Monday, June 7, 2010

oh great i cant get health coverage

cant even bathe most days... it's summer.... fuck it.   get real dirty.  my friend made me take a shower cause i smelled.  i pissed in her shower.  the screen door is fickle.  im feelin pretty acute, i guess i dont even know what that word means, cause my vocabulary is obtusely diminishing.  am i actually turning into an animal?  i woke up in the woods twice this week.  i touched with lights off by your scent.  knew the parts close and spread apart.  kind of felt into you, melted halfway in a bed.  i cant keep drinkin with sleepin pills though.  You also cant take somas with cocaine, you might come down nicely or you might have a heart attack.  i dont care, kill me kill me kill me.  my life is goin out of control and i'm happy for it.  go out like a candle, even the stars are violent....i got till august about.  i go to philly wednesday, thatll be great, see ppl.  and start a buzzband with justin next week, get rich, marry some exotic beauty and than go do heroin with a french prostitute, overdose and die in a hotel.  i cant concentrate on writing, it's shit.  maybe ill post somethn worth readin in the next year or so.

Saturday, June 5, 2010


kayla meet me at the needle exchange

did this shit when i was 11

explained how painting a picture of a tree is creation in practice.
painting is masturbation. i'm in your blood, you in mine.  You sat beneath your
tiny paintings, 20 dollars each, lookin at me and than lookin away.  drinkin a beer sayin "i usually dont drink i like takin pills instead."  your mouth tastin like silver, skin bland like detroit skylines.  your nails painted green thumbing the pulse in your throat.  i left with my friends, they had to walk me to the hospital.

Monday, May 31, 2010

sylvia plath

Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

Sunday, May 23, 2010


praline, masticated and bleeding out the sides of selfish slits.
smiling, comatose, in love, not feeling
Molotov cocktail mountains of mummified orgy, spun webs spilled
out drawers in bedrooms, plumeria spills around air
shaded skin slaps fresh, glistens, shakes in drug withdraw somber sunrise
in the arms of a stranger
spatter spatter, sliding of their skin on yours, 
wet feet on damp bath towels on top wet floors.
the girl says, she says “I am a firestorm of your integral embodiment, I am the palmless christ... I am the anti-eucharist.... the bulimic communion.... take my body, make immortal of my blood.”
...and than to die

He never saw accessories hung so properly around a room in such a disorganized fashion but purposefully and carefully. 
Hats on the corners of bookshelves, shaws draped off framed mirrors and a vanity, beads and pendants hung over light fixtures.
Much unlike last night when the hesitant light fixed itself shaking in tiny rays through the nights aperture.
whether this aperture were the stars or moons or windows, but the outlines of contents barely seen, could only be smelled.
the musk of books, dirty clothes, tepid air, rawhide, wet leather, putrescent skin? 


he took her hand she lead him through the path of what was unknown,
he had a match in a cigarette pack, he thought of lighting one but did not.
“Is this him?” he said.
She fell forward, buried her face as soon as hitting the wet sheets, she buried her face down as hard as she could.
“Well.... I will need a shower before I go, when it’s morning”
This is what was said last night.
Her body said you can bathe in me.  Flooded by now of thought deceased.  Horribly religious was her mother and her mother before her.  
vases shaped like a venus figure made her feel a warmth for women that her mother could never extent beyond a serpentine smile.  Not seen now, she knew they were there, the shards kicked under the bed even in the day.


Like an effigy, the very air as life could not be heard from the lack of its future embraces with the wild as it drains out those who live within forested domain.
Crumbs of indulgences spilled at the tug of every sheet.
The summer felt to come just than as the wooded ambitions seemed to melt with the heat.
dusted piano keys swept over his eyes, bone or ivory?  The same thing.
something she used to play well, perhaps just grew bored with.
they were white in the nighttime in the morning they seeped with a vacant intention of welcoming something.  Taken between lips, vertical and than to horizontal.  sparks rain from as high as telephone wires.   she was dissected, split apart into pieces.  The light did come in the window.  He washed still unwrapping himself of her skin.  He noticed the animal bones that slept on her floor.  Piles of packages of sweets.  Hair and blood and gold teeth fillings.  He noticed the peculiar organization of her sparse trinkets and her hats, scarves, purses, and lockets.  He lit the match for a palmless christ.
the weight of wind. a soul of nothing. scavenged for the mask of a body of a boy.
i am death.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

eh hahaha i am a piece of shit

Saturday, May 15, 2010

i rushed away to my car... had somethin waiting inside of it.
i used to be attracted to somethin i suddenly wasn't
thought it was different.
still in love with a ritually based concept
animal furs
my friend and i just talked about you and starred
you got a nervous smile
you never know what we said.
nothin could bring me back to how it was before
it's always misinterpreted though
which just makes you even more stupid
i dunno
im real comfortable in knowing that
i cant be to clear on here
cause itd be misinterpreted
but im comfortable in knowin that.

