below the broken glass that sipped his scotch until he was pretty enough to fuck- a bible caught the tears that trickled down an empty wishing well, and stumbled through a prayer;
as the ice cubes dull the liquor he licks his lips before diving off the rocks into a pool of vomit.
the gold glitters in the blood splatter that stains the pages with the prick of every finger-
face down on a stripped mattress, with a headboard decorated in the talons of frantic prey -the nightstand dressed in pages that burn in the dialed pupils of self destruction, just as easily as they do in the arms of blindfolded children flying too close to hell- Icarus with wax wings meld from the body of Christ and feathers trimmed from the psalm of life;
only to find fire and brimstone beats paper thin hymns.
and as the pillow swallows him whole, the crucifix above his bed weeps- nailed to the splinter ridden quarter panels of this motel 6, his tears only fill his glass until the water from his eyes turn to wine
that makes it easier to die.
the funeral was held in the middle of the dessert, where the cactus plants handed everyone in attendance a stigmata for good faith .. and a single cloud sat in attendance.
one heavy headed cloud hid the head of a bashful voyeur -dirty eyes and soiled pupils filled with masturbation that trickled through the pews;
another fetish below the thorns he wore with lust and nails that pinned a rosy cheek on the seams of rolled up cuffs
-the bible still catches dew from the glasses of collapsing ice cubes in the climax of his pews; press your hands together in your leather suit, your fallen tether tightens with a watchful eye below the noose.
"One thing became clear to us only gradually as time passed: the real reason that Polaroid always has been synonymous with cult and that it possesses an irrepressible potential to captivate people both then and now, lies within the mysterious, almost magical power of those images.
Polaroids tell stories in an inimitable way. Stories so intense and intimate that upon viewing, the photographer often isn’t the only one struck with this feeling of being (or having been) part of a scene. And chance leads the way. Polaroids are originals and thus as unique as paintings. This extraordinary characteristic sets them apart from all other photographic works. As a result they are honest, incorruptible and authentic. "
"..Do you still pray about me in your quiet time, Cast out soft-core demons when I come back home.. .. Let some Nashville fake record your demo tapes? When I'm waiting at a train station or a bus stop."
twelve smoking roses blowing in the wind, behind the thorns that wined themselves around my head; those blind words you shed like the serpent’s lament can only pass as braille for so long, before your tears warp the layers of cardboard vows into a sound of metaphor- before the here and now drown in-sight; without a second glance to hand the first a better look, I took a change and kissed the hook-
she called me her heart, and I believed in every breath of it, because she wore an overcoat of stolen sleeves that had been sown into an art, just so she couldn’t start to freeze -it’s just too bad, that November I lied in a pile of bliss and ignored-ants that danced on the backside of my rotten rinds, as the fruits blackened our eyes- and we packed for a round trip with square baggage and our hearts out of their plastic bags; and as the cruise-control ship set sail, the strings you attached were never unlatched from the air
-by the 5th continent we stepped your world was spun so tightly around my throat, that I could taste the rope between my open tonsils and a final hope -before I stepped off that ledge, and landed back inside your familiar head with one hand tied behind my laugh.
I tried to keep the spark alive -by burning bridges; lighter in hand, twenty-five cent smile in my pocket, and gauze in the bottles we swallowed and tossed in to the barge of coughing hearts, where our ship sank the day we christened the hull with molotov kisses
-a maiden voyage replayed, for the sake of second visits, to a place I could once stand to live with.
wearing those roses at the bottom of your open barrel- the stares wont save us, they’re only getting old- and the tombstones are still waiting for your pretty roses to finish digging the graves with fraying clocks and broken hands that asked the day to dance, before it had a chance to be spoken.
so keep on, keep loading every other chamber with those fucking rose peddles, and we’ll continue spinning through the seasons until someone begins to wither;
we can both wear the roll of coaster, but my stomach still turns on the tracks I followed up the backside of your spine -because I left the footprints, but couldn’t wear the same shoes to continue through the forest of fingers that hid your crying eyes in my snoring spring -that’s still sleeping through your bloom. and as your peddles shed along my bedroom floor, the door still looks to your picture for a kiss goodnight, before it runs to bed- and shakes the rafters that turn your train directly through my thoughtless head;
the conductors dead -with a broken throttle I wear around my neck we speed ahead, without the means to stop cold.
and maybe I really like the pace, and the taste of wind at 200mph truly is sweeter -but every bitter fly on the wall I’ve swallowed contradicts our nutrasweet yesterdays, spit like a gun shot- glass for each and every single mile our relationship has stumbled over itself, just to see you smile.
