
Still, the cops showed up and no one spoke any English.
I mean they understood it well but lacked the proper capacity to carry on a conversation.
Still.
I've never seen a party look so happy when the K-9 unit finally decided to show up and make sense of the situation.
They were qualified.
Probably made the most sense, and should have brought those good boys out in the first place.
Still.
They licked every last inch of my face.
Real estate in skin is something to be graced with, not take unfinished.
Polishing cheeks in drool is the duty of dogs.
Goodness is like a gallon of pond water dredged from the bog.
Slaving away for canteens of nostalgia, patina.
My memories stay sealed in a golden marina.

I'd be blessed if my favorite person could craft me a masterful desk.
A nest of self-respect, and pickable tidbits, pulled apart.
Not thwarted, not bad.
Not sick or covered with warts.
But the sort of self inspection that's about
touting my lack of malfeasance, and
my transient, nascent notions
who've showed up and overpositioned my person.

I pasted a piece of my favorite food

on a bit of purple paper that I made for dinner late last night.

I still can't decide it's something that I've written, or something I should write.

I shoved it down my gullet and got in a fight with my ex wife.

Little-me never knew that this could be considered life.

Spit.
I spit out hell speak on my ponder railing.

I shrieked out gobs of porrige hate
that would abate all of my sailing.

I clicked my teethed and thrash about,
and abandoned all my food.

I stomped a fire, flesh and all,
just so that I would feel good.

Sit with me

Please stay still

I feel the reckoning over arching

black hole swallowing up the rest of me

"shush baby"

" Stay under the stairs and don't breath"

" Oh god this is the end of me."

Oh god....


I see you.

Stay still


Don't breath.

And for the love of GOD

Don't let it be

Glassiness of faces
would make me remiss
of the pace which
Would rather I breath straight forward.

Lordness,
lordy lordy
gorged me in a intestine filled

Gizzard gritted grated grop
of drops of sticky sweet silt
Held in our hand with self hated pigment
sewn upon on salts colored in summers
and others
but even still
Built, on eversnow evenings
bereave me and steal
please believe still
Believe
that I'm not unnerved by that fact that i'm
a person.
it is certain.
Just like you.

A stew of free seed words.
It's absurd.
Blood.
And words.
And painful shields.
words,
and thoughts that you would
kneel for.
Some shore..
some ocean.

Some place
Some face that is worth the world,
Some face worth falling in love for...

Make light of sunbuilt notions

With a feathered breath heaving out of his bright red chest,
Robin lifted higher.

Afternoon had worked its way into the daylight after the long haul this morning the
Sun had had over the hills.

This time of day was always great as long as nothing bad had happened to get in the way.

A few days ago, gray light skimmed across all of the grasslands, garlanded buoyantly about in a better effort to make it damp.

The afternoon, that day, had made the air hang heavy and warm.

It stirred up a storm in the dirt that made the worms stuffy.

A stuffy, well-watered worm is much less alert.

Who knew that the pain I spent my whole life preparing for
is the type that will hurt more than I can ever say, and know that even with my own best graces, will stain my soul like a scar can in the worst sort of way.

I prayed that it wouldn't but that won't work anyway, but not because I don't have a god, but probably because I don't know what to say.

So I just lay on the ground and let life happen to me,
and it'll happen again, it will happen to be
the only happening thing that happens as often
as a soul ******* thing that loves to make my soul soften.

Stacking packs of yellowed pages,
Withered with age in soiled cartons.

Blacked nails,
caked with oil,
baked in chalk,
Flaking and boiled in old ox-hide.

Knackered,
Naked,
Shaking.

Festered featured screeching and fiend for oil.

Scrapple, rotten-apple, boiled rinds.

Moldy, fuzzy golden; rhymes with
grey and old.

I listed out my groceries because I have to eat.

I seek them out, because Life *****, and I have to eat.


I see a cute girl jogging, but I ****, and I have to eat.

I meet my friends, and apologize,

I'm not strong.

I live in fear.

And I'm weak and I have to eat.

I had crammed a whole load of garbage
into the bed of my best friend's pick up.

Luckily it was made by us
as a message of how unassuaged
we were about living in a dirt bag all day.

So, I should say that this is a win.
I'd even sinned in my pants while
leaving everything up to him.

Only thing I regret binning was
my huge win I had with a hippy girl about a day ago.

I created a new condiment out of jelly, ranch, beef jerky, and lsd.

It's really salty and cost as much as a buttered popcorn kernel cover with the mist of the perfect potato chip.

It's as sweet as a ramen noodle prison driven in an uber lead by a giant ketchup SUV.

