we are the kids, who spit like men.

by atti?

pressed flowers, never smell like spring again

by atti?


you’re the most hideous flower
ever pressed in to my palms.

i frequently leave my hands behind dusty bookshelves
for your peddles to be stumbled upon
when my fingers tremble like loose leaf
in virgin fingerprints
behind back corners of back corners
of secret hallways in libraries for the dead,
to remember where they’ve been.

we're everyones dirty secret.

whisperers spit our papercuts
like journalists
and the illiterate wipe their faces across the welts
we call wedding bands,
wishing our scars could spell truth in braille.

the archives of our introduction
became obituaries,
and the death you hid behind the veil
has become reason enough to spill more ink;
if only i hadn't bent the tip of this feather
trying to hammer the day we began to Live
on your tombstone,
and we didn't love in reverse
get dressed before intercourse
smile before you'd cum
resist before i'd force

Evil
-was written across the stone we call home,
on the day we signed the deed
and did the former
to which transformed seed into a hollow tree
that i split and pressed into sheets of grief
with beautiful tragedies doodled like child's play
to entice a read.

the book we wrote, has no authors note
- and the back cover reads:
Hold Me.

faile

lyrics for an
upcoming project: faile



I. Lightbearer

i adorn stigmata
of the nihilist
i dress in absence and ambiguity
i hold on to nothing and spit glass like promises
where love sucks off the nails of it’s own coffin
and crucifixes roll back into heads like orgasms
we feed on the void
i am the light bearer
i am the terror, the light
i am hell.

II. 1988

apocalypse palms
i feel a warmth undone
alone is where i consume my self,
in together i fork my tongue
a wake of vagrants
and i’ve been abandoned by roads
i know home by the number of tombstones
and the monuments of ruin i behold.
i find comfort in its venom
discomfort in my content,
i’ve slithered a million miles
to be guiled in my return to each contempt.

III. Crucified

stack like brick your hair and flesh
begin, construct, rename your baphomet
anathemas and grotesque alike
spill your blood in spite
close your eyes and construe post fame
rue, we’ve painted thier breath for war
we scribbled sunrays on foreheads
and gave them name
we’ve built their crooked heads
we’ve stacked the bodies, then forgot
licked our lips and spit macabre
each cult, each tome
each holy quote rebirthed
you gave murder worth.

goodnight moon, shine

by Atti?

she wore wood grain across her forehead
and the midnight sky went fishing in her eyes for the twinkle
that could splinter the owls hoot in two

a spine that curled like the neck of a harp around her labor
she strummed the roots of the thicket
and washed away the sun
across the basin for days on end
until the vines in her hair grew into the flood

and her beauty turned to music
that sank the devil to his knees and quelled the seas
my siren sang with her wood grain
in knots

i took swigs off moonshine jugs
and when my lips made love to open drums
my drunken bass lines roughed her up

we made love
sometimes music, sometimes she said no
i never once forgot the nature of her beauty
but just got too drunk to see it glow.

she stopped singing songs
and the devil started dancing the like to my whiskey bass lines
in the full moon of the night
the country rumbled in my gut
the milk weed buckled as i huffed and puffed..
and she just watched
as i drank away all the beauty she'd become.

where the cockroaches kiss

by Atti?


struggling to smell the difference
between the pefume she wears behind her ears
as you teethe at her quivering neck,
and the stench of the motel where you fuck like strangers
but later call it sex;
where you forget whether it's dusk or Dawn
and just remember you'd forgot to call her.

her throat opens wide
as the moans bleed into traffic horns,
police sirens, and mouths as filthy as their children
spit glass across the mattress
filled with eight naked body bags,
and of course you two-
squirming as if you knew what you were doing,
with his forearm pinning down her greasy hair-

she pretends she likes it rough
just because she thinks he does.

they rock back and forth like infants
trying to remember what it was like
to sit in their mothers arms and feel
what love really is-
without the crooked smiles that forgot
the difference between disgust and lust
just because it's always so painful
that the corners of her mouth have just learned to lift
with her skirt to make the tears look like his work
paying off,
without showing the shadow of a doubt
-that is still trying to figure dusk from dawn
so it can decide wether or not it's time
to make an appearance.