I’m still waiting with a twisted gut, for the hammer to finally leave a cut -while the withered trigger in her eye pulls- as I’m sucking off the barrel with a crooked smile
-because I can’t even lie, and try to say I don’t like the taste of metal,
but I’m growing tired of this revolver always picking apart my brain, as the world revolves around her just the same.
trying to take the aim I had, Ill keep slipping along this trigger -while wearing your rose on my forehead like a badge of all stupidity- simply because it hurts less than tripping over the thorns you’ve left in my bed -so instead, I wear 2am while the bullet hole enters my head.
not anymore-
I’ve caught my final bullet from the pistol you’ve been holding- behind the bouquet of red roses I bought for us to plant in the garden you could hardly tend.
the lawn looked so beautiful, but this home is filled with sand, and the hands of time have not gone easy on its ego -but I tried my best to thread the weeds that bled through your overcoat into something red for the envious to wear like sex and comfort, when the mirror looks back and doesn’t love her
-but my fingers are too blistered to keep digging for what I can’t even guarantee I’ll find beneath the whispers.
so you can wear my spring through autumn, and call August the new November -but I’ve changed the number for the sake of proper endings; and those flowers can only drown your insecurities in so many nouns before the adjectives spill out on to the winter floor, and your breath freezes as it leaves your chest open on the sleeve it was conceived- spilling over another semi-self inflicted wound spit too deep, from a fresh grown bullet thrown from your very own red-rose revolver.
I take the path almost always traveled simply for the fact they’re selling road maps, and throwing bread crumbs below the old tracks; but it seams as though this walk of life is growing stale, as I can’t decipher the tread from gravel heads and rolling shale. a home I know
only by ambiguity.
and, I’ve got to find a better use for these forks- the taste of anxiety and metaphor are all I’ve had for the past four last suppers on the forest floor; washing down the taste of hypocrisy with skeletal apology- wondering why my company is dead and I’m the only eulogy who seems to hit the nail on the head.
I’m running low on cunning comebacks for exactly why I’ve yet to back track these overlapping memories- but there’s just something in those oaks I find unusually beautiful
although, oddly remote.
all along, I’ve been trying to follow in your footsteps, but your shoes have proved far too big- and between the tears and sour looks I’ve reached a point of sinking shores and bridgless brooks.
this is looking more like before with ever step I forget for next time-
without any reason why.
putting one foot in front of another is for agile fairytales: because all I got was a flat tire and a painful case of mistrust and failure. I even sang the song to recreate the atmosphere, but I’m a little off key and even a little more lost, and eve is falling with the awning of frost.
so I stop walking in circles and try on a square.
making the angles right didn’t leave me with anymore direction- because two wrongs actually make a left and I left four mistakes along the way to my own digression.
learning from my past taught me the discern of alzheimer’s; five more miles to the smile I don’t even think I’ve ever met but wish to find before yours.
I’ll never get a leg up
without the feet you swept from under me- and I’ve come to see there’s no tortuise for me to archetype, but only the head of hair you’ve won by while I collected the 1-2 steps to getting
he sticks his tongue under the empty lid -just one more, one more sip, 1.5 more milligrams will cure the shaking hands; one more line to wrap around his mind would surely easehe sticks his tongue under the empty lid -just one more, one more sip, 1.5 more milligrams will cure the shaking hands; one more line to wrap around his mind would surely ease this worried man to sleep -or so he thinks … or doesn’t breathe- as the lines become a tether for promise and that scrawny neck connected to the bottles empt head to dance around in circles together, as the squares recline on the backside of his eyes
[9:56pm]
-it’s far past their bed times, but just close enough for those with open minds and broken eyes to lend a scapegoat dressed in sheep’s wool.
he counted six sheep, and nine wolves that had resigned from trickery- rather love than eat;
the mattress creeks keep me awake as the water spills from god-damned acts, all caught on film- and replayed and replayed and replayed as the membrane rips and the sheep’s lips peel below the wolf’s huffing and puffing- she squeals, and he feels it coming- the full collapse, the last piece of straw ripped from the batch as her eye rolls -without knowing whether to go back into her head, or to look down at the ground until his back stiffens and his abdomen has lifted from the shattered flower that he has pissed in.
she wattled back into the picture after the frame had split her in two;
[10:23pm]
I was waiting at the doorstep on my forehead- foot tapping with my hand set on my endless face, as it ticked with ring finger pointing at the time she read in my eyes from miles away -but tried to ignore by looking at the floor, but couldn’t because it reminded her of the time before the wolf sold her innocents for cents of worth she couldn’t afford.