we wished that girl would die
and she did the next day
came back as a butterfly or some shit

Friday, May 14, 2010


went to a doctor for the first time in years
im not allowed to take sleepin pills for a week
people tell me i look like im dyin finally
...well.... good i guess
oregon is nice this time of year
out at M gallery tonight,
secret light&night party.
i could be a davide sorrenti model
but he's dead
do u still wanna meet me in chinatown next week?
i want an armsling
i want people to leave me alone
you know i dont want attention or need the friends that you do to feel good about yourself
still meet me in chinatown
and smoke with me
and you can make up your mind when everythin collapses on you
like clouds collapsin raindrops on your checkered burberry snood

You’ll never fumigate the demons
No matter how much you smoke
So just say you love me
Three good reasons
And I’ll throw you the rope

You don’t need it

Cos you are the survivor
Of more than one life
And you’re the only lover I had
Who ever slept with a knife

But you’re my Judy Garland
Oh Just like me you’ve never really had a home
But I’m not Tony Hancock baby
Until the dawn
We’ll stone the crows
We’ll stone the crows
We’ll stone the crows

And you see I’ve brought you flowers
All collected from the Old Vic Stage
Well I’ve been sitting here for hour’s baby
Just chasing these words
Across the page

Cos you’re my Waterloo
I’ll be your Gypsy Lane
I’m so glad we know just what to do
And exactly who’s to blame

And you’re my Waterloo
I’ll be your Stanley Park
Well I’m so glad we know just what to do
And no ones left
Stumbling around
Fumbling around
Tumbling around
In the dark

Always in the dark

You’re my Waterloo
I’ll be your Calvary
Well I’m so glad we know just what to do
And everyone’s gonna be happy
Everyone’s gonna be happy
Everyone’s gonna be happy

Of course

-the libertines

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

i was with you in the back of a building where trucks go ├ętoile de mer
you wouldnt stop scratching your foot

i keep stabbing myself in the arm with a broken cross pendant
im gonna miss both my cats, ones already dead buried in the back yard of my parents' house
thanks for meetin me last night, i enjoyed out time together you forced me to grow up
but that was your purpose and to get me into leanord cohen to a horrible excess for awhile
shit fuck cunt bitch whore
bikes stolen, cars towed
dreams keep returning
they say "i want you babe"
whiskey introduced me to alot of people that night
i say i want my best friend and ill stick with them
like a table and an ashtray
a stupid grin on someone's face
cause they think theyre gonna save me

shit devils fuckin with me like crazy
inside out skin 
666 was written all over us on the stage
crows...i hear crows...its not even fuckin it?
fuck compassion

Tuesday, May 4, 2010


take dorito bags thrown down by skinny legs into a shopping cart
telekinesis fastest thoughts 
of where light starts. 
the word 'recyclable' drinkin itself from the clouds.
cause heaven is our trashcan now.

you were the baby in her womb
she replaced it with no one new but that's not as if, not to ensue,
crows didn't shadow midnight but on my face she was tattooed,
and it was okay cuz that day i crossed your name off my shoe

blue gum glued the rest to the street where youll end

stepped past solar trash compacters threw a bracelet on the ground
liquid skin dipping in and out soft and quiet or was it loud?
can you see it in my eyes before it comes out my mouth
why do you lie about not liking crowds?

im a werewolf at night i bathe in street light cocoons of artificial sight
wrapped in your jail house  of pocket filled ripped plastic bags
 licked the insides on the way back on the train

i remember

you wrote a love note in the dust of an antique table, smeared the must. i wasnt able to see, somethin about 'us'
you wanted this but were broke,
the table or my corny jokes?
you know, a river of words don't believe in no happiness.
it's like nothin flows out when you got that kinda heat down in the south.  ghosts blanket my hair raised in cool flashes of death and its loneliness, grabbed your breast


i like warm milk to sleep
you can microwave that easy
she said
'anyone can be a stripper
and zombie tattoos are dumb
why does everyone
want to be the same person'

attention craved diamond face, a million little mirrors reflectin back your legs as ur hands sway forth as you pace and figure out if he was really worth any work. 
just a romantic idea, it's cool to have different stories to different people you can pour ur lemonade onto like scat porn or the truth 
Pocohauntus on her month long cruise.
did he like you or just use your words

when you say

'that's why im moving North to where people are focused on real things like money and divorce.
wealth as a means 
to buy my fancy antique tables and nice things'
 but I mean
I'm not a starving child, i dont pretend I just dont eat
the difference between isolation and solitude
are these the kind of things that get used against me and you?