if home is where the heart is
-it makes sense they'd be so hollow.

they lock eyes,
but only because neither has the key
to what the other is really looking for.
they stare so deep that the room blurs;
their pupils grow so wide they swallow each other whole
-they stare so deep into each other's eyes
that they just look right through to the other side,
and feel just as alone as they did
the day those dusty old vintage motel sheets
started to collide.

they've been fucking in the same rotten room
for so long
that their standards for the outside too
are gone.

he'd of never known he climaxed
if he hadn't fallen out of her broken spirit
and into the pages of the bible
that wasn't even placed in room 12's cracked nightstand.
it would have served no purpose
to the two who'd stoop so low as to continue spending
eachother when knowing all along they were
worthless.

so they smoke the broken roach clips,
left in the ashtray
from the moment they noticed-
neither one of them even smoked.

they'll make it routine and call it adventure
as the habit forms and the love becomes indentured
-two slaves wondering which is the master
as they both eat the leather
and clentch their teeth reaching up towards the rafters.
she used to call for jesus
and now she's call for me
-she used to call for jesus
but she never believed,
it's just what she thought you're supposed to do.

and we'll keep fucking like we're siezing today
while tomorrow giggles behind the curtains
and the night masturbates
in the room next to ours with his first date.
and i'll keep telling this story in third person,
and i'm sure she'll do the same
because we never loved, we lusted
but we never knew the way-
we never trusted ourselves to get there,
so we stopped at a motel along the way;

with each stop we take,
we get a little closer
to getting further away.

run on, run-on...

by Atti?

the golden goose skips the page
-conjunction ripe with verbose poets
at the tip of every would be ink dipped
feather light
brick,
that lifts his neck
with the sexual dialect of third person
narrative-

disillusion:
the gift of flight for featherless
rejects,
that don’t even carry the pens
they’ve been said to scribble
the drunken rants of starving artists
across the sunsets with;

you were really a paper tiger all along
-siberian adjective draped in the nouns
that slid down the soggy cheeks
of opaque pages written in past lives
through tears by better name:
alcohol;

and as those stripes wash away
from the tiger’s back,
his noun held hostage by slang
triggers
fired like broken bones
at sticks and stones shaped like denial,
his beloved labels race against
running finish lines
as they melt away before every finally stride
-and that final mark of identity
fades into new age jabber,
and he can’t tell if its positive or not to be left
a plain old, ordinary,
pussy.

run, run on kitty catastrophe
-the denumonte is just around the margin,
before the indentation
that makes these writer’s blocks less than perfect,
despite thier beautiful structures
that are metaphormed with the source
of your stumbling paws.

keep running paper tiger..
keep chasing the foot note
as the fingers of bitter creators
pinch awake
every dream you could ever have
to make their own-
thier, there, here, i
am so sorry paper tiger-

this story has grown boring;

better yet than happy,
is the death of a hero for an ending-

keep fighting for your write to live
and i’ll write every twisted turn
that you think you’ve earned
below that wasted piece of paper you call home.

art is the red root of death
that fed the leaves that turned into your roof
before the fibers of your very being
bound into a noose,
that dangled your life story
off the limbs of a rotting poet tree
before your eyes stared into my bark,
waiting for a heart in the crooked eye of conclusion…

sorry paper tiger-
i’m great with words,
but better with lines.

the end.

the highway of eden

by Atti?

the barrel spit a seed through the marrow
that grew into a leaf,
and bloomed on the backside
of his head-
his final thoughts were roses,
and the crown of thorns
that had circled round his door
before they plucked the buds from his skull

and buried him in the pricker bushes
-because the flowers are too dirty
to hold his contradiction
in the bosom of this rotten soil.

he died in the music of a soft suicide
where the razor gently kissed his lips
and his wrists
stared into the sky for prayer
-and under the headstone
his heart broke as he slipped
the silken silver
through the ill form of its dinner;

he swallowed the bumpers
and twisted steel
through a hollow dream sequence
that replayed on backside of the blade,
before it began to play-
he still chokes on sirens
before the headlights trickle down
his jagged face