Devastating rigmarole backwards asshats

enacting lackadaisical marshall guffaws

Law enforcement dogs push sugar coated cremation

Led with force, inciting indignation



Pleasant little patties sizzle on my grill

Bluegill fritters fashion out of flour and cornmeal

Make me make sense hopefully

Cementing demented ambitions is fishy business


Dog treats make me look like cornsilk hung high up in the sun

Songs are something frozen in my chamber

Popsicle lips horned over pickle juice

wax paper skin never looks silver in the sun

Learning electricity seems like magic to someone like me.
Like learning how to be okay, and to function happily.

I make rivets in my stone steps, and they're all made for steel.
I block love out like shrapnel, I would rather die than have to feel.

Little fibers.
Little tiny pieces.

It's dirt.
It's called "dirt."
It's earth and inorganic matter.

That's true.
And it's called air.
And it's really there.

Clear. So fully. I said that even though I'm blind, I can be a seer.
It's like shaven fur off of a beast that's at least will to make me fear

Sullenly, so sorry. With drips of lamplight lit with chicken stock
Burned up with reduced hate fat.
Unlacking in a shamble.
But FEAR
Please relent and do assume how unendearing
I'm steering my own bit into life only lit with bitter wood
Dry and misunderstood.
But that's good.
Because I would rather die than try to fly in air that I can't breath.

Mealy motion could have gruel in her veins
I've abstained from all forward action
Because it's my heart that she reigns.

Coolness sent shiver down a pain killed nervous column
Section of spine dealt with ***** and filler
To **** would send spiller space messages
out to help in order to assuage
all the speculation and guesses.
So now it would seem better, much better,
much better in deed
Much better indeed to **** my fire with greed.

I brewed up a couple of cups of coffee before my best friend woke up.

She had wanted breakfast, but I was broke,
So, instead I'd suggested staying in.

I could make up a *** of coffee,
and put together some food.

I would take cups of whatever we had last night,
and forget them.
I'd forget them soon.

And instead we could just laugh and make
a day out of how we feel,
instead of living of life feeling how we should
wondering.
Really.

Reeling and having happy moments but never feeling food.
Goodness held in graciousness,
understanding, taking it all up like a fool.

Squiggly, giggle-painted patterns.

Nature curing writes offs,

licking life off moons of Saturn.

Totally tanking,

Making way

Ruminants in mood.

I learned that I'm handsome if you like
a mud-caked stud.

We'd gone feather collecting every evening since we've met

I've settled on the corners of the lips that look at me

Every evening after

without her feather

Deluded in a brooding pit, I brewed a bowl of noodles.
Steeping in a steamy ***, with veggies and egg milk
What made me think I should go on what the
lack of sense of ilk...
So sorry for the lack of pay
So sorry I can stay.
Cause the fact that I eat noodles
Means I can't eat gold today.

I peeled off a *** of chewy nonsense (dough!),

and I needed it to feel alive.

I kneaded it,

and brought it to life.

I turn grass into pizza, and seeds into sauce.

I lay it on an iron fire and watch what fire causes.

Fire is pure energy,

fire-baked lives can be understood.

Understood much better than raw people.

Because it is time that makes life good.

i'm a bespectacled onager ivory hilted outsourced claw digger.

Chitters, shivered chatting teeth pitter-pattered when the heater had burned out last night.

So, I covered myself in my blanket and brewed hot tea, but it's only lasted an hour or two.

Or three or four hours at most,
but before I knew it, the sun showed up and sparkled.

Light beams brewed out of me and my coffee cup,
and before I knew it, I had breakfast loaded in my belly,

and a tote bag full of new stories to share all of my
hung over friends after our brutally long
weekend covered with ***** and losers.

Captured on the blue lined edges of paper
Was an envelope, wrapped in parchment.

A sort of stipend built in jelly
and telling me how to feel
about supporting systems
at the same time as
stacking and ticking time
off of your belly
Melded out of celly made systems
The rhythm is the joke of it
stoke in fires
the lyre of arhythm
a prism and animal
happy trap built apathy
a rapture be some sappy he
turnabout into a ninety three
under the knee
how bout it be

Well you never bought a pass,
and we never asked permissions
But tonight we've permitted ourselves to indulge in our mission.

Out of all our stories, we had found a few
that dig into your psyche, and set your soul astew.

So tonight, and tonight only, don't go to bed really late.
Because we perform an hour show, but it'll last all life if you let it.

Only three acts, just like you learned. but we act like it's forever.

Please eat before, so you're instore, for our hedonistic endeavour.

I feel like I've blown my brain to bits
A blitzgrieg of what's left of it
The corpse of a dove I still keep in her cage
It's outrageous the pageant I put on the stage
Softness meets a ******* rampart
Flying in fire air
Blowing me apart

Sent in shred was flakes of obsidian and jade
It'll be weird to sell it
but I bet it'll get me
laid because I'm handsome and brown.

