the way my perspective changes
when i begin to pry your fingers away
from this dear, safe cliff i've built
wouldn't anyone see
that i am only
trying to watch you collide with the rocks
it is innocent, enough
the way i tickle your knuckles
and kiss your wrists
and mention how cold the draft is
and how warm the water must be
and how those rocks, well,
they aren't rocks at all
they are smooth mattresses,
soaked in love
and tender weight to catch
a falling desperate
such as yourself
it is interesting
the way my perspective changes
when i stand above you
instead of nearly level ground
and your fingers nail themselves down
with stubborn hope
that they could pull,
dig,
scratch and lift you higher
and it is mostly innocent,
the way my eyes hold steady
with my spade ready
to chip, scrape and
remove the cliff
around your fingers
all the while mentioning
how cold this time of year gets
especially at such a height
and all the while motioning
to the clear and lovely light below
like foil in the oven
to the warm, the water
you must be tired from the stress
of gripping, digging,
scratching cliffs
that everyone can see
and i am only
chipping round your fingernails
digging beneath your palms
tugging at your cuticles
and i wonder how much longer
you will hold
the guilt in me, controlled
to crush those bones
where knuckles bend
twist fingernails
with metal grips
and mention words i said
i warned you, i told you
where you would end
and doesn't swimming
sound so nice in warmer waters
far away from this draft
and the cold
and the cliff
and my uneven ground
that continues to split
new cuts, new rifts
this is not innocence,
and all the while i think
that the water on your cheeks
ends up down in the waves
colder now than when made
and far away from this edge
but some fingers break
and loosen, and bleed
as the others release
and i wonder
if you'd still be clutching this cliff
if mine were not the first you'd seen.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
full circle.
I was dreaming, and then I woke up. The room was not quite dark enough to obliterate the shapeless shapes and the shades of black that seemed to crawl with the spots that appeared from straining my eyes.
If there were a mother nearby, she certainly would have heard my unrest in the night. But that room is empty.
If there were a father nearby, he certainly would have noticed my sweat-stained bed. But that room is empty.
If there were parents, sleeping in a bed, pushing down pillows with their refined, developed heads,
And a wife’s hair pressed into the husband’s shoulder,
And a shifting, midnight kiss,
They surely would have come, come rushing in the room at the sound of the only son, the only child, screaming.
But those rooms are separate, and one is always empty.
So I sewed my eyelids shut with a thread from the doll somewhere near my bed,
the dolls that gave no comfort when lit with devil darkness, black blood in scarlet shades down their stitched faces.
So I sewed my eyelids shut, and hoped for morning.
Morning came, and brought with it sight, but no change.
Mother, those bottles are always empty. Father, those filters are always lit.
So I grew, pushing down pillows with my refined, developing head,
and sewing my eyelids whenever the night would call, and spots would crawl, until I left that house,
Leaving the impression of depressions in the carpet in the hall, I closed the door hard and I was gone.
For good, I said, and married her, and carried her through poverty and pregnancy,
And mid-west-east-coast residency, and now I had a counterpart who could see the spots, and sweep them away.
And I never needed threaded needles again.
Then 1989, the third in line, arrived as our first boy,
And I woke up. I was dreaming. The room was not quite dark enough to obliterate the forming shapes and shades of gray that dragged their claws across my eyes.
Their mother is nearby; she certainly should have heard my unrest in the night.
But that side is empty.
If we were parents, sleeping in a bed, pushing down pillows with our refined, life-giving heads,
And her lips, pressing to my shoulder,
Meeting my shifting, midnight kiss,
Then surely we would wait at the edge of the covers, for any stir, murmur, or breath held too long, and rush to their heads, and keep their eyes closed.
Not sewing them shut, but relaxed, and reposed.
Morning came, and brought with it light, but no color.
Mother, your phrases are always empty. Father, your sleepless nights never quit.
So I tried gluing them shut, with some glue made from Atlantic sea salt and a pearl from the street, and the three younger children, that brought us to six.
I tried gluing them shut, but those shapeless shapes and growing grays dragged claws across my eyes, and tore them apart, and forced me to stare at the room that was not quite dark enough to go back to sleep, not quite dark enough to pretend I wasn’t there, not quite dark enough to hide the threaded needle I had kept for years, unused.
So I sewed my eyes shut.
And while my children grew, pushing down pillows with their developing heads, I was sleepless again.
So I sewed my eyes shut.
I was dreaming, and then I woke up. The room is bright, a sickening, perfect afternoon that reminds me I’m alone.
If there were a mother nearby, she would scold me for wasting my day.
But her room is empty. She waits out the rest of her life with others too hard to take care of.
If there were a father nearby, he would be smoking behind this window.
But his room is empty. His grave is full.
I feel the pressure of my aging, grey-scale head, pressing into the pillow on my aging bed, and I think of the family I do not have.
I think of how I lost my mind trying to be everything, to everyone.
So I sewed my eyes shut.
If there were a mother nearby, she certainly would have heard my unrest in the night. But that room is empty.
If there were a father nearby, he certainly would have noticed my sweat-stained bed. But that room is empty.
If there were parents, sleeping in a bed, pushing down pillows with their refined, developed heads,
And a wife’s hair pressed into the husband’s shoulder,
And a shifting, midnight kiss,
They surely would have come, come rushing in the room at the sound of the only son, the only child, screaming.
But those rooms are separate, and one is always empty.
So I sewed my eyelids shut with a thread from the doll somewhere near my bed,
the dolls that gave no comfort when lit with devil darkness, black blood in scarlet shades down their stitched faces.
So I sewed my eyelids shut, and hoped for morning.
Morning came, and brought with it sight, but no change.
Mother, those bottles are always empty. Father, those filters are always lit.
So I grew, pushing down pillows with my refined, developing head,
and sewing my eyelids whenever the night would call, and spots would crawl, until I left that house,
Leaving the impression of depressions in the carpet in the hall, I closed the door hard and I was gone.
For good, I said, and married her, and carried her through poverty and pregnancy,
And mid-west-east-coast residency, and now I had a counterpart who could see the spots, and sweep them away.
And I never needed threaded needles again.
Then 1989, the third in line, arrived as our first boy,
And I woke up. I was dreaming. The room was not quite dark enough to obliterate the forming shapes and shades of gray that dragged their claws across my eyes.
Their mother is nearby; she certainly should have heard my unrest in the night.
But that side is empty.