under my feet, i step on every crack i think
if i could avoid superstition and demise
i stopped your fan with my mind
ive studied black magic at nighttime 
studied aloneness 

sent wolves to watch in windows and claw 
at the bars of hospital rooms and voices talk
to me i know it's god
got bit by a dog 
saying that i am not
i'm just a marabout
wiped my runny snotty snout on your shirt
nothin really hurts
just nothin heals 
heal like a dog
fur like a beached whale
cut myself like a fresh cut lawn

my armpit embraced death
or a spot on my neck
more death. dead dead dead

raise the sun up to the east i don't care where the sun will hit my feet
it's almost nighttime
like a sun dial is set on
when i die

i wanna kill myself
been thinkin about it all the time
rainbow prism in the sky
pictures on my phone

clock in the sky
have everythin to myself when i die
tumbleweed on city street
it looked like someone pulled out some bitches weave

you asked what's freedom but more choices to ruin your life?
i guess i said if i had a choice I wouldnt have ever been alive
i got slapped by you.
you said livin was beautiful,
you were once a baby in a womb

but so were you

in the grass i leaned
rubbed off the letters of tags
of tornados i dreamed
drugged, beaten, dragged

alive to just die

Thursday, April 15, 2010

i hate the internet, im done

i cant stand people who try to look tragic.  i like people when they try to just look ok.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

separated at birth

Posing in front of distant city lights, deadened wood hands reach up to furtive shades of visionary oblivion.
Encompassing abated emotions, aggregated beneath the sound of feral stars. Among menageries of clandestine heartbeats, posterior paw prints and sleeping breath. It peers out from distant hills, we share with each other, phlegmatic in our interest. Dead. Arrant animals through the lustrous brush, we tiptoed through your kitchen at night coming through the delicate screen doors. We crawled into your farm equipment to cultivate our selfish lack of reason. Slipped past the daunted houses squeezing themselves closer to one another as if ahsamed, they were looking down not looking at our eyes.
Moaning train passed in front or behind, the sound carried to us from years ago, from places no one knows.  Strange beings emitting sounds intermittently passing, considering limit seemingly ceremonious, as such were distant.
I touched the planets and arranged them around, caressing as a passion and we created the shade and the trains kept under oceans forever, smitten with cabalistic vibrations hunched forth by slabs of rock that set on my soul among whale and krill far from any shore.

Hold your claws within me for I no longer suffer.  I have found myself scattered about the roots of thistle and wild garlic and even outside basement windows where I watched, my stare never extended emotion, my dysorexia never intrigued for I have found my love within your soft fur.
I have found it with a complete neglect for the dwellings within that forbade our wandering with discernment. Found purpose with a complete disregard for them.  Found warmth from the fire.  Now we learn how to make shade.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

"i have no one to talk to.  i'm running out of options.  i only have two of them left.  The gun or the swimming pool, the gun or the swimming pool."

bar talk

explain beauty in one endless sentence.  subject and predicate, adverb and faucet water.  
brush of horse hair, ran wild with earthy breath now dipped in paint on canvas, 
green to deaden the blush.  
gauche, face laden...patterned skin through shades of printed windows in dusty bars fading,
as afternoon nears evening, and dialogue loses its usual cadence.  
wonder made damp, paltry, disguised,
over in the corner by the jukebox machine, reflectin’ solemn eyes.  
crippled among cripple is done, I guess they're crows are they? 
band of instinct, as brothers are one.  
one among apart and running water runs.  
rising death in orange set sun.
kitchen appliances pushed as perimeter to white counter tops, faucet trickle, 
is that red wine in a jug among tin pots its contents in weight fickle?
is that murder outside the windows, a sea of drown cat calls caught.
in the branches of swaying buoys with the wind balanced and taut?
never christened at birth or there foreafter, I love a lot still 
but empty as chalice under wood cross, shunning hands from shaw.  
dirty as clean as wine in water, dreamland of death, love and war, cannon fodder.
secular as wine cork to undo and thus open,
rock from roman, from brushy thistle and footstep from cave
after purity, after betrayal,  after resurrection, after three days,
to drain from unplugged ocean,
to take away the waves.
i am dead and I don't care, placement or shape
take me from earth,
jewelry from purse
from stillbirth.
how waterfall over jutting rock cleft,
living life left or trickle of rightly darkened death sets.
all the beauty gone in the exhale of one endless,
subject, predicate, adjective, breath.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