-still remembering his first,
where the sunset on his forehead
and his fragile eyes
shattered on glass that proved to have
a thicker head then his.
his first,
where the scream ran
from the back of his head
to the swell of his lips
where the angel had forgot to kiss,
before it wrapped itself around his breath

.. it was his first death.

as his parents fell to their knees
he grew well on his feet,
in a coffin coughing on, support,
that threw the covers back over it’s lazy fucking head
to go back to sleep
after scribbling R.I.P. on the screens
that learned to double for a heart
with a bass line that could hardly
beat.

the airbags bloom
in a field of glass shards,
where twisted metal
grows from debris on the first day of spring,
and nature is mechanic tragedy
where jersey barriers
wear the blood stains like fresh fruit
as the bush in a massacre
that spilled it’s guts on Eden’s highway-

and prayers stumbled into the bone yard
sponsored by your local
internet provider-
along the cold steel
that doubles for a monorail
as the weekday starts.

the fiber optic cable
puke’s hopes and dreams at his feet,
as the news cast covers the story
with a funeral
live on TV.
his headstone is engraved
with his death date followed by “News Channel 8,”
and a microphone sent
to the homes of family and friends,
to catch their final words
of the dead.

.. and he dies again
-a suicide dive for the end,
where the eyes really tear
before the mourning has raised,
and the shoulders for a fallen family
aren’t connected to the back of an acronym!

so he tries to die;
enough to where he’s reached an afterlife
where touch isn’t lust,
and love isn’t digitally rebuffed
-rolling in his grave in disgust
to tighten the rope,
in hopes of finding a life where the feeling is
real.

the rat : the writer

by Atti?

i theologized reincarnation
between adolescent angst
and a mid-life crises thirty years in the making
of a twenty year old canyon dweller
in the state
of mind that has been said by many to be
"grand, er"

i've constructed monuments of my own failure
on each side of this exit way;
while i feed the city of garbage where i play,
i'll keep throwing sour love songs
tangled in last nights leftover-
dones'
and wish i could see the sun
just once,
as if i'd even know what to do with it
other than close my eyes until
it was done;

then write some ambiguously coherent poem
that doesn't even end about it,
on the backside of a napkin,
who's backside grins with jovial idiocy,
who's for-side is a notebook,
who's backside is a tragic epilogue
regeneratively:

i am the rat
who packed all his belongings in to a poem,
and bothered to recycle for the sake
of a more conducive environment-

but i'm beginning to see more saturdays
in these rotten heaps,
than fridays to be their predecessors:
TGIF - yes, Thursday Goes Infinitely Forever
between misplaced clocks
in a lot of rusted suffix where the pre-fix
apparently,
is not.

trace my own circumference
until i walk a circle around my own misdirection,
trying to justify the end
of every poem i've thrown
into the construction of this second-hand home
-with out the means
to remember what it is i wrote.

i'm the trophy wife of beautiful words,

who can't even count to the sum
of his own accomplishments
without a second hand
-who can scribe for the first.

i've subscribed to my own literary magazine
of half concluded exposays-
from the first issue in Novemeber of 1988
up until the presently future day
-where again i'm writing the past
because i've already forgotten of today.

i know
i'll throw this issue away too
-help build a solid foundation for my adobe hut.
my own bullshit makes for the best mortar;
even if its backside starts to grow flowers,
and its for-side can cup a coward,
and its backside can be picked for hours
by its for-side's half-fully empty coward;

i make two cent's of every message in a bottle
i recycle after sending it adrift to myself.
i've lost it all and earned it back with every poem,
and chanced it every time again
in hope that it will always come back to me

in the very end.
.Or the very beginning
depending on where it starts..
.. or it's ending?