If we were parents, sleeping in a bed, pushing down pillows with our refined, life-giving heads,
And her lips, pressing to my shoulder,
Meeting my shifting, midnight kiss,
Then surely we would wait at the edge of the covers, for any stir, murmur, or breath held too long, and rush to their heads, and keep their eyes closed.
Not sewing them shut, but relaxed, and reposed.
Morning came, and brought with it light, but no color.
Mother, your phrases are always empty. Father, your sleepless nights never quit.
So I tried gluing them shut, with some glue made from Atlantic sea salt and a pearl from the street, and the three younger children, that brought us to six.
I tried gluing them shut, but those shapeless shapes and growing grays dragged claws across my eyes, and tore them apart, and forced me to stare at the room that was not quite dark enough to go back to sleep, not quite dark enough to pretend I wasn’t there, not quite dark enough to hide the threaded needle I had kept for years, unused.
So I sewed my eyes shut.
And while my children grew, pushing down pillows with their developing heads, I was sleepless again.
So I sewed my eyes shut.
I was dreaming, and then I woke up. The room is bright, a sickening, perfect afternoon that reminds me I’m alone.
If there were a mother nearby, she would scold me for wasting my day.
But her room is empty. She waits out the rest of her life with others too hard to take care of.
If there were a father nearby, he would be smoking behind this window.
But his room is empty. His grave is full.
I feel the pressure of my aging, grey-scale head, pressing into the pillow on my aging bed, and I think of the family I do not have.
I think of how I lost my mind trying to be everything, to everyone.
So I sewed my eyes shut.
Friday, December 3, 2010
roots beneath
I prefer your waving, leafy limbs
Not more than a breeze,
set in motion.
And the breeze, oh simply that
Will uproot, and fling about
I prefer your roots beneath
Not much more than tripping feet,
a reminder you are near.
And the ground, once packed and smooth
Will disturb, your underground grenade
I prefer your seasons changing
So much more than just time passing,
shift your colors.
And the life, the beauty that
Will die, and break apart
You and I, as stoic statues
Witnesses to living paint
I prefer your seasons changing
I prefer your roots beneath
I prefer your leafy limbs -
and the earth, our dirty feet.
Not more than a breeze,
set in motion.
And the breeze, oh simply that
Will uproot, and fling about
I prefer your roots beneath
Not much more than tripping feet,
a reminder you are near.
And the ground, once packed and smooth
Will disturb, your underground grenade
I prefer your seasons changing
So much more than just time passing,
shift your colors.
And the life, the beauty that
Will die, and break apart
You and I, as stoic statues
Witnesses to living paint
I prefer your seasons changing
I prefer your roots beneath
I prefer your leafy limbs -
and the earth, our dirty feet.
color me obvious
At 1:02
I waited. You,
absent, beautiful.
Loving minutes, caressing hours,
getting tongue down the back of the little big hand.
9:32
Your breath was new,
a quiet, flutter.
I felt your clothes, your want and more,
pouring light to the palm of my hand.
But 1:43
Mind raced, and see,
the finish line blurred and sank.
Swirled love and color, adoration,
fold your dreams, melt them all down the back of my hand.
So 8:31
Looming, spun,
returned. And beautiful.
Loving numbers, knowing letters,
rolling life round and round in the palm of my hand.
I waited. You,
absent, beautiful.
Loving minutes, caressing hours,
getting tongue down the back of the little big hand.
9:32
Your breath was new,
a quiet, flutter.
I felt your clothes, your want and more,
pouring light to the palm of my hand.
But 1:43
Mind raced, and see,
the finish line blurred and sank.
Swirled love and color, adoration,
fold your dreams, melt them all down the back of my hand.
So 8:31
Looming, spun,
returned. And beautiful.
Loving numbers, knowing letters,
rolling life round and round in the palm of my hand.
sick
Give me your sick nostalgia
I’ll give you a quiet place to sleep
Those hooks aren’t too deep;
I’ll slide them out slow
so you can rest on your feet.
Give me your mixed-up matters
I’ll give you a single partner
The kind who will not falter;
I’ll show fact, not fiction
You can’t dispute on your back
Flitting windows,
closing books.
Minutes walk by;
a moment's look.
this is closure,
a finality feel
Give me your hanging eyelids
I’ll give you a quiet place to sleep
These matters aren’t too deep;
I’ll murmur all my words low
You can fall underneath.
I’ll give you a quiet place to sleep
Those hooks aren’t too deep;
I’ll slide them out slow
so you can rest on your feet.
Give me your mixed-up matters
I’ll give you a single partner
The kind who will not falter;
I’ll show fact, not fiction
You can’t dispute on your back
Flitting windows,
closing books.
Minutes walk by;
a moment's look.
this is closure,
a finality feel
Give me your hanging eyelids
I’ll give you a quiet place to sleep
These matters aren’t too deep;
I’ll murmur all my words low
You can fall underneath.
speaking of keeping
Speaking of keeping,
and thinking of leaving,
I should have kept my distance.
My second wind,
a cocaine binge,
My aim and wit are broken.
Hypocrisy, anxiety
This piece of me, this melody
This cracking fault, a line and
Mine. Mindful of
Time, and its posted
Signs. Warning of the end.
Speaking of leaving,
and thinking of keeping
Myself out of the way.
My purge and binge,
our second wind
My shaking, splitting broken
Deity, reality
This place, replacement
Side of me, a cracking fault
Line. It’s mine, the
Time, that won’t repeat or
Wind, or mend.
and thinking of leaving,
I should have kept my distance.
My second wind,
a cocaine binge,
My aim and wit are broken.
Hypocrisy, anxiety
This piece of me, this melody
This cracking fault, a line and
Mine. Mindful of
Time, and its posted
Signs. Warning of the end.
Speaking of leaving,
and thinking of keeping
Myself out of the way.