I didn’t say a word to her- only let her in the door; I knew the stench as soon as it spilled across the kitchen floor; I knew she walked the walk with crooked steps and talked the talk without a single breath; I knew her womb quivered in the words I hadn’t even said- all by the way she held her tongue above the top button of her open dress.
[11:41pm]
we made love after she had finished throwing up- just to test the water bed she had shed after last nights sword prevailed over her shoulder blades, and erased what we’d become;
I wore two o’clock like the prostitute’s true thoughts, as she closes her eyes and opens them at the end of the ride; the clocks rim for a wedding band- that hadn’t thought to tick after what she did to me
-just can’t count on sheep, because you never know who they’re sleeping with;
[12:58am]
and she just laid in bed, filled the empty space beside my head, next to the only tally mark we had left- the one of two hundred we were pardoned with
-on our best days, maybe 1.5 while she’s closing her legs to cover the wool-less stretch along her inner thighs -trying to smile, as she limps on through the white picket fence into the sleepy mine(d).
[2:00am]
this worried man to sleep -or so he thinks … or doesn’t breathe- as the lines become a tether for promise and that scrawny neck connected to the bottles empt head to dance around in circles together, as the squares recline on the backside of his eyes
[9:56pm]
-it’s far past their bed times, but just close enough for those with open minds and broken eyes to lend a scapegoat dressed in sheep’s wool.
he counted six sheep, and nine wolves that had resigned from trickery- rather love than eat;
the mattress creeks keep me awake as the water spills from god-damned acts, all caught on film- and replayed and replayed and replayed as the membrane rips and the sheep’s lips peel below the wolf’s huffing and puffing- she squeals, and he feels it coming- the full collapse, the last piece of straw ripped from the batch as her eye rolls -without knowing whether to go back into her head, or to look down at the ground until his back stiffens and his abdomen has lifted from the shattered flower that he has pissed in.
she wattled back into the picture after the frame had split her in two;
[10:23pm]
I was waiting at the doorstep on my forehead- foot tapping with my hand set on my endless face, as it ticked with ring finger pointing at the time she read in my eyes from miles away -but tried to ignore by looking at the floor, but couldn’t because it reminded her of the time before the wolf sold her innocents for cents of worth she couldn’t afford.
I didn’t say a word to her- only let her in the door; I knew the stench as soon as it spilled across the kitchen floor; I knew she walked the walk with crooked steps and talked the talk without a single breath; I knew her womb quivered in the words I hadn’t even said- all by the way she held her tongue above the top button of her open dress.
[11:41pm]
we made love after she had finished throwing up- just to test the water bed she had shed after last nights sword prevailed over her shoulder blades, and erased what we’d become;
I wore two o’clock like the prostitute’s true thoughts, as she closes her eyes and opens them at the end of the ride; the clocks rim for a wedding band- that hadn’t thought to tick after what she did to me
-just can’t count on sheep, because you never know who they’re sleeping with;
[12:58am]
and she just laid in bed, filled the empty space beside my head, next to the only tally mark we had left- the one of two hundred we were pardoned with
-on our best days, maybe 1.5 while she’s closing her legs to cover the wool-less stretch along her inner thighs -trying to smile, as she limps on through the white picket fence into the sleepy mine(d).
sipping Brooklyn swing-sets set in the womb of a pregnant whiskey bottle -this vomit goes down like every sunset, and each breath questions the next with more exclamation, yet even less of a swallow.
apples would have tasted better than the dusty rinds of half past nine clouds that shuffled with heads down around five county lines defined by their rotten faces. this city wears its smiles like tragedy -with more docks then boats, the tumble weeds roll into a-loan spent on a minute of your time to distract from their own.
the city dressing in black and white -because the secrets of 1953 still bite at the burning insides of every cloud that still hasn’t past; the silver linings have been tarnished as the widow’s husbands drop their hands and the sand fills the bar until the bottles are too dark to take another sip without drinking their own hearts.
the streets are always empty, and the homes never were full -so they kept eating away at the stares until we stopped walking there.