???

practice/signature

byAtti?

i want you to dress
in my lecture

pretend you grew-down between the mating calls
of dueling chain-saws
and saw the sirens song so whole heartedly
that their notes played in techincolor strobe

run so far into the tree line
that pebbles on the path crack the outline
and the dash marks dance in your peripherial
notion
of where you actually are

scream
at the top of your lungs

tipping toes spill into sprinting strides
and your tears taste like self-assurance
as you try as hard as you can
to be found
but just find
an even better place to hide

get lost in my stanzas
and maybe you can find me on your way
out

let me fill your quotations
until they throw up words
that drip down the love notes you've put them in
and pour into breakup letters
at the footnote to your bed
of nails

i want every man to pitch my lines
like used car salesmen

for every beard-bearing photographer
to spin my art through the thatch of his plaid shi(r)t
roll up his sleeve of tattoos
and wear the cursive heart he can't even read,

for her

i want to be in your top list with:
charles bukowski
ee cummings
and 2pac

i want you to love me
for all the wrong reasons
and acknowledge me for the ones i should be
striving for
because you're too stupid to comprehend
what i'm really trying to convey

which

summed

up

is

i want to be a narcissist
through your eyes
so i can by own greatest fan
in third person

and never have to
admit to it.

flounders.

by Atti?


this keliedascope is the closest ive come to seeing
the need to go-
before you fractured the maniscus
i saw a means for hope.

i looked down that barrel for hours
like i never before learned to sea
-where you shoot fish
with ease
i eat bullets while they learn to breathe
under water as their jackets shed
at my feet.

before you shot the fish
that swum around behind my eyelids,

i saw a reason

-now i see a million each too small to motivate
and collectively far too shattered
to build the latter of emotions
that it would take to get me to build
you the bridge across this ocean;

have a nice swim.

rev(olution) lover in reverse

by Atti?

spit glass through my spine
and pretend you’ve shred the back of my hand,
to heal your fragile head-
as the mattress spills its metal jackets
along the open door,
I’ll juggle slugs with open hugs
and use my shoulder blades
to save you the task of time it would take
to stab my back
before you blow that kiss
through hollow lips too careful
to hear the clicks
as two stripped bullets undress the barrel.

ten paces before we draw-
and as you drew a gun to fire I traced conclusion
too short before soon turned
and began to shoot
for sheer amusement;

and as I look into each of your eyes-
at separate times,
as they take turns dancing
adjacent edges on the switchblade
buried in my face-
I find our knife in my pocket;

and watch your pointing fingers
continue down the ridges of my spine-
until the judgement in your eyes
grow sharp enough to dive.

go ahead,
drive that tip of silk
so slow that it feel more cold,
than painful;

more humane
than what it actually is,
more to proper stage
as its performer takes the reigns-
and the action
matches the fire that it’s raped;
despite the fact the flames
feel so cold before they blister
the ridges of mistake.

just fucking stab me!
-or, shoot me first.

I’d love to swallow your jagged edges
for the sake of looking in those eyes
for the final seconds
before the skyline fills my mind;

but as you sit their like a stranger;
lips slightly open
with fresh smoke rolling up your face,
I turn my back and imagine just how it would taste
to end this bullshit without the same old seconds
to waste on forgetting
just how great it was before the final blade
cascaded by.

so, stab me in the front
-shoot me in the back.
I’m so over this old additive-
I’d rather see your blade then taste your bullets,
because at least this way
I never see you pull it.

elephant's Øth symphony

by atti?

Mommy wanted a doctor - but she got a broken gurney anchored by obtuse configuration; God apparently doesn't take requests from sluts and junkies. Two eyes multiplied to four to eight to sixty-four and judgment poured across the tile wrapped in umbilical tears, every droplet as abstract as that child's face; she called him, never. Jack Daniel's bastard himself, grinning like an idiot at the look of disdain from trembling lips. Mother greeted mistake with latex smothered oven mitts, and the forehand of another six years to five fingers across his cheek for forgetting to turn out average. He was her anathema, for the simple fact that she didn't like the idea of mirrors or accountability. But that's ok, another eight ball of coke should ease the pain. Shaking hands with the skeletons in the closet to try and find normality - amongst a standard he was whole, but more empty than any bare spine and narrow rib cage could fathom. He was all alone, with the chime of shattering mirrors and the occasional duet from a passing soprano. Never loved, but was never loved.
Counting rings strangled in the puddles beneath his knees, he reached 17 before the water fall was cut down and all that he allowed of his sorrow was this solitary puddle, lonesome as the day it was conceived - as was he. Neversolo, he learned to conduct the voices in his head along the stage he discovered, laid across his forehead. A whore for attention, he spent weeks conducting string quartets atop the silhouette of the locks clasp. Waving blistered hands as if blanch wings of doves, he wrote his first piece beneath yesterday's misfortune and performed it on the eve of solitude. None but all were in attendance, just as he always dreamed.
"What the fuck are you doing!? As if your atrocity weren't horrid enough, you decide now to be a fucking lunatic!" Mother flew across the symphonies crescendo, as the lyrics of metzo-alto made the maestro giggle in joy.
"What is so fucking funny! that is it, I knew I shouldn't have never kept you... piece of shit." The beauty continued to dribble across her lips as he dropped his hand with all sincerity, and an acute thrash met the snare drum before the percussion line raced into densely orchestrated atmosphere. The drums thundered through trembling staffs as the brass section infused with the twin picking bass cellos that mumbled across the innocence of a screaming violin with the most sinister of intention! Faster! Faster! Faster! Arms tense and convulse. Faster! Faster! Faster! Maestro's hands mock the chaos he's created as he flicks his wrists! Faster! Faster! Faster ... before he then falls to his bed, dripping with the arev of his independent showing.
"You did great tonight." He whispered to himself as the music ran down his wrists.