My purge and binge,
our second wind
My shaking, splitting broken
Deity, reality
This place, replacement
Side of me, a cracking fault
Line. It’s mine, the
Time, that won’t repeat or
Wind, or mend.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
symmetry
if i could
remember any of her words
i would keep them to the end
of my consciousness
conscience, keep quiet.
memory, lay low.
it seems our talk was silent.
it seems that by the end
i could not remember,
how to remember
how to
remember any of my words
did you keep them to the end
of your symmetry
your grinding teeth, stay steady.
lashes, slip below.
the single letters,
phrases,
ghosts of syllables and sighs
clouds of language forming
thunderous words from fully blackened skies
piece.
the.
days.
together.
give them substance.
give them time
to evolve to lonely
sentencing,
this sentence: yours or mine?
if i could just remember
just a portion of a word
that she allowed release
from the jail behind her teeth
given substance,
given time,
is the difference between dreams
and whatever i am now.
if i could remember
i would keep it to the end.
remember any of her words
i would keep them to the end
of my consciousness
conscience, keep quiet.
memory, lay low.
it seems our talk was silent.
it seems that by the end
i could not remember,
how to remember
how to
remember any of my words
did you keep them to the end
of your symmetry
your grinding teeth, stay steady.
lashes, slip below.
the single letters,
phrases,
ghosts of syllables and sighs
clouds of language forming
thunderous words from fully blackened skies
piece.
the.
days.
together.
give them substance.
give them time
to evolve to lonely
sentencing,
this sentence: yours or mine?
if i could just remember
just a portion of a word
that she allowed release
from the jail behind her teeth
given substance,
given time,
is the difference between dreams
and whatever i am now.
if i could remember
i would keep it to the end.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
it's getting colder.
This creeping love,
this wine-drunk stumble
with a full glass and empty stomach
this light in my chest.
It keeps the goosebumps,
keeps the shakes,
but removes the cold.
It keeps the clothes, the snow,
the look-out-from-under-eyelashes seduction,
that twists me until
my throat must be near my ankles.
my liver must be in my mouth.
I am upside-down,
I am spun,
I am diluted and strained -
and pure.
I am the snow behind you,
background to the beauty,
observer, the lucky,
the beneath-feet lover
and the backseat watcher,
wakeful and waiting.
And your frame fits firm in my frail arms,
and the flooding strength fills me,
renders me safe.
this wine-drunk stumble
with a full glass and empty stomach
this light in my chest.
It keeps the goosebumps,
keeps the shakes,
but removes the cold.
It keeps the clothes, the snow,
the look-out-from-under-eyelashes seduction,
that twists me until
my throat must be near my ankles.
my liver must be in my mouth.
I am upside-down,
I am spun,
I am diluted and strained -
and pure.
I am the snow behind you,
background to the beauty,
observer, the lucky,
the beneath-feet lover
and the backseat watcher,
wakeful and waiting.
And your frame fits firm in my frail arms,
and the flooding strength fills me,
renders me safe.
Monday, November 29, 2010
rather
I'd rather have this memory than her hair on my chest.
I'd rather have this ghost than her sweat on my lips.
Rather have your perfect everything, than her simple normalcy.
Rather have my fingers grasp the air where your palms were, than have hers pressed to mine.
I would rather feel you
than give her tongue and my lust another second's thought.
It is comfort.
It is knowledge that your existence is simply, beautiful.
It is quiet, soft, lovely, delicate, sweet, creeping love.
The kind you do not notice until you see her silhouetted against the snow
and your body aches.
Your heart responds, suddenly awake.
Your eyes translate the image into a blizzard of thoughts,
matching the flurries, stacked piles on the ground.
The same flurries that catch, contain, and reflect
a thousand bulbs that cover hair, eyes, lips that are turning.
Connect with yours.
I'd rather have this ghost than her sweat on my lips.
Rather have your perfect everything, than her simple normalcy.
Rather have my fingers grasp the air where your palms were, than have hers pressed to mine.
I would rather feel you
than give her tongue and my lust another second's thought.
It is comfort.
It is knowledge that your existence is simply, beautiful.
It is quiet, soft, lovely, delicate, sweet, creeping love.
The kind you do not notice until you see her silhouetted against the snow
and your body aches.
Your heart responds, suddenly awake.
Your eyes translate the image into a blizzard of thoughts,
matching the flurries, stacked piles on the ground.
The same flurries that catch, contain, and reflect
a thousand bulbs that cover hair, eyes, lips that are turning.
Connect with yours.
flinch
you flinched, and:
the shimmering grey curtain that had slowly lowered,
velvet soft,
over my pounding eyelids
ripped back and i could see you,
naked, exposed.
i could feel us naked,
exposed.
and i think of your eyelids fluttering
in time with your breath,
your lips sucking gasps in time
with each flex.
and i've ruined you now,
two missteps - the end.
the shimmering grey curtain that had slowly lowered,
velvet soft,
over my pounding eyelids
ripped back and i could see you,
naked, exposed.
i could feel us naked,
exposed.
and i think of your eyelids fluttering
in time with your breath,
your lips sucking gasps in time
with each flex.
and i've ruined you now,
two missteps - the end.
otherwise
are you watching me yet?
i wouldn't be here otherwise.
am i convincing you yet?
i haven't even tried.
i really am stuck, aren't i.
we really are fucked, aren't we.
who knew i was walking into
a goddamn spiderweb, cluster of strings
when i started this.
not the kind you can tug to make me follow,
but the kind that are sticky, sweet,
and fucking infuriating.
i'm ripping them out of my
mouth, but they've dried me up.
lips crack with nothing left.
cotton mouth with spider fangs,
i've sucked us both dry.
we really are fucked, aren't we.
i wouldn't be here otherwise.
am i convincing you yet?
i haven't even tried.
i really am stuck, aren't i.
we really are fucked, aren't we.
who knew i was walking into
a goddamn spiderweb, cluster of strings
when i started this.
not the kind you can tug to make me follow,
but the kind that are sticky, sweet,
and fucking infuriating.
i'm ripping them out of my
mouth, but they've dried me up.
lips crack with nothing left.
cotton mouth with spider fangs,
i've sucked us both dry.
we really are fucked, aren't we.
Monday, November 22, 2010
wednesday.
i'm panicking.
my eyes are in constant motion, and my joints are blizzard-white. i wonder if i will run out of air soon, with the way i'm gulping it, more like shoving it down my throat. straight to my stomach, clenched and waiting, skip past the lungs entirely.
i'm panicking.
what's that? what's happened? my lips are sandpaper slabs, and my tongue is a battle axe to cut. cut all the dead skin, dead from all the air i gulp. wide open, waiting. answer, please.
how would you like your list prepared?
i was never very good at sunny-side up. i've always been more of a scrambled kind of guy.
count the theories. the speculation.
i am panicking.
you're certainly getting your revenge right now,
you threw me in the dark, slammed the door, turned the lock - that wasn't the key breaking, was it?
can i leave now?
at least turn a fucking light on.
please, don't make me say please. just turn a light on.
this manic panic, it attacks with strength.
this attack, this battle axe to cut.
how would you like your list prepared?
