Blood:  its thicker than

water; faster for drowning.

I guess it takes friends.

I am begining to realize that although she was ideal in many ways, that an insane, irrational personality like hers is not one which could add value to my life, and the very nature of her unhealthiness which repels me from her is also the proof as to why I do not believe she will ever change, or grow out of being this way.  I tried so hard to see her redeem herself from the hell she is digging down into, but if my open hand seems like a fist to her, than no matter how I offer it, she will never allow herself to take it- from anyone.  If she is unwilling to change, and also unwilling to live up to her potential, then I have no choice but to remove her from taking up space in my life, so that I can create room for more positive interaction.   I am still focusing too much energy on her, trying to hard to trick myself into thinking she’d come back- and if she did?  Would I take her back after what she’s done?  Nevertheless, the more I wonder what it is she thinks I did, the more I wish she would have spoken to me, or wonder why she acted the way she did- the more I see her as my ideal, my friend, my enemy, the less space I am allowing for people who actually are worth my time, insight and intellect.  I am waiting for her to give me her perspective- and she will never give it, and always blame me for not acknowledging it.  Meanwhile, I could be having actual dialogues with and learning from people I could connect to if I weren’t so focused on being a part of something that doesn’t value me, and does not add value to my life (and doesn’t recognize my interest or investment).

Deepsea, how deeply I fell into you

Now I drown so sweetly, embraced in

your warm hell so completely

Harken to your silence, keep me

safe inside your void

So sorry you defeat me

didn’t you’d be annoyed.

First waking to dust settling on rays of light that must show through a window, baking cells and wearing musk

Smoking mentholated cigarettes, toking coffee and bong rips, yellows, whites, browns and blue

Working on projects made of particles, more coffee, digging the ash, residing to resin and then more hell to catch

More dust, and smoke, the vapors surround and here I am, mellow, sitting dirty on the ground and

Hide the weed, drink coffee, don’t choke, get home from work and smoke, drink beer, more dope, watch dust, drown in fear and frown and hope

I am  choosing to hold out hope

Keep my eyes open, wait for the phone

Cope with the silence, spit it into a bowl:

Take apart the rind, advance the pieces slow

edge it over the side, hang light the size and know

the surface kindly cradles my head, crying on

this truest silence, reassurance, a resemblance

bestowed awkwardly by silence.

The Icarus Project

Sixty-six 23gauge syringes in my buddy Jarrod’s back, with feathers coming out the top of each syringe.  Guess who did all sixty-six?

And now that we have completely become rent asunder unto ourselves,
And now the sword hangs from a golden thread over a silver throne
And now, not now, now
And always not now, always never
Pick it up, dust it off
The aperture of entropy
Vocabulary; I learned all the words I use from women I hated
Barbs on which my tongue caught
now there is only the muscle memory of how my tongue
traced those fruits, caught the water condensing on gems
Soiled, leaving a taste like rubber, tongue corroded the pathways of taste
Necrotized soft palate, dripping with validation
Dripping, spitting your scent blooded, foaming down my chin
Dripping, your sweet vindication, cold, closed, saccharine, sanguine, but
Drop me off on this corner, I can just walk away from here.

Take it by the wrists and shake it off
enjoy it by the ankles and in refined cadence
Find time to regain ominous metaphor
while often gory, each item is best exhibited
dexterous and sullenly drips a horny hair
in here, he cares and can’t and site’s ‘em
you’re there, he’s dear, fears he can’t bear to
caress, much less find the means to put
a notion in his jeans under duress.

As a blind blind draws
and crows amuse themselves on the refuse of others
as ink injects through and through
as oil in milk
and you, fucker?
And me?
Crowley’s clambering shadow
and Xeno’s expert architecture
how droll, and rank
the stink; growling degradation
as blood, as skulls crumbling like dust
as coiling entrails, steaming twinkling waterfall
as curdling food rises to my throat at the thought
And you fucker?
How does the bile taste? The ephemera?
How does it feel to write a poem and smile?
How does it feel to sing and dance and fuck?
How does it feel to snort, smoke, inject?
How does it feel to remain unsatisfied?
And you fucker?
Sit unchained in your easy chair
Sit me sad outside a door, knocking
Sit before a broken typewriter
Sit in the wilderness, in a log, buried in mud
as the dust
and the putrid
and the exhaustion
and you fucker

Kicking dirt off my boots

make it hurt, broken tooth

Climb out the hole,

something’s wrong with my head

I ain’t got no soul

Skullfuck the dead.

Dead girls are easy

they don’t give a shit

pop one in her skull

and slap her around a bit

Diggin the hole is the hardest part

dig up a fresh one, and eat her heart!

Dead bodies, they’re all the same

But I only want what’s in their head

I want to fuck their brains!

Skullfuck the dead

Skullfucking’s easy

it don’t take much skill

pick out a corpse

and go in for the kill

Skullfucking the dead

it’s awesome as hell

Pop your load in a cold one

if you can stand the smell.