the accidental dear hunter

by atti?

we have discussion like head lights
-dear,
i'm enamored by the snarled bumpers
and rusted bolts
you think make you anymore beautiful
than you look
in your own

smile.

this trainwreck is a car accident;

those rubber necks
made of fiberglass crack at the sight
of what we've become..

(as the engines run
-head on)

one.

if i was a coupe
you'd be a tractor-trailer
-if you were a tractor-trailer,
i'd be too drunk to see you coming
-if you saw me coming,
id be too drunk to see you turning
while i turned the same direction
in guessing what the opposite of the other's next
correction

wouldn't be-

we have awkward encounters
where hesitantly stepping side to side in unison
turns into a 16 car fox trot

pile up

that we can't help but to cause
-because scattered across those car wrecks
and shattered windshields,
the most adorning qualities of each driver
can be seen stopping to fill up the tank
for another 3000 miles

on good intentions;

where at the beginning of the journey
we see the end of our last endeavor,
as a reason to keep on driving

into oblivion.

we drive across separate arteries
at the same speeds in different times of the ride

-we drive, because we love the roads;

but more importantly,

where they go.

we drive with our eyes closed;
we ride with maps of eachother
stretched across the inside of the windshield.

i left our last accident early.
i figured i'd arrive early so i'd have time to pick her a flower
- and write a note attached to it that would say:

"i'm sorry i crashed into you last time.
i just missed

your touch.

i love you dear."

or something like that.

she left our last scene late
.. because she was so upset that i didn't stop

while she screamed it through the glass.

it took her a bit longer to compose herself.

but where i left early, she left later
-and where i stopped to pitty these rides
and to wonder if she was even coming this time;

she began to speed to make up for lost time.

i didn't mean to hit her,

she knows how much i truly care
-i just have a fucked up way of showing it.

and as we round the same corner

from separate ends,
those yellow lines begin to tangle
and we both just look ahead;
the roads all disappear, and the steal traps where we hide our hearts
fade into the scenic view

-of you.

we run at each other with open arms
-like the sappiest beach scene of your girlfriends
favorite love film

faster!

faster!

faster!

.. until we crash.

i'm sorry dear, i just ..
missed your touch.

lower your hammers & drop your nails

somewhere between inevitable progression and a prophet as false as the white lie that has been pinned to the cross, barack obama is the indiscernible scapegoat of the american slob. i'm not much for a rant, however, the utter ridiculousness of the pedestal that this man has not but set on, but rather crucified upon, is as grotesque as the blind faith that teeters on his ideological showcase. obama is today's modern day bull god. i sympathize for the man, but i fear for the character that's manifesting in the child-like imaginations of broken pocketed adults. comparisons to jesus christ? it's a half sincere, half joking juxtaposition placed in the peripheral demand of a society desperate for the social, economic, and political quick fix; and baring the stability of a pre-911 world trade center waiting for the final straw to not only break the camels back, but double as the nail to national coffin before it's used to crucify it's makeshift jesus christ.