my eyes are in constant motion, and my joints are blizzard-white. i wonder if i will run out of air soon, with the way i'm gulping it, more like shoving it down my throat. straight to my stomach, clenched and waiting, skip past the lungs entirely.
i'm panicking.
what's that? what's happened? my lips are sandpaper slabs, and my tongue is a battle axe to cut. cut all the dead skin, dead from all the air i gulp. wide open, waiting. answer, please.
how would you like your list prepared?
i was never very good at sunny-side up. i've always been more of a scrambled kind of guy.
count the theories. the speculation.
i am panicking.
you're certainly getting your revenge right now,
you threw me in the dark, slammed the door, turned the lock - that wasn't the key breaking, was it?
can i leave now?
at least turn a fucking light on.
please, don't make me say please. just turn a light on.
this manic panic, it attacks with strength.
this attack, this battle axe to cut.
how would you like your list prepared?
sunday
and your fucking hypocrisy never ends.
you just want to hold onto as much pride as you can,
don't expect me to follow.
you can keep your "distractions" and i'll keep my
numb.
hello, bottle.
hello, kiss.
maybe i can morph in the mirror.
maybe i can be who you see.
you can keep your distractions, i'll try to keep my
sanity. i should have kept my
distance. and kept you out of my bed.
you're beautiful. you know.
i should have kept you out of my bed.
i'll rewind my fingers, put those buttons back together:
zip you back to decency. place me back, before
vulnerability. you keep your distractions;
i'll try to keep up.
i give too much already,
i need to hold back.
i want to break you.
you don't need me, i'm just a fucking challenge.
you don't need me, i'm just full of surprises.
i want to break you. your ego is a challenge for mine,
and he's been sharpening knives, throwing glances your way.
catching glimpses of lists - can you find where you fell?
keep playing the victim, i tend to believe you.
at least you've taught me the best lines to say.
you just want to hold onto as much pride as you can,
don't expect me to follow.
you can keep your "distractions" and i'll keep my
numb.
hello, bottle.
hello, kiss.
maybe i can morph in the mirror.
maybe i can be who you see.
you can keep your distractions, i'll try to keep my
sanity. i should have kept my
distance. and kept you out of my bed.
you're beautiful. you know.
i should have kept you out of my bed.
i'll rewind my fingers, put those buttons back together:
zip you back to decency. place me back, before
vulnerability. you keep your distractions;
i'll try to keep up.
i give too much already,
i need to hold back.
i want to break you.
you don't need me, i'm just a fucking challenge.
you don't need me, i'm just full of surprises.
i want to break you. your ego is a challenge for mine,
and he's been sharpening knives, throwing glances your way.
catching glimpses of lists - can you find where you fell?
keep playing the victim, i tend to believe you.
at least you've taught me the best lines to say.
blur
i get worried on nights like this
for your skin and your sweat and your kiss
that gets scratched on my eyelids and keeps me up
keeps me awake. keeps me awake.
i get lucid on nights likes this
with the smoke and the haze and the blossoming bliss
that presses upon me, relentlessly strong
shaking my chest, shaking my chest.
for your skin and your sweat and your kiss
that gets scratched on my eyelids and keeps me up
keeps me awake. keeps me awake.
i get lucid on nights likes this
with the smoke and the haze and the blossoming bliss
that presses upon me, relentlessly strong
shaking my chest, shaking my chest.
there's
/// edit 02/17/2018: I recently revisited this old post and considered deleting it. Despite the fact that I recognize it's problematic (or downright shitty), I think it's important to trace my personal grown over the past eight years. (Young, dumb, 20-year old Allen...you didn't "turn" your ex lesbian. Get over yourself.) ///
a cloud of smoke, and all i can think of is summer.
i smoked more substances (more times) than ever before.
i lost my mind, multiple times.
i destroyed a guitar.
i tried to get used to being single, and i made full use of my newly acquired relationship status.
i tripled the amount of songs i've written.
i recorded an album of eleven of those songs.
i kept my best friend close, for thousands of miles of driving.
we put those miles on my car, and his.
we drove delirious, hair flying, screaming songs well out of our vocal range and sucking down energy drinks just to stay awake.
i had sitcom-worthy experiences, some of which may or may not have involved too much alcohol and too little clothing.
i lived a reckless, sleepless, horribly unhealthy, early 20's lifestyle.
i spent thousands of dollars on nothing.
i experienced girls i had always wanted to.
i broke so many damn driving laws.
i hurt my ex-girlfriend so bad, she turned lesbian.
i drank myself better. (i'm still using that method.)
i developed an affinity for wine (cheap wine, of course.)
i dug myself into a nice little hole.
i followed her to a secret waterfall, a secret treehouse, and i felt like i was a kid.
i watched those fires burn from the freeway.
i could see them for so many miles, and i wondered if they were really "controlled."
i saw a cloud of smoke.
a cloud of smoke, and all i can think of is summer.
i smoked more substances (more times) than ever before.
i lost my mind, multiple times.
i destroyed a guitar.
i tried to get used to being single, and i made full use of my newly acquired relationship status.
i tripled the amount of songs i've written.
i recorded an album of eleven of those songs.
i kept my best friend close, for thousands of miles of driving.
we put those miles on my car, and his.
we drove delirious, hair flying, screaming songs well out of our vocal range and sucking down energy drinks just to stay awake.
i had sitcom-worthy experiences, some of which may or may not have involved too much alcohol and too little clothing.
i lived a reckless, sleepless, horribly unhealthy, early 20's lifestyle.
i spent thousands of dollars on nothing.
i experienced girls i had always wanted to.
i broke so many damn driving laws.
i hurt my ex-girlfriend so bad, she turned lesbian.
i drank myself better. (i'm still using that method.)
i developed an affinity for wine (cheap wine, of course.)
i dug myself into a nice little hole.
i followed her to a secret waterfall, a secret treehouse, and i felt like i was a kid.
i watched those fires burn from the freeway.
i could see them for so many miles, and i wondered if they were really "controlled."
i saw a cloud of smoke.
a while
i live this haze,
a blur of days
sliding fingers up your arms
and then you're gone
my unwashed face
hair i can taste
breaking pieces off the teeth
i grind away
how many drinks before the day goes dull?
i'm overheated, running flames
dripping acid down my throat
to suck the liquid from my brain
and bring me closer to suffering for you
i live in my black and fucking white
wouldn't grey be nice?