it's not the weather that sticks us together

    filled with dead things compiled in your red bedroom from your bad dreams.  On your vanity you left fake eyelashes waving. Your bathroom was my birdcage. I think about you in the shower sometimes and i forget it all soon right down that drain that took a day to drain. Cleaner and dirty towel, lay on the bed like six dolls, spread you from wall to wall, when I first met you I threw up a lot. I always say to much with my hands. Together we accelerated the blood flow that fell from clouds.  We melted muscle tissue fell away from hearts.  Wouldn't you die for something innocent and scratch perfect skin for life?
I've been receiving radio broadcasts through my teeth again.  All my delayed reactions are just impersonations of my mom as she asks.  I say Im not completely hopeless because I still hide smoking when I visit my parents, through the basement window and outside of existence.
So to smoke, I can go to a bar.
Delectation measured in spoiling tides tangled in my thoughts bludgeoned figures of crime life.  idioms pertained to wet mouths, half empty wallets in full bars blundered.... insidious... does he fuck you twice instead of once a night?  Some girl dancin in front of me, me making sure I look hot and lookin for trouble.
You always wanted that and now you got it all the time.  I wanted to eat big macs and then lie, sayin I was to tired, I wasn't tired, I just wanted to eat big macs, yeah lets eat big macs.

tan pontiacs  by  convict gypsy a poetic expression in song.
-We live in a flat in the ghetto, watchin you smoke crack out a broken window, on the other side of the tracks shot a rainbow I can't turn my back now im in love. im dumb so how should I know? Right between there and we're both smoking crack so how should I know? We live in a shack on the top floor, our porchlights glow beneath the locked door, your sweetness poured out your pores with fragrance beads, generic perscriptions and bitter coffee we drown next to our tiny sea shore.  And any guys id chase away unless its for your cash and I swear we'll do you know?  We live in a shack outside a town. I love you in the sack...if I got your back how should I know?
if you sleep in my bed promise me that instead
we will sail sunk ships below Zethures's pull
choose to believe god has a plan but I don't know if this is what he meant

sorry my pictures are not as cool as my girlfriends.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

channel , brush stroke, i am death and I am painted on
like breaths of smoke from winter coats over frozen lawns
rebellion only lasted  from night till frosted windows, crept dawn
rubbed your scattered hair, gripped and matted till i heard  you yawn
in a dream you seem to leave memory on pressured cloth
innate beauty is in you, it’s not something that you choose or not
so novels stream out your mouth like all that weight you’d lose
write and write behind closed doors till i dont recognize you.
tiny birds explode to stars the further they're from me
flyin in the morning space and on top canopy
my idea of what i want is more simple than you say
but stronger still like quaalude pills, so it could kill everything
but also pain it makes you rain across window edges too
i dont think i can do the hospital again....
an noone has to know about it
how tiptoes tip

....all the way to Brighton, MI

Monday, February 8, 2010

all my pets are dead... where'd the paw prints come from?

            its blank how it is to look out a window for an hour.  there’s stuff goin on but blank.
and how could someone understand that?  it’s vapid, it’s vague, it doesn’t make sense.
you cant be blamed for doing things wrong when the person who’s blaming you sets you up for failure.  People set themselves up for failure and so all they can do is blame themselves.  Fallin into some vivid, violent, still life of apathy works.  It’s scary as hell when your visual senses are heightened around you, maybe you can also smell real well the night that came in with you through the door.  objects and the way things move without movement, when you take in the actual placement of things being reality.  An empty pack of cigarettes on the night stand, a silver cross pendant broken in half hangin off a lamp shade,  red aerosol can of  antiseptic spray, bag on the floor, markers, a space heater that click when it’s not turned on, i’m not turned on, a guitar, a typewriter from 1935, clothes.  Everything mundane is sharp as a razor now and as sterile.  just makes me think of cold white bathroom tiles.  I guess because I relate sterile and cold.  You could relate doctors’ offices to both.  So when nothin with a sharp edge seems piercing enough, when it makes your stomach move weird for a split second,  you wonder, at least I wonder, how it’d be to see a razor or broken glass.  So I go and break open a disposable razor and hold it in my hand for a couple minutes.