obama is a man. obama has promising ideas. stop neglecting the reality of the fact barack obama is not your miracle drug. personally i regret to stand firm in my initial belief that very few of his progressive notions with truly come in to the limelight, let alone assert themselves into the mangled mechanics of our american wasteland. there is so much ground that not only needs to be covered, but back tracked and re-trekked upon before the opportunity to present any new policies can truly be explored. it is unfortunate, however, it's a reality. and it's not even a pessimistic outlook, but rather a very real actualization. this isn't a fairy tale; and one man can't save the day. people need to step back and allow time for obama to tackle the existing issues that have been strewn across the oval office for him to sift through and resolve, before they can really expect dramatic change.

learn to support - not just follow.

- atti?

five minute pornography

by atti?

this pornography gets me going
-with every clip
another falls and they're only wearing skin
behind the bed of glass,
that acts as the covers
they're not actually under
-unless this picture of lust is so transparent
i really can see right through.

every touch
i pretend its us:

-that filthy voyeur,
with his eyelids rippling;
the climax to the film
never quite became
-enough to wrap his jaw around
the silver linings of cloud 9.
an arsonist is left in the dust
with under achieving passion
misleading
in to the palm
of slut.

their love tumbles off their backs
with the switch of a scene
-slap of disgust, nudge of a strap.
squirming in there, naked
-two sets of lips
and a set of shriveling lungs
for each to bleed out of their mouths
as hollow screams seep through
their pale white masks
in act one scene two-
the decieving of:
love.

back against the walls
-between each translucent moan
the ceiling topples over her smirk
and the two of them fall.
in a split second moment
-you can read the script lines
across her never open eyes
-until you hold
that brief second in disguise;

-not the originals given,
but her own revisions.
the screenplay she's saving in her kisses
for the one who'll listen.

between her broken flowers
and the stentch of winter midnights
-the bloom has died
and the tide has lost sight
of it's guide within the moon
-so the waterline rises between her thighs
and he breaks her heart some more
with another quick disguise
-he read that script in her face
from the gut like an utter professional
of the upmost gutter
with grace.

i'll watch with one eye closed
and the other ignoring through my fingers
as i remember a better stage.

this pornography got me going
-the most beautiful moment
in the introductions of a pornography only.
i'll watch the first five minutes
-where you can read the love
between the body lines
of the passionately explicit,
before she gags on the editors notes
and coughs up the back hand
of a directors dirty secret.

i watch five minute pornography
for six minutes at a time-
just enough to hear the subtle cries.
i watch five minute pornography
searching for love-
behind the hollywood that's giving it up.

this isn't poetry

by atti?

last time i wrote a poem
the sink spit me up,
while my belt loops sat alone,
waiting for the notches around my throat
to let go.

the footnotes at the bottom of my heart
beat more readily,
than the body of my work.

i used to think it was poetry
-before the lines turned themselves into a noose
and haiku's that read like bullet points
started to back fire,
through the backsides of a few ambiguous
water lines,
that were just shallow enough
for me to try and drown myself in.

i used to think it was a pen
-before it made a better weapon.

a few metaphors and three broken women later-
this isn't poetry,
it's a battle cry
that started as tears and went to war with itself,
and never realized the field
was never actually a place to step-
but who knew hearts could eat tread just as easily.

everyone wants their signature poem
-it's supposed to mean i love you;
but this poets love stinks like lust
behind red-rose revolvers that get used like crutch.

one too many rest their heads
on my barrel of monkeys from your back
fired into the last place you'd expect
to be dead.

i used to call this art,
because i didn't see pain it made.
my own splinter ridden veins where the page
like a mask without the eye holes
to see who they bump in to.
this depression wasn't meant for display,
but the day my scars stumbled into your arm
you wore them like the neglect
to which you had always set the stage.

search my poems for your answers
-because i don't have them.

i used to think i was cutting my own wrists
with the margin of this half finished poem,
until i watched you bleed
-and assumed you knew what to do
if you had the will to reed.

still writing
-i'll take your life away,
while reaching for your breath.
these poems aren't made for praise;
they only frame regret.

i'm the martyr of my every word,
followed by myself as the rope tightens
before a crowed town of my own emotions-
each one standing as its own person.