keeping tongues inside our mouths,
kissing tight-lipped, fully clothed
and nothing confuses; nothing hurts
remember six feet down? i'm going deeper,
as i grind away
we live this haze,
with weakened legs
i'll crawl the forty mile way
and then it's back, disintegrate
forfeit this shitty frame i've made
no, wait - i'll fucking wait,
and drink, and stumble through the day
rather have this poison to myself
than a life with you.
rather forget my name
then give it to you.
on display: my black and white
but wouldn't grey be nice?
a blur of days
sliding fingers up your arms
and then you're gone
my unwashed face
hair i can taste
breaking pieces off the teeth
i grind away
how many drinks before the day goes dull?
i'm overheated, running flames
dripping acid down my throat
to suck the liquid from my brain
and bring me closer to suffering for you
i live in my black and fucking white
wouldn't grey be nice?
keeping tongues inside our mouths,
kissing tight-lipped, fully clothed
and nothing confuses; nothing hurts
remember six feet down? i'm going deeper,
as i grind away
we live this haze,
with weakened legs
i'll crawl the forty mile way
and then it's back, disintegrate
forfeit this shitty frame i've made
no, wait - i'll fucking wait,
and drink, and stumble through the day
rather have this poison to myself
than a life with you.
rather forget my name
then give it to you.
on display: my black and white
but wouldn't grey be nice?
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
i don't usually wear rings.
I’ve molded around this ring. Cheap, even free – you found it, you said, and wondered if I wanted it. You knew I never really wore rings. I took it, why not? I kind of like it, the boring, pewter-grey color of it, with scuffs and scratches already in place. It was a pair of shoes that was sure not to cause any blisters; someone else had already done the breaking-in, walking around, given it a taste of the average finger before mine. Left hand, middle finger: perfect. I kissed you and said thanks. And our new addition, this ironclad connection of ours, settled onto the base of my finger.
And it stayed there, pressing into my skin, as I told you I wasn’t sure. I nervously pulled it off, put it on, spun it between my fingers, as I tried to describe the darkening collection of fluff and air floating around my grey matter. The wandering words whisked out of that cloud just in time to explain: I don’t feel the way I used to. But of course I still love you! I made sure to inject that sedative, straight to your chest, just in case my mouth was getting ahead of my mind and I needed a reference point to come back to. The ring settled back onto the base of my finger. You didn’t sleep that night.
The indent around my finger stayed there, as I drank away our telephone fight. The grey ring clashed with the clear bottle, I thought; probably better just to take it off while I handle this. I pulled it off, put it on, pulled it off, and set it down on the kitchen counter. I remembered you on that counter the night our roommates were gone and we’d grown bored of the bedroom. The bottle didn’t fit on my hand nearly as snug as my monochromatic associate, and besides, there was simply too much to drink for one man and a thirsty ring. A voice, attached to a body, had floated in the kitchen after me. She offered to help, and a glass of liquid jumped eagerly to her lips. As we drank, we contemplated where the evening would end. The ring, my ring, rolled one large, pewter eye at my slurred persuasion. We left the room before it could change my mind.
I played a game of horseshoe with ten bony, knuckled stakes while you screamed. I won almost every time, imagine that. Sometimes, the muted choking sounds fighting through the now-black collection of fluff and air would distract me, and I’d ease the sandbags on my eyelids to cautiously glance at you. The grey horseshoe would take advantage of this break from concentration and fail to make its way successfully onto a stake, plummeting to the carpet. Then I would have to wait for you to breathe long enough to retrieve my game piece. It’s fine, see? Just a ring, no damage at all, no need to worry. You wondered how I could do this to you. Isn’t it strange this ring only fits on this finger? I wondered who wore it before me. Your throat gave out, but your tear ducts had more to say. You didn’t eat that week.
And it stayed there, pressing into my skin, as I told you I wasn’t sure. I nervously pulled it off, put it on, spun it between my fingers, as I tried to describe the darkening collection of fluff and air floating around my grey matter. The wandering words whisked out of that cloud just in time to explain: I don’t feel the way I used to. But of course I still love you! I made sure to inject that sedative, straight to your chest, just in case my mouth was getting ahead of my mind and I needed a reference point to come back to. The ring settled back onto the base of my finger. You didn’t sleep that night.
The indent around my finger stayed there, as I drank away our telephone fight. The grey ring clashed with the clear bottle, I thought; probably better just to take it off while I handle this. I pulled it off, put it on, pulled it off, and set it down on the kitchen counter. I remembered you on that counter the night our roommates were gone and we’d grown bored of the bedroom. The bottle didn’t fit on my hand nearly as snug as my monochromatic associate, and besides, there was simply too much to drink for one man and a thirsty ring. A voice, attached to a body, had floated in the kitchen after me. She offered to help, and a glass of liquid jumped eagerly to her lips. As we drank, we contemplated where the evening would end. The ring, my ring, rolled one large, pewter eye at my slurred persuasion. We left the room before it could change my mind.
I played a game of horseshoe with ten bony, knuckled stakes while you screamed. I won almost every time, imagine that. Sometimes, the muted choking sounds fighting through the now-black collection of fluff and air would distract me, and I’d ease the sandbags on my eyelids to cautiously glance at you. The grey horseshoe would take advantage of this break from concentration and fail to make its way successfully onto a stake, plummeting to the carpet. Then I would have to wait for you to breathe long enough to retrieve my game piece. It’s fine, see? Just a ring, no damage at all, no need to worry. You wondered how I could do this to you. Isn’t it strange this ring only fits on this finger? I wondered who wore it before me. Your throat gave out, but your tear ducts had more to say. You didn’t eat that week.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
chew
a mouth full of tiny destroyers,
to a bucket of boiling acid
on the way down, what remains
puts up a fight, digs in for the
push, pushes the blade into the
pulsing cavern, warm subway to hell
but, when it finally fails and falls,
oh, that is just the beginning -
it sparks!
the acid lights this fuse,
a quick creation, a lovely runner
sprinting through the red and blue avenues,
any of a thousand.
any of a million.
they all lead back to the top
ride this river,
run the writing red lines.
pound the bliss
into my fingertips.
to a bucket of boiling acid
on the way down, what remains
puts up a fight, digs in for the
push, pushes the blade into the
pulsing cavern, warm subway to hell
but, when it finally fails and falls,
oh, that is just the beginning -
it sparks!
the acid lights this fuse,
a quick creation, a lovely runner
sprinting through the red and blue avenues,
any of a thousand.
any of a million.
they all lead back to the top
ride this river,
run the writing red lines.
pound the bliss
into my fingertips.
Monday, October 25, 2010
prayer
In the dark, you could be anyone.