the gun shots fire in reverse, as the bullets duck to avoid his touch- too sorry to kill, his stomach still churns in the words he doesn’t bother to mutter -with a face written in braille, that everyone reiterates.
we all try to get high, but the sky was sold to the south and now we only smoke ourselves -as the north star falls from the sky.
oh sweet, sweet gust of lithium lung -just, take my rain and make it sun for the sake of having one.
everyone wears long sleeves to keep the cuts at peace- and we’ve stopped wearing our hearts because they’re too scarred from last night’s beating -where the hearts stopped as the bottle dropped, and shattered into a million pieces that became the Brooklyn sea- saw that cuts another wrist with a tight rope sown with syringe tips and laid under a fresh coat of Px-mashea -that only nose how to masquerade with a blood soaked sneeze seeping into the coast of Maine.
here, we all make lust -just because it cost less than trust, and is a lot quicker than making love. the sex spills across the floor from a bottle of Adderal- and we fuck in the dust, wheezing, because it numbs the touch; I look into your breasts, because your eyes want children and mommy needs a new dress, and I just needed to be with someone at the hour when the skeletons juggle hourglasses pass the knothole in my head.
so we touch, in the static of cracked tv screens -with audiences to lazy to get off their drunken asses, past the stack of empty glasses, and change to one of three other channels with missing buttons on an artificial panel -where our silhouettes cuddle in plastic wood- grain bottles, hefty bags and crooked moans that choke on the sound of rape- but play the mood on stage.
the un-assembly fields peel away and all that’s left is gray- slate faces drowning in the rock quarry decorate the bodies standing on their heads -lynched in the blueberry patch with bare feet and blistered palms dipped in ashes from the lobster pot that was smoked in-stability and blackened thoughts;
the suicides pile in the author’s footnote -he wanted to write an ode to home, but got as far as the pregnant prom queen and lysol whip-its in the needle’s throat, before he saw the eulogy that he had wrote.
searching for russian roulette he left yesterday to taste life on a whim; his broken wings led him right into the deep end of art’s very own self destruction- its original depression wrapped in the ocean tides where I lived and died twice, before I lied every sentence in a bed of freshly killed roses.
holding tonight in the starlight of a glass pipe -looking back at the constellations I created in the city of midnight I took in by accident- the tides have changed but I never left the ocean side that I cried in the looking glasses cracked meniscus -because the few breaths I took in will always rewind the tapes I thought I threw away in barrel that gave out holidays -that I met blindfolded inside the crooked smiles that created a chalk line the wrong Brooklyn painted like homicide with cocaine and snake skin.
I’ll never call it home, more like the perfect place to settle down -and have one last go at suicide.
the hearts were draped at the bass of every harp string- bloody octaves under cupid’s noose that someone tangled in the tune. the rose choke lynch: cough of thorns bore yesterday’s groove for the needle to slice through -the broken record serenade played at the drop of a razorblade
-all conducted by the baboon flutist. splintered the fear tearing in the audience eye rolls, he holds the music hostage in serrated thoughtless.
his trigger fingers spit glass with previously broken windows -he licks the frag of past sonic boom to catch a taste of the winds cold soul- a melody behind the glass that never really held it back!
conducting tragedy to the backs of masses; the stage laid in a house of mirrors that screamed her ashes -echoed by walls that stopped talking because they hate us all.
the percussion- drum line trace his heart in chalk line; violin squeals peel back his jagged lashes to reveal the crescendo into his head stored with cob webs and old love letters he reads like sheet music
tortured by the table stapled to the ceiling- dies the bloom in a baboon flutist’s musical
I’ve got a thing for women who fall utterly in love with my every neurosis; they like to kiss the twitch and spill their tears along lullabies of slaughtered sheep -because my lady’s are the jealous typ- os the conductor mistakenly left along the keys -I love the wrong notes; the ones you strike to create the perfect accidental masterpiece of codependency- to fill the void left open by better maestros.
I’ve got a fetish for stealing hearts -from the deck we stacked together; with a papercut from ear to ear her diamonds split the veil -but I tend to snore as we make lust while wearing paper bags and burlap moans; but I love the damp eye holes I cut to hide her disposition -with fresh blown kisses.
I love it when they love me -and I fall for their stupidity with red palms and bloody sleeves; and two lip stick prints tattooed to my blue collar dick -I blindly believe that, love is in this squinted
"Typically, I’d be thrilled about writing a book review. But this one isn’t so easy. , said the shotgun to the head. might be one of the most beautiful things I’ve read in years. But if you asked me why, I don’t know that I could do the book justice.