I frown at the lack of respects all the liches and hoes sow in our corn fields.

Build me better people and I'll send you hell in a sugar built steeple you can sell and ride while you send us to hell

Woody  1m
*******, *******. Your poetry’s lame ****. I wouldn’t take your money to read another line of yours.

At the reunion,
I held back in the corner.
Watching people walk passed.

It's lasted at least an hour.
I refilled my seltzer glass with a shower of ****** *****.

So, in a effort to pass the time
I perused the guest book,
and used the socially available sharpie.
Made available for signing.
In order to remember.
Instead I used it to draw a HUGE, crudely
rendered manly member over as many faces in the yearbook as I could.

I was born under a sash.
Held high.
By a midwife in a mudhut.

I learned under a tree.
Where I stashed the fruit of knowledge
beneath me.

I grew under the dirt.
In a burrow underground.
And found my first and second love.

I stirred and stewed around
before I came upon a mound of more folks just like me.

I made a life.
With a woman.
Who would soon become my wife.

I stayed, through strife and struggle.
In order to make it work.

I, sad to say.
I went on strike from life.
And bottled all my hate and love up in little plastic cages.

And I raged and thrashed about in moonlight on my bedsheets.

Crafted,

Long lasting carved,

Was a shorn and shaven, wooden totem held up high upon the door.

Paraffin wax held lights on high sticks held up on my hallway halls,

Held up high and burning for more hours than I needed.

More hours shown about in stories that led me feeling that I would never have a minute to think before the tank of time will sink me dead.

I checked out how well the stew was seasoned from all of my advanced students.

I knew the recipes and rudiments only hold fast after hate hadn't held and wouldn't last.

So, after education had made real mention of how hard life can be,
That's when I wrote my book of what I actually see.

Classification is hard to predict.

how **** impossible would it be enough
if you hadn't made enough food in your family so
we could all be safe?

Three days after pasta night,
It's alright
It's only food,
and we are so poor
so don't be rude.

She set a stage for me.
For us, I should say.
Because both of us had decided it was worth it to stay up late tonight.
With each other.
And why does that
feel like a proper decision?
It's because the exposure to the things that you like can actually make you happy.
Things can feel not so bad.
When there is someone to have an evening with.
And to even have someones ear.
Caring.
It's what begins to be done once evening staring has won over topics in conversation.
The air on the tongue and the skin in the lamp light is what actually matters tonight.
Any song can be sung, under proper conditions. Then the artists true vision can be heard on her ears.
Her hair.
I'm feeling the urge to stare and every one can tell that she might feel the same way.
But they haven't said anything.
Because there's nothing to say

Settled in the the dried up grass
among the thistles, tired roots, and nettles.

I've settled,
I know I'm not a succulent.

I'll repent but so should you.

I hate vegan food,

but your beef based, chicken stew
is gross,
and I'm not one to lose my subscription fee.

It's food coloring on habitats that I can'ts see.

I will never use my arm.
I can't raise it above my head.

So... Instead.
I'll used my legs and my feet.
And still try to be neat.

Held in a concrete roach shell.

Smiling, I had hated charming shaving.

Little, bitty shavings.

Shredded.

And held an inch above my head
when I never knew a knowing rapture.

It'll hold.
It held watertight.
And it'll capture when I'm right.

I blasted a plastron of over cooked crust over my underexaggerated neighbors.

I plastered a naked girl with her breast broken over the necks of our favored favored people.

There used to be a long line of boxes filled with ***** and an epiphany.
Lipped it, ring around the roses hung over headboards and wrapped all up in itchy blankets.
So after shooting up, the dresses hung out to dry are all done, and it's time to break apart
everything, it's frozen.
That's why we got up so early, it's a lot easier this way.

Brazen molten filigree sorries
Shelfed themselves on the edge of a shore made
of stickers and shapely woman.

Before I begin my crayon scrawlings,
I have a question.
A smart one that knows to gnaw on the back of my head...

"How do we know when we're alive?
And how do we know when we're dead?"

Shivering outside is something I tried to hide when I was little.

I became much more embittered than little men like me seem to see at seven.


Dead inside, I lied like I was normal and what not.

It shot me like a cannon in the head to have lied so bad,

But I never cared and died inside seemingly sooner than my peers.

Although it's tedidous,
I've abandoned the mortem of the tedium
of face harsh advances.

Standing in a copper cage is a molten knackered weathervane.

Naked, I abstained from God.

I knew I was bad, so I knodded.

But GOD.
I'm appalled.

I'm out in pasture packed, knackered rack dealing.

Let me die.


And give my something to chew.

I chawed on all of my raw dealings.

Soft speakers.
Lured.
And held in secret.

Blessed martyrs.
Maybe matrons of
health and hell.

So, maybe.
I should be okay.
And maybe, so should you.