       I want someone to go to who will always be honest and good to me.  Something that makes me feel good no matter what, and when that constantly holds itself from you no matter what the reason whether based on double standards or you’re the one who needs to realize some rotten perception of what’s real...besides all of that, wouldn’t you move on.  Logic has no place in nature, i guess it’s just instinct, anyone basing life off of logic seem to be more dishonest and hurt creation than most.   How can anyone ever expect that anyone can give them that?  Is it because it seems so close sometimes if it wasn’t for say one or two things or aspects of behavior or aspects of a relationship.  What makes me weary of human existence is everyone always justifies what they do in there head to much.  I really never felt I had to because I truly never thought I did anything wrong in the way of affecting another person or functioning within dishonesty.... i have not had to be dishonest ever unless it’s just to circumvent petty situations, drama that has no part in the whole scheme of things if anything should be taken seriously at all.  In the process of growing up all I’d have is myself to rely on, especially if my basis is past experience.  Maybe that’s my justification for thinkin nothin I do is ever wrong?
         People are happy with what they think makes them happy, until they get bored with it and decide they want something new, this stunts someone from ever experiencing real happiness or at least recognizing it if they ever do.  Well life’s not a movie and the people who watch you will probably get annoyed and put somethin else in after a while. How could I expect that when I’m loyal to my, i guess, tempestuous pursuit I dunno,  of life or death?  mundane words seem so vivid, so tomorrow it’ll all just sound like shattered glass.  You can’t talk to me and have amazing and in depth conversations where we’re both like “holy shit”, though because you're not afraid to offend other people, through that draws you closer to other people who really seem to understand I guess... but I found out it’s mostly all fake.  Unless .... well.... well, you can't make me talk putting me on the spot and when someone naturally wants to talk and express things you cant interrupt and get mad making boundaries on what certain people can or can't say because of who you make them up in your mind to be.  Unless... Well....

       There’s alot of snow outside.  The east coast got really slammed.  I’m annoyed I got all my records stolen.  I’d could listen to Neil Young’s heart of gold but I don’t have any Neil Young on my computer.  My mom made me coffee today.  She has this weird habit of lacing the coffee she always makes with nutmeg or cinnamon and I hate it.  Today she didn’t do that with the coffee and served it to me while staring out the bay window in the living room.  It felt blank.  I feel blank so much, I think it has to be a phase because it’s not something I’m used too.  When I was sixteen I was skateboarding with my pack back than.  The four of us, we got kicked out of the school’s yard for skateboarding, it was prohibited.  The police officer was a dick.  After back talking under our breath we trailed each other out to the back streets, we were thirsty and we were on our way to Subway for drinks.  We cut in back of a local bank office and at the end of the parking lot was this steep brilliant hill.  It stretched down shooting through an intersection of a dirt road.  We raced down it earlier that day, except I went slow the first time.  My friend Chris, Chris says, “ This time don’t go so slow Jady, you fuckin pussy!”  I defended myself against my three friends explaining how I didn’t want to get hit by a car.  Again, Chris remarked, “ Cars have brakes.”

We raced.  The four of us.  I was winning.

I got to the intersection first, I looked to my left, I woke up between two tires of a red pickup truck.  I got up and walked on my leg which I heard crunching as it drug behind me.  I had a “mild” concussion and the fibula and tibia of my leg were shattered.  The policeman who kicked us out of the school came and confiscated our skateboards.  Chris felt bad.  Matt brought me magazines in the hospital.  Ever since than I’ve gone blank for no reason for maybe thirty seconds at a time.  I was told I’d walk with a limp for the rest of my life.  I walk fine.  So I’ve always gone blank for no reason, I forget what I’m talking about or forget someone’s name.  The policeman who was mean to me and my friend’s that day was killed about three years later in the line of duty, i think he was hit by a motorcycle, it was on the news.  I don’t know what happened to the kids I used to be friends with, one of them is married I think.  But anyway, this has to be a phase because now I’m going blank all the time.  I’m staring out windows while drinking coffee to much.  

      I’ll listen to The Smith’s meat is murder album instead.  There are certain things that make me comfortable and not so afraid of myself.  The Smiths being one, they never make me sad when I listen to them.  I drew a picture of a woman giving birth to a baby and the baby is coming out and stabbing her with a knife.  Stupid... i’m goin into the window for a cigarette instead of just starin at it.  It’s morning and I can see things out of it now, I see white, a tree covered in white,  the sky is so many different similar shades that it doesn’t matter, right?  It shouldn’t be thought about, right?  I want to just unload a bunch of shit here.  I don’t feel well at all.  Never do I really give myself so much credit as to think a collective of minds, one mind, that would seek mine out to show me empathy, sympathy.... I don’t know, understanding?  I feel like I have somethin I’d wanna say besides my coffee has gone cold, it’s been sitting here since yesterday.  but I don’t really.  My mind is lost.  I’m boring.  There is nothing to find out about me.  No key.   Not lovable.  I’m not interesting.  And noone will really miss me when I die.

im bad at bloggin

could be stranded in leaf beds
could be caged in dark rooms
where no one would suffer
except the front page news.
so what is dead writing and what’s it used for?
i cant talk clearly when you stop me in mid thought
a few words will dangle but most they will drop.
nothing scatters themselves under couches as well
as i’d ever want.