Lips feel the same;
they move like silent
Prayer. For me to change,
For us to stay the same.
Pray
For us to stay the same.
In your tiny sun, the shadow crawls
Its shaded knuckles
Across your curving, rising
Chest.
We move like silent
Prayer. My fingertips, callused
Leave a trail of tightened skin;
It reads like scripture.
Pray
That truth lies in the pages.
In this cotton tomb, not a place for death,
A place to arrest
The oxygen beneath your breast
The light blade crawls
Its golden razor
Across our pressing, sticking,
Sweat.
As our mouths spread, silent
Prayers.
Lips feel the same;
they move like silent
Prayer. For me to change,
For us to stay the same.
Pray
For us to stay the same.
In your tiny sun, the shadow crawls
Its shaded knuckles
Across your curving, rising
Chest.
We move like silent
Prayer. My fingertips, callused
Leave a trail of tightened skin;
It reads like scripture.
Pray
That truth lies in the pages.
In this cotton tomb, not a place for death,
A place to arrest
The oxygen beneath your breast
The light blade crawls
Its golden razor
Across our pressing, sticking,
Sweat.
As our mouths spread, silent
Prayers.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
reversal
You’ve failed to do it again.
One minute, not even ten
We destroy it
A sort of crippled curse, our breath
Dull as a Devil’s dagger,
My left hand
A speck of dust.
Your face a chiseled, coarse
chopping block.
Paint on the mask
Oh, my brother,
Do you adore
the bridge, the highways, the beauty of life?
This fragrant mist
will certainly stay.
In months, years, the sky
The loud cloud columns
won’t settle down on you
And you are a grimacing man.
We are only ninety.
And, like the melody, we will never die.
This is twenty-three.
What a joy,
to soar on every second.
What a gentle candle.
The softly speaking mother
tilts her head to hear
them bandage head and chest
The quiet listening.
Friends, family
These are our lives.
Your fists.
We are metal and string,
Changing, never the same, upgraded men.
It never happened against our will.
It was always chosen.
Each time we intended
to give in, but come back stronger.
You opened up
As the arms that held.
She didn’t ask twice,
to keep your warmth inside, a place to hide.
Living
Is a light, unlike anything else.
We blanket and blow, like demons from hell.
We do it to feel close to the sky.
We do it for delusion.
You’ll say we’ve no direction.
It’s hard enough to be in this world.
It’s hard enough to achieve and run.
It’s the common, dull
Hidden phrase in twilight
Always a different place, strange face, soft and fair
The angry whisper:
‘A curse.’
That wakes us up.
Free-for-all, free for us
For the healing, smooth skin is free
For our heaving, silent chests are free
and it all stops.
And know that this is free, that we are free
From our sight and our tongues
How we bit them so long,
the rest of our hearts and our thoughts.
So, so, dear Brother.
So, your love:
You are my requiem,
You are my worthless,
The fool’s gold and silver
that stands to the elements.
We stand and fly.
We know where our thoughts, and our interests lie.
The Ocean, Sky –
I leave them alone.
No more flesh, no more bone – I am there
A crest and fall,
A stony grave,
A foamy ceiling.
Dear Mother, Dear Brother –
Be calm,
Be calm.
We’ll sink with our wings
And leave men behind.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
challenge
I see myself
hear myself
feel myself.
I am meta
arrogance
self-aware
And deserved
this surviving
body's strength
I push until
the day that
it can't function
Is it a shell
or something else
a housing unit
For brilliant doubt
I see myself
hear myself
Feel myself
in this closure,
I am enclosed.
hear myself
feel myself.
I am meta
arrogance
self-aware
And deserved
this surviving
body's strength
I push until
the day that
it can't function
Is it a shell
or something else
a housing unit
For brilliant doubt
I see myself
hear myself
Feel myself
in this closure,
I am enclosed.
hurricane drain
The hurricane shape of the drain
shows silver spirals suck away the boiling water
From my scalded pink skin, fresh from the womb
Every pore gasping for air
as the cloak of liquid recedes.
In direct contrast, the ice glass
I grip with my sturdy right hand
Levitates, tips and shakes
Its dirty contents down the pebble bridge of my tongue
To inject my slimy organs
with soiled poisons.
Red branches grow from drunken eyes,
As I watch the silver hurricane
in my bathtub drain.
Its spiral dwindles, leaving swampy porcelain
And sticky pink eraser skin
And a head of cinderblocks
And white noise vision.
In direct contrast, the ice glass
slips from my sturdy right hand
And shatters blades across the floor.
shows silver spirals suck away the boiling water
From my scalded pink skin, fresh from the womb
Every pore gasping for air
as the cloak of liquid recedes.
In direct contrast, the ice glass
I grip with my sturdy right hand
Levitates, tips and shakes
Its dirty contents down the pebble bridge of my tongue
To inject my slimy organs
with soiled poisons.
Red branches grow from drunken eyes,
As I watch the silver hurricane
in my bathtub drain.
Its spiral dwindles, leaving swampy porcelain
And sticky pink eraser skin
And a head of cinderblocks
And white noise vision.
In direct contrast, the ice glass
slips from my sturdy right hand
And shatters blades across the floor.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
i've heard it's the best way
I’ve got a thousand tiny lungs
on every inch of skin
heaving, breathing,
and pulling air in
but their
rhythm
is
breaking
they struggle against me
as you slither down their openings,
a suffocation scene
it cannot be the chemicals
simply mixing past my teeth
raising heat, slowing – breathe
drag the eyelids as a
beat cop, casing murder gone unsolved
naked lungs burning for air
as you slither, squeeze, release
coating every strand of hair
oxygen, a fickle fleeting
flirting, fucked-up kind of friend
who stays the night, but every time
abandons as a one night stand
the brain, depending on
a thousand tiny lungs
no heaving, breathing,
only sucking water in
as a well in a downpour
as a desert flashflood
as the drain in the bathtub,
as the water still runs
the alcohol, back
then forth.
fingers reach my bottom lip,
a fist of surprising force.
I’ve got two larger lungs
that empty, fill, repeat
but slowly let their duties go
in willing, calm defeat.