It is the offspring of a man’s love affair with words-- written and spoken. It’s his tapestry, woven with nouns and verbs, and you wear it around your subconscious, page by page.
, said the shotgun to the head. is a 200-page poem, for lack of a better term, about love, God, Western disorientation, and spirituality. It invites itself into your head, makes itself at home, digging through every dark corner and closet, pulling out all the unanswered questions you’ve buried away. It doesn’t answer them. It merely reopens the discussion, forcing you to explore the world inside and around you.
But no matter what I tell you, it is an injustice to how good the book really is. It paints pictures in your head, like good music, or rare moments of clarity. It feels like a fairy tale. Search far and wide to read it for yourself."
we’ve spit these chess pieces before; on wrong playing fields- stealing pawns along a checker board defined by gray areas and a technicolor homicide. sacrifice your castles and I’ll help you create the moat -at the base of your porcelain cheek bones, simply because I’m an asshole. a clock wise match, played on the back of rough times -we skipped the flames to dive right in to muted ashes patted beneath each eye. but I’m tired, I’m tired of black and white -I’m tired of so plainly put, and I would paint these walls all over again if a fresh coat meant we could stand the cold unknowns; and they would start to talk again. I don’t want to play you anymore. I don’t want a mate to spill my head with maneuver; for the sake of checks I’ll call it quits on rumor. but I’m ready to color; I’m read to be a sore loser with you and kick this boring game out of the way. I’m ready to see the dead grass below the chess board suck the sunlight dry and live at last -with the rose peddles despite the thorns. let’s stop reading between the lines for the words to our own novels -let’s stick to vivid pictures and coloring books. let’s put down our quills -but this time we’ll really push them aside because I’m tired of walking on pins and needles. here, I bought us a fresh new box of crayons to illustrate the same old shit the way it should have been. so let’s just empty the box across the lawn, and color in these hearts again.
my writers block is chaos -a technicolor bastard adorn by mix match scars above another’s heart; creation from behind evergreen: the grassy nolle -spit the snipermy writers block is chaos -a technicolor bastard adorn by mix match scars above another’s heart; creation from behind evergreen: the grassy nolle -spit the sniper between cranial hemispheres and paint the train in 99 red balloons before the tunnel light fades to blue -era pastel and meadows lynched in mellow; against mass suicide, art and bed room eyes with wilting lashes spilling yellow across Mona’s thighs -moans drip into splintered veils; she covers her midnight in white’s oblivion -the midwife, picking oranges from the florida sunset with hallucinogens, in her box of confusion; this lust in bloom weeps a writer’s block -in rubix cube. between cranial hemispheres and paint the train in 99 red balloons before the tunnel light fades to blue -era pastel and meadows lynched in mellow; against mass suicide, art and bed room eyes with wilting lashes spilling yellow across Mona’s thighs -moans drip into splintered veils; she covers her midnight in white’s oblivion -the midwife, picking oranges from the florida sunset with hallucinogens, in her box of confusion; this lust in bloom weeps a writer’s block -in rubix cube.
that tobacco nimbus sits above the unicorn’s nightmare; another smoke stack below the snare- with technicolor fangs dropping acid rain aside its own iron oxide.
with static mandible, the horses gallop trots, echoed by it’s talk signed by language- amputees and all.
a seizure into the sunset for the sake of reaching stars- but there’s no smile behind the velvet cloth, only a horse of a different color -with reality in his iris; now he wears an eye patch.
50/50 vision to splinter through the gimmick, the cardboard cutouts have fallen down; the light at the end of the tunnel chips away from the brick rubble.. cheap paint.
passing woes with frontal lobes in a top hat and midnight cloak- a tea party in-sanity precedes on the frown of this dirty cloud.
a unicorn, as happy as he could be on cloud 7 -sipping down debris from broken martini glasses, munching on the ashes.
he’s found this cloud’s silver lining -below the tar and sperm: deciding between a premature umbilical cord or the sky’s thick cancer. unraveling the glitter, he coughed blood and mucus while he spun the rainbows noose.
he’s found the pot at the end -and used it to cook his heroin.
no need for the colorful conscience.
the unicorn backstrokes through a pool of ruber-bands -a slam dance to split the vein between syringe and hand.