Friday, February 5, 2010

help me

If I had the motivation at 6am on the dot to reply with any kind of motive, any coheirent response at all, it would greatly be my pleasure. I lay here pondering the objective of what you have sent me. I to have transformed my lonlinss into a great number of feelings and recreation. One of those also being obsessive masturbation, however I do this in front of my vanity to see I am the only one who can truley fuck me in such a wretched scenario. Currently I have found solace in my isolation, I feel safe and comfortable...could this be some sort of a defense of the mind? Is this what leads the "artists" to produce such works derived from obscure states of the mind which are secluded by "normal" brain activity and response. The response I speak of is that from daily human contact, the contact that perhaps you and I seem to lack for the time being. Perhaps these are our own personal dilemnas caused by actions we should be held to account. In any case whether we're efflicted with this from outside sources or it be self-induced is irrelevant. In short, does this lonliness cause our minds to become exorbitant minds? Is this a way of our own bodies compensating for the things we lack, some sort of consulation? Is it perhaps complete opposite, a punishment? Are our own minds magnanimously attributed to our solitude? Will we grow and flourish within ourselves and will that be enough? Are our minds just magnanimous of these undefined feelings and moods under these specific natures or we have a choice whether to suffer or not? Be good or bad, crazy or sane? Is it left up to us to do, with what our lonliness has provided? Can you help your mind being flooded with anything else? Is apathy the best escape from this cruel and torturous path, or is it the easy way out? Apathy, the drug that renders us stagnent whether it's ill intended or not. Are we just being masochists? Will this lonliness become such a friend, that when the outside world comes to us with arms wide open, we stab it in the fucking throat? Could we be so lucky to attain all these options, have them be possabilities? Or unlucky. The only question that will come clear from all the questions I ask you and myself, is that what path is the easiest way out from all this. The possabilities are among many, although in this life so solitary we usually pick the easiest way out. As it looks now it seems that your apathy is getting the best of you as is my comfort with being miserable and alone getting the best of me. Is masochism an indicator of false apathy or is it truth? With this my friend, I ask you this one last question. If you would turn that blade of apathy away from your own stomach and slit every fucking wrist of every single hand that reaches out, slaughtering every man, woman and child that approaches toward you and I with complete love and acceptance, if you do this, will we be happy? If the savageness of apathy still embodies you and you have no feeling or care, then I hope you turn the knife on yourself and bleed your lost aspirations through your goddamned throat. I hope you die so I can be happy. I will be happy to see us both die alone.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

school shooting, keylatch kids, memory association in weather patterns.


pontificate with dexterity 
graphic slur, finger crosses, neonate of earth's lava
protection and flesh
holy stigmata
grey sky days at 2 pm and a spring breeze, rainy and cold
Grata Recordatio
clouds sweat above midwestern highschool on a tuesday.
oh lord,  waves broke of red, against lockers and recede around head
and from like cavern's end
long coats, metal seashells
the tv's on.
grown up to enough to see the irony of smoking in bed inside your mom's house.
a tiny fur child licking ceruse off the walls,
school shooting, immaculate wounds flushed out in precision.
whoever is out in the kitchen, they're doing the dishes.
the church don't comment
the black shrouds are dishonest
the police station is hung with christmas lights this time of year
well it's goddamn surely September , not surly December
but if you're coked out than you wont care.
don't believe in yourself
cause than it wont matter if you do it well
dont believe in sound
cause than there will never be nothin to write down.


i was chased up to find an ashtray to put it all out in
i came into being when i found one
walkin down the illy lit street with your face
frozen to the ground, my thoughts glued below your waist
i said song names before the songs even played
you're eyes got fuzzy, i'm sure you thought it was date rape
but i put a flower in your hair.
tried to leave you, animals without tears
i walked further backwards from my friend's bathroom mirror
just to get from myself,
but now the pictures cluttered with me and everything else
white chipped walls, kitchen table, cluttered shelves

floss, books, midnight and whatever's in between
night caps, ramen, Warhole prints, and clean teeth
dirty towles, face lotion, geriatrics.
cracked face, first grey hair, heart attack, and prophylactics.
so i tried to escape you 
in different states and different perfumes 
how sentimental does someone have to be
to chase away all the things he wants to keep
i wanted to keep on if it wasnt for all of the police
i wanted to keep on if we weren't like migrate geese...

i think this city will eventually have its heart broke
disease and politics, take the grandsons they're bestowed
all to never  really have a happy life
so i smoke in bed for them cause they'd never try.

to get away with the things i get way with
i'll cheat my way through life, i dont really need to win.
just take what i'm given, a wooden stick to beat on,
find you water, touch, give birth to and lean on.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

the coffee stain in the middle of Monroeville, PA

    I'm looking for old notebooks of mine.  Notebooks filled front and back, written while in seventh grade, notebooks filled under telephone wires, hidden behind brick exterior next to paper thin walls.  my next door neighbors cut the wires on the laundry machine so they could steal all the quarters and they did steal the quarters.  I smelled the mint that crept down the hallway and under my door until it stopped three days later.  Then I heard yelling every night after and felt it my duty to inform the police of it, since the yelling was coming from a man I had caught on several occasions peering through the keyhole of my apartment.