Monday, October 11, 2010
467,
we were lucky to have that place.
we were lucky to have each other.
but our luck didn't run out,
it decayed with a cancerous confusion
and destructive detail
until the rot in the corner of the room
left a skeleton to fall
and crumble to dust,
and the smell finally hit us.
sometimes, i reconstruct you
as you never were
as i wish you had been.
sometimes, i realize i stopped trying
i didn't care
and you cared far too much to notice
or allow yourself to realize what was happening.
they still ask where you are.
i pushed you away
with a strength i did not know i had.
and now you've created a strong new self
with arms to shovel dirt on the stiff eyelids
that loved us.
we were lucky to have that place.
we were lucky to have each other.
i was lucky to lose you.
we were lucky to have each other.
but our luck didn't run out,
it decayed with a cancerous confusion
and destructive detail
until the rot in the corner of the room
left a skeleton to fall
and crumble to dust,
and the smell finally hit us.
sometimes, i reconstruct you
as you never were
as i wish you had been.
sometimes, i realize i stopped trying
i didn't care
and you cared far too much to notice
or allow yourself to realize what was happening.
they still ask where you are.
i pushed you away
with a strength i did not know i had.
and now you've created a strong new self
with arms to shovel dirt on the stiff eyelids
that loved us.
we were lucky to have that place.
we were lucky to have each other.
i was lucky to lose you.
Friday, October 8, 2010
today is amazing.
I can't wait to be alone.
Driving anywhere, nothing but myself, the seat, the music....
I can't wait to leave everyone
Everything
behind.
I can't wait for years of breaking down everything I've gotten used to,
grown complacent,
accepting a wasted life.
I can't wait to play, every day,
my words, my songs, my life on display.
It's for myself, and no one else.
I can't wait to be alone.
And, on that note:
I can't wait to find a home.
With records spinning, wine glasses spilling,
autumn leaves and coffee.
My front porch guitar, weathered, scratched and scarred
Teach my son to release
his confusion with strings.
And my wife, beautiful, independent and strong
Faith in foremost herself, both of us separate vessels
that have one another to stay the course.
Everything that I see
when I'm close to someone, and I see a piece
of her, but not the whole thing.
I can't wait to be alone,
but I can't wait to need someone.
Someone who can hurt me -
but won't.
Someone who doesn't need me,
but wants me.
Someone who eradicates doubt
who I know I can live out the rest of this life with
And enjoy what we have,
what is guaranteed,
not worrying about Ghosts or God,
Right or Wrong,
just content. Just knowing we meant
Everything when we said, "I love you."
I can't wait
to hurry up and live.
Driving anywhere, nothing but myself, the seat, the music....
I can't wait to leave everyone
Everything
behind.
I can't wait for years of breaking down everything I've gotten used to,
grown complacent,
accepting a wasted life.
I can't wait to play, every day,
my words, my songs, my life on display.
It's for myself, and no one else.
I can't wait to be alone.
And, on that note:
I can't wait to find a home.
With records spinning, wine glasses spilling,
autumn leaves and coffee.
My front porch guitar, weathered, scratched and scarred
Teach my son to release
his confusion with strings.
And my wife, beautiful, independent and strong
Faith in foremost herself, both of us separate vessels
that have one another to stay the course.
Everything that I see
when I'm close to someone, and I see a piece
of her, but not the whole thing.
I can't wait to be alone,
but I can't wait to need someone.
Someone who can hurt me -
but won't.
Someone who doesn't need me,
but wants me.
Someone who eradicates doubt
who I know I can live out the rest of this life with
And enjoy what we have,
what is guaranteed,
not worrying about Ghosts or God,
Right or Wrong,
just content. Just knowing we meant
Everything when we said, "I love you."
I can't wait
to hurry up and live.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
the music rode shotgun
the music rode shotgun,
watching us move
moving mountains to find
the glaciers beneath
and your body, the driver,
the running red lighter
spinning circles to burn
the imprinted skin.
the Blue song, a shotgun,
a barrel to temple
line our heads up just right,
your cheek pressed to mine
and the gasping, the heaving,
the scrape of the ceiling
peeling layers to show us
the imprinted skin.
watching us move
moving mountains to find
the glaciers beneath
and your body, the driver,
the running red lighter
spinning circles to burn
the imprinted skin.
the Blue song, a shotgun,
a barrel to temple
line our heads up just right,
your cheek pressed to mine
and the gasping, the heaving,
the scrape of the ceiling
peeling layers to show us
the imprinted skin.
Monday, October 4, 2010
binge and purge
i am binge and purge,
all or nothing,
sane or crazy,
loyal or deceitful,
and certainly unsure.
all or nothing,
sane or crazy,
loyal or deceitful,
and certainly unsure.
amen.
to my father, whose art I despise:
Keep your cotton candy dreams;
your chocolate-covered lies
your beard of redwood trees,
and lovely mouth of dirt.
Step the marble clouds to retrieve me
and bring me back to earth.
Keep your cotton candy dreams;
your chocolate-covered lies
your beard of redwood trees,
and lovely mouth of dirt.
Step the marble clouds to retrieve me
and bring me back to earth.
skin
Piece the skin of your teeth together,
you spoke the claws that scratch
your cells apart
Feel the silvering, stinging needle
bounce around your throat,
pierce a new window.
Scream the rain to slash the curtains shut
hinges cry for wet, pull your
house apart
Sew your marrow and bone together
and wait for spring to relieve
your stiff corpse.
you spoke the claws that scratch
your cells apart
Feel the silvering, stinging needle
bounce around your throat,
pierce a new window.
Scream the rain to slash the curtains shut
hinges cry for wet, pull your
house apart
Sew your marrow and bone together
and wait for spring to relieve
your stiff corpse.
Hold
Do you hold these addictions
with or without me?
I asked, as you sipped from the cup.
Are you set here forever,
as granite or metal,
or float as a leaf to sweep up?
That's the chemicals talking,
you smile,
you say,
And you won't care to know in the morning.
But I know that I will,
and it pesters me still,
so I smile and stare at the ceiling.
with or without me?
I asked, as you sipped from the cup.
Are you set here forever,
as granite or metal,
or float as a leaf to sweep up?
That's the chemicals talking,
you smile,
you say,
And you won't care to know in the morning.
But I know that I will,
and it pesters me still,
so I smile and stare at the ceiling.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
the new
We are:
Contracted, redacted,
calm, cool – and collected
Leaning meaning,
collision course for the ceiling
Slamming deep, crawl and creep,
dirty wine that we drink
Time, then fall –
Gravity? I can’t think
You’ll find no place with me,
but floor under your feet.
You are:
Buttons coming undone,
fingers tremble defeat
Turning gray, with the weight
of the lies that we speak
No attempt at retreat,
treating, beating this heat
Poison; bring me a drink
let it flow through my feet
Through the lies that you speak
breathing closer to me
Gleaning meaning, succeeding
but failing to need.