.. he overdosed on Halloween.
a fantasy in the seams of cataract dreams- searching for some kind of heaven on the sins of Cloud 7;
angels behind barbed wire, with popcorn and ticket stubs at the golden gate’s line
between the ambiance of melancholy and double bass guerrilla symphony- this suit of blooming dynamite with fusing cuffs -wears like an Armani tux.
he painted his easel beneath a peace of shrapnel.
croshea a civil signature: embroidered in braille fashioned entropy- by the threaded hairpin; he spits the quills to dot the eyes-
and watch the kill.
with a stroke of grenade -he’s to be displayed against the age of reason, below the cranial splinter of amputee and misinterpretation.
it was called his magnum opus- below the sprawling shrapnel and teflon gulps.
he spit his blood on the walls, and framed the gravestone in bullet holes for all. the shells powder canvas; reigning down beneath a cloud of mag clips and falling rounds-
this is lust.
this is the day he holds his heart- and the artist is left red handed in the capillaries of black mondays self-expression: paint and blood strokes close- holding his breath against a question mark.
tourniquet highways for the guerilla to spill his oil- abstract with paint filled gauze and starter flame he illustrates turmoil.
he’s to follow his heart-
choking on the murmurs, he creates serrated canvas and disorder -under grenade hearts, their signature carved:
I tripped the velvet curtain de midnight matinee; Finalimenté, entrée bowing eyelids take your mark. The theater is set for an audience solitary, play on maestro.
Act 0: Scene -2 Final acts tumble into misshapen introductions; The orchestra lends a drum roll atop silhouettes of the church mouse’s violin solo; Black sheep parade under the veil of a broken abacus.
Act I, II, III, meta IV Que house lights
The audience returns for the encore presentation. Stretched across the aisle floor, I yawned with the stench strangers foot tiptoeing my swollen tonsils. Stumbling inside an intermission I shook the shadow’s hands; He spoke of the Shakespearean era in forgotten tongues against a blank looking glass. Character nod’s in awe
Act VI: Scene Midnight I tried to sing along, but the improvisational melody was lost; so I sat on the curb picking stars from the window sill on my forehead.
The black sheep stood front phantom of the opera Dragging backdrops of jigsaw thought across the marble silence.
The sheep fade into applause as the audience’s feet sweep the laps of counterfeit smiles.
Act VI: Scene 5 Dim house lights
An elephant’s ballet pirouettes the shattered champagne glass Quick breath, relax before crescendo
Across the falling bows of the orchestra’s dream sequence we act as if tomorrow couldn’t see. The curtain’s pretentious hold til’ infinity As wilting eye lashes trickle across the anvil, the lion’s paw inhales shrapnel spit by splintering deliriums. Open eyes wide; Yell in frustration.
Se7en O’clock showing: take your seats
Satin curtains drift the runners of capillary centerfolds; Black sheep masquerades outline the bloodshot in an unlearned manifesto, while the actors swallow midnight applause under the sunrise of a flutist’s final solo. Hold hands, take final bows
Act Ø: Scene XII
Memorizing lines of unwritten opera house: tonight was yesteryears copycat production; I’ll read you on the shards of another midnight screenplay goodmorning night.
Your toxins tiptoe the hallow Walkway of this placenta; Spitting stagnant HIV in the Swollen mouths of quarantined.
Mrs. maternity leave sucks Down her candy cigarettes; Mmm, smells like teenage suicide. Drink up Mary, virginity Is only a word.
Choking on the backward Clouds; dangling from a noose Threaded with heart strings And aerated syringe hymns.
Spill you sickened amniotics Across the Vegas sidewalk; Your naked bastard is What sin touches itself to.
Sifting subtle flesh shutters, Innocence kissed the air Before black tar filled His fragile body, with the Bane of purity slipping from Two porcelain eyes.
The Devil loves to dance.
The dancing blue eyed baby Jesus opens his palms wide To catch that sultry kiss From a passing whore.
The two dance in circles Faster! Faster! Faster!
Waltzing crop circles into Mommy’s spine, they dance On the eighth octave of Of a frantic mother’s scream!
Her tears trample muddy skies Before taking pace along The Mississippi gorge, And pouring shattered Hearts in the key hole Of Pandora’s box.
This child is a shining star; In the center of the 9th gate… Run little one, we’ve Got hell to raise.
Ground connection to central Fore; head the database. Information races itself To paint a blank cortex With rhythm enigmatica; Cerebellum babble on: idiot. Choking on commercial everyday While coughing blood diamonds; Syringe tipped fingers Continue to tickle individuality.