        It took over the next two months for the landlord to have anyone fix the washer and dryer, so during that time I had to walk my laundry baskets three blocks, down piss drenched streets, dodging the drug dealers among others just asking for money to a crumbling brick hole that sat in between a tattoo parlor and a butcher's shop.  This dismayed me due to the fact that the right glass window of the laundromats' front was split in two, the split panel was held together with duct tape on either sides.  You stayed in the laundromat while your clothes were being cleaned and you didn't dare leave.  It didn't matter, soaking wet clothes would be stolen.  It was here at the Pitcairn laundromat I met a prostitute named Brenda.  I hated Brenda.  Two teeth somehow hung in between her scabbed lips.  She carried a plastic grocery bag for a purse where she'd pull loose cigarette butts from.  Brenda was some where in her mid thirties to mid forties.  It was Brenda who would ask me incessantly if I'd like to have a girl swallow my cum for ten dollars or if I liked to party we could just go there if I had a place... The way Brenda put it I suppose was actually not as overt I suppose, but the suggestive nature of her connotations was grotesque and I had to keep myself from impaling her with the nubby feet of the plastic chairs lined against the wall.  I couldn't find one without gum and brown globby smudges all over it anyway.
         Brenda would follow me back to the outside of my apartment, the whole time talking nonsense.  At first this was exciting and amusing to hear her inebriated rambling but it became annoying after a week.  My clothes began to pile up and my apartment began to stink because less and less was I feeling the effort of walking three blocks in that area for clean underwear was worth it.  As a result I avoided Brenda until one night, when my cat 'Blackbean' escaped out into the hallway of my apartment building as I was bringing groceries in from my car.  So at the end of this narrow hallway with tacky red carpet, the kind at old hotels, there was an open screen door to a patio on one side and adjacent to that the other tenant's apartment door.  The hallway smelled like mint again, the smell was leaking out from under the man's door.  On the patio was Brenda smoking a cigarette.  Well since the patio door was left open Blackbean ran through it and into the night.  And Brenda the hooker says, "fuckin cat".
Music was playing loud in the apartment of my crackhead neighbor and as Brenda turned to come in, still leaving the patio door open our eyes met.  I went ballistic.  My cat was gone because she left the patio door open, my neighbor's hooker that wasn't even supposed to be in my building.  I yelled and called her  a 'fucking careless' and I called her 'stupid' and I called her "fat", but I don't remember ever calling her a whore.  She began to cry dramatically, while rolling her eyes and flailing her arms.

    "oh everything is my fault," she said.  Brenda says, "I'm friends with the biggest men, who will come in here, they do not care....they do not care."

    I kind of translated what she was goin on about.  The thing was... it scared me and I believed her.  All these people were crazy.  It was Brenda now who was fuming, livid, patches of old makeup cracked around the rough patches of skin on her face.  Little curly hairs at the top of her head seemed to have been fried off, her hair was brown at the roots and looked singed around the perimeters of her face.  As if her face had caught on fire in some horrible meth lab explosion.  I was dumbfounded watching her go, I thought she was going to charge after me.  I thought she was going to kill me.  Brenda slammed the door to the neighbor's apartment.  The apartment that smells like bathroom cleaner.  I was frozen, I made my way down the stair to go get the last of my groceries from my car parked across the street in the community parking lot that sat next to the community park and baseball field.  My hands full of tidy cat and ramen, Giant brand ice cream sandwiches, my hands full of apples, tomatoes, speghettios, well all that hits the ground when Brenda runs down the stair passed me while screaming.  At the top of the stairs I hear my neighbor's voice threatening her with 'ass kickings' or something.  I dunno, crackhead fight.  well Brenda, she runs out onto the street in front of a car, which hits her.  Her body spins around, just like an ice skater, double axel, triple maybe?  It was almost the most graceful thing I had ever seen in person.  Brenda hits the ground, the cars  tires cease jerking its metal body back and forth.  She stands up, Brenda does, as quickly as she hit the ground and just kept running.  Past the parked cars and through the baseball field, into the silhouetted trees beyond and disappeared into the night.