it was all for me,
until i started to see the strangers
scattered across the executioners veil.
it was all for me,
until a few decided to watch-
and they didn't enjoy my death
as much as i did
-because the parts of themselves they had put in me,
swallowed the axe much slower
than i really took the blade.

that broken heart doesn't entertain you
the same as it does the reader,
but i still write it into the story
because this isn't poetry, it's the overly dramatic truth.
so keep reading until your stanza ends,
and the next begins with another name-
and you can't enjoy the read again,
if the last poem hasn't already pushed you away.

so, ask me to write you a poem,
and i'll slit my wrists and dedicate it to you
-because i don't write poetry,
i kill off pieces of myself, for myself,
regardless of the voyeurs
with hands over their eyes
watching through the gaps between their guilty fingers.

don't ask me to write you a poem,
because i'm running out of pieces to kill;
don't ask me to write you a poem,
because i never will;

this isn't poetry.

the end of every poem.

by atti?

i'd be shallow if you could actually cry
.. if something more than sand
could tip
(h)our glass
to the point it truly was half empty,
no matter if you stand on your tippy-toes
and pier down as if you really thought it was an acurate depiction
to glance off the top of my shoulders,
and claim we've filled this ugly mug
with anything more than a few droplets of something
that resembles sober.

as if i really knew how to swim anyways
-you just wanted someone to test the waters
before you pretended to drown.

your greatest weakness is a poet
-mine is the literate;

if i could actually read my own words
i'd realize what it means to you
when i fall apart in your glass palms-
and count down to the end
while thinking that your math is strong:
everyone knows poets
use the other side of a half hearted mind-
but my reflection wears disguise
like you're trying to play along,

stupid
me.

my relationship status is:
narcissism;

i'm good at reading palms,
but when you hold my hands
and i cup your face
-those smile lines contort the page.

maybe i'll love you along,
or maybe this is just another heroes tales
i've used as a napkin
to wipe away those tears again-
either way

i'll let it happen.

don't think of me as an asshole..
i'm the poet you've always quoted-
i'll help you fill your journal pages
so i can steel
a moment.

you can be my ambiguous
warning letter-
that just can't keep its hands off of heartbeats,
because i'm a poet before a reader,
and those palpitations make better endings
then new beginnings.

i'm sorry, truly
-this is the (heart)est part,
but will you help me write
the ending?


i've got another poem
to start.

her's for his vandalism

by atti?

i loved you before you were trendy
.. before you wore alleyways
on the topsides of your feet;

a filthy blonde
in argyle moral-
but before the floor made it yours
i remembered open sores.

you wear your designers like your long lost heart:
to someone elses beat.

the art in your face never used to be so abstract
-that dead canvas
only knows the eraser marks
that didn't take away
the past.

.. provocateurs aren't supposed to move,
so every tear you spit
in deaf ears
adds another shaky stencil mark
to that crooked portrait you wear.

you're your own fault.
-these backstrokes through your slate colored hair
only trace the gaping flaws
that were already there-
those flimsy stares and offwhite fears
will just keep fossilizing
in that stone face, behind a logo
you hold so dear.

so keep crying
-beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and love is blind,
so lust just doesn't try.

contemporary lovers laid to waste
-beneath the 21st centaur we've
not the color wheels to frame
your oval maze.

you're an ugly duckling
all grown-down-
outside in, in-perfect pastel wings.

a face not even your own artist
could love.

you're the doodles of Picasso
unripened in the after birth of Escher's
pale of rotten seeds;
a bad apple could still be painted
but you are the core that was
given to me.

this vandalized heart
that beats in 3/4's under stolen loops
on my contemporary walls-
is as hideous as the idea
you will ever be more than the downfall
of artistry-

those dirty stones,
so filled with indecency and lack of respect-
your grafitti glare in my bare-
you're hideous;

you're not art.

wolf parade

he rolls his tongue like a bullwhip
through the grooves of her curling spine-
her toes crumple
-eyes sea red
as an ocean coughs up the moans
from the agony she wore between her legs
to fill the sky
for another son-set
aside.

jigsaw stares
and his jaw bare-

she shows her teeth
-her pearly off-whites
to the giant negro of her eye:
the midnight sky.