Sipping bittersweet polyphonic; Catching kisses on broken tracks Before this train of thought Derails along superficial parallels… Into the comfort of toxin Tipped record needles we go.
Grin little idiot, think we not. Sick-brained bastard mothered By the subtle of cancer; A prescription a day keeps The heart beat away, swallow hard.
His words thumping through Hollow canals as the rapids Step across 5th category. The river Muse continues To take on waves as sound Floods a watered-down stage.
I built this home from a Deck of cards with charred edges And double stacked my heart In the center of the pile; Pressed my ear to another’s Heart beat as my house Tumbled into stacks of Misshapen paper cuts.
Backstroking the ashes Of cohesiveness, the pseudo Intellect paints a pretty face For the industrial prostitute. I’ll smile for the camera until My tears blur the line between We and self.
Hammer away, chisel and Makeshift stigmata. Make this misshapen ball Of clay the bust that gets A dollar bill to the G-string.
Hammer! Hammer! Hammer!
Yes! Drive that stake through My broken skull and continue To fuck me over again and again! When you’re done, lick the plate Clean with a serpentine pass; Drag that jagged tongue across My empty head until all that’s Left is a delighted hiss!
Mmmm, sweet uncontrol. Balancing across the tight rope Crooked smile… A stroke of art is the only act, As two dilated pupils inhale Static while the AV cables Plug into the hardheaded.
Take my picture little black box. I’ll smile for the birdie while The generate watches a Massacre of contemporary art - After the dollar bill hills Are extinguished and common Sense is no longer excepted In the arcade personality.
Voodoo Child bleeds from Deaf ears of generations swallowed By the flames of latter-day Stars and Strata casters. We are the children, voodoo Speaker box: prep my plastic soul For proper instillation.
I’ll sleep in this bed of snakes With every fang playing Another swollen note, And this stereotype will break The charts as all the dolls Master their plaster manifestos.
We’ll revert to fetal positions From the wombs of black speakers- Heads bobbing back and forth Breathing on the drop of cracked needles.
Wrapped in ivory corn husks, Before dusk ran into the past And met today's mangled bear trap. The rats screamed, lost; The Piper only smokes crack now. Follow that tune, right into Yesterdays velvet glory hole.
The llamas guard the sand castle; Lucy's best friend coughs blood As cloud 9 cries on African orphans. Lock lips and touch the heavens, They'll touch you back... The bible got stuck in a vice, Sipped his wine: tighter the better.
The poet tree's gut wrenching bark Blooms envy evergreen, Before it shits out a dollar. Black collar rolls in the piss Sipping yesteryears inspiration, As white tops wear blue jeans And dance in hollow faces.
Chaos fucked peace, She thought it was lovely... To be wed the next summer day, But Adam ran off to be with the Eve. Keep catching the angels spit While looking up to find that Bronze clouds silver lining.
We've all got cancer, eat up, There's plenty to go around.
I've forgotten what it's like to Touch the angst of the ground. The Grinch stole this flight, The last 12 steps to heaven Haven't yet been replaced.
Caught between the evergreens And a center piece of neon blush, I'll wait for the past to come back... All alone, here on cloud eightn'ahalf.
The palms of dry Tuesdays sweep the ash of Wednesday, lubricate the resin with mom's tears while my hands slip away from the love of every final hug.
I'll rape this tiny violin for all the insignificance it's belaying throat can bare to hold, as I slip and slide along a threading noose with a single tear drowning in the screaming bow.
To every hair that decays from the head of her first born, Mother sheds another love letter.
12 months; too many minutes. My mother's hands met the clocks as Father Time kissed her wrist while seconds began to sprint so they could be the first to slit it.
I watched the clock drink her blood while the orchestra played the heart in E minor. Her sorrows giggled down every solum wave of percussion that her tears left on the tin roof of our rusting syncopation.
Mommy's only happy when it rains on broken Fridays. She can't cry when the floods condemn her misery, and every ounce of that liquor we weep is watered down beyond a sensible cure for hurt.
Don't worry Mom, I love you.
Stop spending yourself on questions to my wrong answer. As cancerous as tomorrow's bred, I'll sit their and sing from cloud nine.
I'll hum our favorite tune for every loose note I never meant to let you know, and as I kiss your weeping head goodnight listen for my dancing footsteps...
I'll keep running across this roof forever, just so you don't have to cry.
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