       Living here was getting hit by a car just like Brenda did.  And I kept on running too.  That's what I had to do.  It was such a great metaphor.  I found my cat Blackbean and I moved out two months later, which violated my lease.  So I called the cops on my neighbor one last time the day I moved out, because he was playing Insane Clown Posse to loudly.  That didn't work, apparently the lease I signed determined my willingness to live next to crackheads.  So with three more months to not pay on the lease and Blackbean, we left.  Blackbean ran away fifteen months later in july.  I started writing again after that, that's where these notebooks pickup.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

a love poem to my lover (suicide note 22)

plummet down colors like plumb fading
in holes aqua midnight forest dwelling bones dislocating
i had the time of my life making love to you
i had the time of my life making love to you
i read backwards the lord’s prayer to bring vision
in my candle’s flame to tell of solomon’s wisdom
i played smearing blood in cult like ritual
on the flat surface of the painted white barstool
i drank myself to death in my bedroom to see you
when i closed my eyes newscast, music review, movie preview
water my pallet....fuck...i’m choking on something
my chalice treats me well like a girlfriend in an altruist spirited so kindly to one suffering
i dont know god, i dont know god, i dont know go, i dont know god,
but i hear he’s really promisin
to end up big with lots of followers
ive wrote him alot of letters, im sure he cant answer them all.
so i’m good, my faith is still fine, if i got a bottle of tennessee whiskey by my side
i'm waiting for you to get ready, im watching you put your makeup on, sitting on the toilet
watching your eyelashes fall up and down, feet on the ground, tiptoes up and down
i'm sure you're asleep so how can we do these things
if i sleep my whole life and you keep leaving me,
but it's over and over
suppurating at my mouth, foaming, erupting, boiling, and loving
magma of depths within rocks leak out clefts
prayers take form like spilled oil cans
trickle out from entwined hands
the picture of your face in smoke around wherever my insides land.
i am no separate from the forest without paws just digits and command.
like old bearded captain rolling over brine and gray sea to sand
barrel of rum to continue and find
instead fermented maize and rye
the sky open like the depths i have conquered as a piece of purpose like a pawn
salted wounds  would no longer fester to long
to break through grassy brush from midnight to dawn
to just find you however far i could go
in dream, in witchcraft, in god's plan, in song, in sand,
in dirty converse, death, in sea, forest, in sky and land.

i will kill myself if you don't love me

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

writing used to be my life (suicide note #12)

originally written 07/07/07

I stopped smoking for the last hour of my life after the ashtray on my coffee table floated it's contents through my window's blind. Are they blind? Do I leave them spread for you to see, I mean I fucking masturbate on my couch and I'm to lazy to camoflauge my love sequences i make to myself, I wonder if you watch me from that top window? It's not intended, it's not i swear, it's like when I come home drunk and talk to myself real loud and just forget to close the windows....In my army trenches in the mouths of third party scavangers. Do you get pissed I run my vaccume cleaner at four a.m., here inside my little heaven? I think I heard that once, "what is that kid in apartment three on?" I dunno, a whole lot of you shouldn't be giving a damn. I skipped spots for sentimental reasoning. The L to Brooklyn is my dictated cavern of a poverty stricken mind. Standing in a state of inertia in a bathtub full of lungs in my shower of alcohol withdraw to the cold arms of love to the, "cops is on so shut the fuck up!"

(...It's 2:33 and what am I doing... I dunno...what do you want me to do? Ah you're so dirty. Let's drink wine...not white... red and watch some french films.)

Well neighbor, my cat ran away so he wont run into your aparmtent anymore and I even got some flowers and put them on the fire escape to be more like you. I mean I'm better than you but I have this thing where I try doing things that relate to normal people. It's like how my mom wanted me to be a doctor and so I started playing doctor on you, my past, until I accidently cut you and that makes me even more fucked up but I know that and you, YOU're sick, cause you liked that about me. I could care less you're gone. Why do you want me to be a mess, was it cute?
The only time I've belonged in this city so far was in the pathway of your observation, screaming "Here I am, here I am, meet me on rooftops, meet me on rooftops! Meet me as high as telephone wires." I hate when I get looks in bars but you both looked at me like a memory, ha. maybe a cemetry... maybe like I was the modern day christ crucified on a telephone pole. I dropped my halo like my drink, so, it was alright.
I'm ostentatious throughout a great deal of realms but the existance I extend is pretty subjective and at times.. likley bias. Yeah, I'm black and white... Why doesn't this entry need to be long?...Cause some things arn't meant to be long.
Yeah, you became perfection but you'll always be the ashtray in my smoking section.

remember that night we got caught smoking pot on your rooftop and had to run from the cops, i was never in love with my life as much as i was then.
I have no advice, cause noone takes advice.

"The bourgeoisie has stripped of its halo every occupation hitherto honoured and looked up to with reverent awe. It has converted the physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science, into its paid wage labourers."-taken from the communist manifesto