I am:
Devil you, devil me
keep an eye on belief
It’ll break you and shake you
and pull underneath
Pull the ground at your feet,
dig the dirt up so neat
Leave a hole six feet deep
so the wolves cannot eat
What was left of our meat,
after so little sleep
Choke the air from the earth
and find some relief.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Oh
i will craft you,
and mold you
and shape you as mud
that, fickle and flowing
and dark to the touch
will cover my fingers,
from knuckle to tip,
as i lift your new form:
let you drip to my lips.
i will own you,
and keep you
and discard your box
that, shallow and hallowed,
and chained tightly shut
will shadow your meaning,
from nostril to knee
as you tremble and stand
and fall into me.
and mold you
and shape you as mud
that, fickle and flowing
and dark to the touch
will cover my fingers,
from knuckle to tip,
as i lift your new form:
let you drip to my lips.
i will own you,
and keep you
and discard your box
that, shallow and hallowed,
and chained tightly shut
will shadow your meaning,
from nostril to knee
as you tremble and stand
and fall into me.
Reliving
Now that I've succeeded
In losing my mind
And spent my fake paper,
left my savings behind
Now that I've focused
Until I went blind
It must be time to relive my life.
Then I was younger,
my eyes burning blue
And, running in circles,
mostly around you
Then I got restless,
and lost track of time
And ran off to start living my life.
Now that I've wandered,
brooded and stewed
And held on to grudges,
laid lines between truths
Now that I'm older,
blue eyes back to you,
I'm reliving this lie as a truth.
In losing my mind
And spent my fake paper,
left my savings behind
Now that I've focused
Until I went blind
It must be time to relive my life.
Then I was younger,
my eyes burning blue
And, running in circles,
mostly around you
Then I got restless,
and lost track of time
And ran off to start living my life.
Now that I've wandered,
brooded and stewed
And held on to grudges,
laid lines between truths
Now that I'm older,
blue eyes back to you,
I'm reliving this lie as a truth.
this all decays
This all decays.
Watching strings float off
Of your arms, and your
Eyelids freeze and flake.
This cotton frays.
Buttons loose and fall
Off your chest, and exposed
Your rhythm breaks.
How can I
postpone or pause?
How can I
prevent this fall?
Please watch the
Autumn sweeping in,
it's pouring dust around
Time is speeding up,
the clock is breaking down
These jaws will eat you;
the smallest hole they'll fit through
Keep the bitter cold away,
and spin the world around
Show your skin today,
press your warmth to the ground
The clock is breaking down;
this all decays.
Watching strings float off
Of your arms, and your
Eyelids freeze and flake.
This cotton frays.
Buttons loose and fall
Off your chest, and exposed
Your rhythm breaks.
How can I
postpone or pause?
How can I
prevent this fall?
Please watch the
Autumn sweeping in,
it's pouring dust around
Time is speeding up,
the clock is breaking down
These jaws will eat you;
the smallest hole they'll fit through
Keep the bitter cold away,
and spin the world around
Show your skin today,
press your warmth to the ground
The clock is breaking down;
this all decays.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
I can't
I can't hear when the pieces are falling
When your armor is flaking
Your skin separating,
the blood that won't clot.
The stage in your skull
Your audience waiting
When the lines aren't coming
as your theater burns.
When your armor is flaking
Your skin separating,
the blood that won't clot.
The stage in your skull
Your audience waiting
When the lines aren't coming
as your theater burns.
Wine, darling.
Creep up within me,
bitter and sweet
Like the wine that I drink.
Slide down my throat,
to my stomach so eager
To absorb all your poisons,
your blessings,
your heat.
Float to my nostrils,
aromatic and calm
Like the glass before me.
Leave my feet shaken.
Crawl out under me.
Follow rejection,
this purging to clean
the loveliest death,
a wish I have made
To finish the bottle -
inherit your name.
bitter and sweet
Like the wine that I drink.
Slide down my throat,
to my stomach so eager
To absorb all your poisons,
your blessings,
your heat.
Float to my nostrils,
aromatic and calm
Like the glass before me.
Leave my feet shaken.
Crawl out under me.
Follow rejection,
this purging to clean
the loveliest death,
a wish I have made
To finish the bottle -
inherit your name.
Dear:
I've never seen anything as dead as your eyes.
Monster eyes, dripping lids,
red with the thoughts that you keep in your head.
They live in your pupils,
watching me dig -
want to know me,
to hurt me,
break and bend me to fill you.
Close those windows, dear.
Keep those ankles together.
Make your scars connect,
and they match just right.
Keep your windows closed.
Dear:
the light is too bright.
Keep those knives away,
Your skin is too light.
Monster eyes, dripping lids,
red with the thoughts that you keep in your head.
They live in your pupils,
watching me dig -
want to know me,
to hurt me,
break and bend me to fill you.
Close those windows, dear.
Keep those ankles together.
Make your scars connect,
and they match just right.
Keep your windows closed.
Dear:
the light is too bright.
Keep those knives away,
Your skin is too light.
Into the Dark
Please remove your hand from my hand.
Leave when the alcohol
allows you to stand.
Hold onto your dignity,
clothes, and my thoughts
And flee from the doorstep
Into the dark.
Leave when the alcohol
allows you to stand.
Hold onto your dignity,
clothes, and my thoughts
And flee from the doorstep
Into the dark.
this is
this is death.
this is fucking pointless.
this is powerful.
this is running in place.
this is dirty.
this is preparing your place;
this is death.
this is loss.
this is fucking destruction.
this is decay.
this is running fixation.
this is ethereal.
this is resounding your skull;
this is loss.
this is dark.
this is fucking consumed.
this is weak.
this is watching the race.
running in place.
dirty, decaying death.
resounding in your skull:
this is fucking death.
this is fucking pointless.
this is powerful.
this is running in place.
this is dirty.
this is preparing your place;
this is death.
this is loss.
this is fucking destruction.
this is decay.
this is running fixation.
this is ethereal.
this is resounding your skull;
this is loss.
this is dark.
this is fucking consumed.
this is weak.
this is watching the race.
running in place.
dirty, decaying death.
resounding in your skull:
this is fucking death.
begin?
i have been writing a lot lately, and thought a blog might be cool.
cause it's cool for other people, so why not me too?
feel free to read, or not, or comment, or not.
cause it's cool for other people, so why not me too?
feel free to read, or not, or comment, or not.
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