they spit civil rights
into latex resevoir tips-
hate crimes with sheets and slipknots
parade across the bedroom floor
with the promise of a kiss.

she grips his nappy head
and lifts the veil between her legs-
his fingernails flee the scene
and rape the gashes on her inner thighs;

the bed gives out-
the blood for her to curdle
in scream ripe enough
to dare and dream!

her eye's roll back; the room fades to black
and blue hats with filthy voyeurs on their minds
grip their pants in anticipation-

it's not snuff, it's just enough!

his hips ride the Amastad between puddles
of blood, lust, cum, and whiskey trade
as one last thrust drives through
her underground, and rides her tracks until the two rails meet
at the same place to a difference destination-
and the blareing sirens rip through her throat
as the air horn rides the crooked sound waves like a prostitute
and the blue hats bare the badges
of their guilt as the zippers split, foundation rots
and jaws all drop as they witness
the climax of two trains of thought!

her eyes rip open her own eyelids and suck the flames
of his forrest fire-
as her neck gets caught in her tethered wrists!
as she bites at the open air for a taste of
breath;
and her sulfer ridden eyes swollow the opaque
glimpse of that rusted cross-
covering its eyes
above her bed!

he pulls his shackles and eats her lashes
as her eyes bat burning desire-
glistening in the reflection
of that crosses blistering ashes.

the hate in this lust
could fracture all of us!

he hand slips from his head-
holding his last straws in the air like a trophy
as his tethers tighten and her lips turn blue!

the blue hats sit on hind legs
with saliva dripping off their fangs
onto those curiously shaped billy clubs and batons-
they've been waiting for their chance all along

.. even voyeurs like a happy ending.

her eyes roll back on last time
-the sky turns black and the stars burn out,
his hands go limp and her legs walk away
from where they locked mandibles
for that walk along his spine..

the wolves throw their blue hats,
as the sheets blow through the air
while the billy clubs accept new members-
the streets fracture, the curbs grow cold
-the backs of buses explode!
the wolves, worked up so sexual
race the clock beneath the sheets!

until, it all.. stops.

the sheet grows still-
the stench spills from out of the covers
like fire hoses-
subtle grins form in the silhouette of this climax..

the blue hats brushed under the mangled bed frame,
with the sheets worn like a badge of honor
-one with out serial numbers or the idiocy of selflessness.
the wolves don't wear thier sheep skin anymore-
only the voyeurs coat of arms;

the thought of more sex- or,
sexier,
weighing heavy on the mind.

realeyes, you're not

her shotguns barrels wore that tinted iris
like a velvet exhale,
loaded questions - fired guesses;
her gaze was the suicide marriage
in the distant veil 
beyond the dead man’s grave.

back hands in reverse - even worse poker faces.
they made love in a house of card
hearts and shitty whisperers on windy days
-they made lust in a house of card
sharks and falling spades 
swollowing every papercut, he made
her concieve the abortion
of his rotten egg.

before she batted bullets
there’s was the soul that folded;
before he shot his mouth off;
the day irony went and pulled it.

the cloud went spoiled and shit it’s tar ridden lining
across the wedding bells and ivory sighs.
the bride dined on rape 
as the honey-moon grew full of ego.
she reached for stars
to help her find her way to heaven
but they were too dim to light a blackening wife.

her eyelids pinched his filthy stare so tight
that when her eyes split the terror blind
rubies rained from down her eyes…
and spilled down into
her decaying chest
-to form a rosary between her breasts.

she never hurt a man,
but she murdered flies.

picked every shard of fragility up
and made an art of plots to kill
-benieth the miniscus of what use to be a heart
shaped vase 
she watched his face eat the sun she couldn’t save
as the blisters start to raise!

guilty murder, filthy burners
-faulty eyes killed a husband dead without a quarter
to guide his slut wide eyes.

her skeletons wore whiskey bottles for slippers
as hollow ribs sang like wind chimes;
while they tip-toed through alcohol wishes
and panting land mines
to find their way back in to her closet.

she never hurt a man,
but she murdered flies, she murdered rats
she never hurt a man,
she never met a boy-
who could look into her eyes
without collapse.