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.


NOW YOU GOT A CAREER, THE KIND WHERE YOU GET AN AIDS TEST EVERY YEAR.
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 ..how 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.

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

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.

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 circumstances...do 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.

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

masticate:

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.

aftertaste:

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.

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.

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

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

rara avis rara avis siva arar sive arar

transubstantiate, ive always been inside you, felt the inside of your openings where light hits.
touched your childhood through car doors. the insides of your ribs, the determination of your heart,
the indifference of your soul. drug myself in your wet hair. i baptized you in a pool, would make love to you on a bar stool. i slid down your throat and populated in your hand.




WHAT AM I???


i am crazy...


i'm going to start a youtube channel informative broadcast that slams Glenn Beck for the 'pencil dick asshole' and megalomaniac he is.  and i'm going to wear crazy outfits as well...becuz i'm crazy.  who'd watch me?

im a demon>logged out.er

your dick always comes out when we're watchin a movie.
well....no shit.
I havn't got to the part yet where I can show you new, cool and interesting films yet without trying to unfold your arms and legs, jump onto you... who cares.
I can't even write what I wanted to.  There's no spark.

today

lanugo

with such vivid detail i googled your name and everything about you

i held liquid trees in my hand and said prayers

we were already in love but i still traced the ending in my head a hundred times

i carried hard burdens buried like the skies bones, heavy like latex

it rained wolf’s teeth and i listened to nina simone in the car, windows down and sound the fuck up.

painted juxtaposition by the candle-lights emissions

melted chipped faces, we were the future of ourselves

like fitting rooms in department stores, do they care you dont wear underwear?

if  there was only one way out how would we get out?

the other day i glanced to see who you were texting,

i’m such a creep.

why is the news the only thing on?  i keep looking for your face on it.

ill put the coffee on before i go out and smoke, that way it’ll be done

by the time i come back and i’ll be cold.

you know i’m drinking coffee to stay up late and talk to you?

that’s how i stay up for everything now, coffee.

i’m really in love with life

i’m really in love with life

i was screaming that at the top of my lungs

and than people started lookin at me.

and if you’re in love with an idea, you run with it, if it works

like only news tv works.

...oh thank god, a muppets’ christmas is on.

holy shit...can someone tell me if it should be ‘muppet’s’ or ‘muppets”?

is muppets one entity or is it a plural... i guess kermit is one muppet.

haha, muppet that’s a funny word.

you know you watch me when i’m sleeping...

i watch you in match smoke.

and sometimes i want to rip you out of your skin.

in a figurative way, a loving way.

ice caverns moved back and forth my vision or marian apparition

kermit has a joke, kermit has a joke

i hear crows c’awin....c’aw, c’aw, c’awn.

there stacks of dead corn everywhere,

ive logged into your facebook over and over a hundred times already..

just kidding

mornig

gook

class are almost over.
i feel like i'm back in my element, just not in ideal environment
ive been thawed out, like a fuckin drug withdraw or something.
ill ravage myself till im barley alive somewhere breathable though.
i crave to feel nighttime again.
left the stench of something or other in my hair
my armpits smelled like whiskey in the morning.
an overt form of disassociation from people
i am free to roll around the dirt, street,
rub my face in decaying flesh.
there was a can of beer thrown at that boy's head because he called me a pathetic lush
car ride was long always.
i like the bumps or lights, bottle in the passenger seat where you should be,
cigarettes on th floor in place of ur feet.
who thought mixing sparks and vodka was a good idea?
it's not, it's what the clouds intended.
we played checkers with them.
why did "that" girl always end up cryin?
she got us stuck in manhattan because i didn't know how to get back to brooklyn.
at montrose I punched someone who tried to steal my wallet, i ran after that.
i do not meet new people
i will find a family, we will burrow beneath leaves.
i dont really know how to expres what i want to express with words.
i culd do with my hands though.
throug subtle dress
i dont care about makin anythin, it's god providin me with
movements to pull apart my body and destroy it for
esoteric dabbling.
it's divine intervention, it's wind... it's carelessness
drainin carafes of wine.
im not to be blamed for i dont try.
 course through where im meant to be placed
carefully carryin me to the truest meaning i can trace.
it's wind, blinding wind, cooling wind, persuasive wind.
im confined to my jar again
in such a free sense
the only problem is it's winter.
just gravitate where ive walked or been chased
on top the skies nude thrown down slipped off white lace.
while preserved in ice, i'm now preserved in ice.

whatever is happening to my head is making me feel like shit... maybe all the bullshit is finally leaking out

everything is violent

it's just all off the top of the head bullshit... just really vicious or mundane word use.
use of words...just the skeletons of letters a brittle foundation of mechanic dribble.
feeling crazy within something that wont split open on some rare occasion of hating a season or another.
this past spring was nice, summer seemed alright.  space feels so dead i bet, it's violent when birth is conveyed through colliding rock....birth is violent, death is violent, life is violent, comparison shopping is violent. 


there are spider webs around my room again and i'm into it, because i know what it means.  i also know there's only one person i want to explain shit to or try to at least.... everyone else... i dont really care about everyone else.  

i wanna be dismembered by architecture

crushed by someone elses dreams

the sky has died

bleeding rain

im happy cause the trees look like they're dyin too

i am the bow legged devil

stretch out colonies of broken mouths

city buses stopped of corners with a tree and mailbox

identical wave lengths, propensity like the black bench covered in blue gum

"i never had a friend, and i never wanted one"

its freezing, good, slow me down alot

siamese tips of swollen pressed lips

on whiskey runnin ruins  of every ruined sip

hangin on to wounded winged fingernails

expressionless through every dissect

of pinned up skin, bread, wine, spirit, flesh

bruising of one leg or the other, i forget...

lid on air tight, my liver is already dead since twenty-two,

you complete fucking coward

ripped out boundaries of cum stained tights

down alleyway corridors leadin to royal red lounge booths

velvet may as well be draped over the fuckin homeless

in their dwellins of eternity, sky, space, look up, look up

you own this!

torrid tree bark... my milked out visage...

your to much fucking makeup...

my brazen use of dumb words, my brazen way of not giving a fuck, my brazen way of getting arrested for pissing on buildings.

jersey beach braided hair on porch nights

free drugs from my stripper roommate, free hoodie, free everything

you sucked that dude's dick who only had three fingers.

i saw satan, tried to kill myself, i saw him again, i moved out....

and what ever happened to Rudy, did he just walk into the ocean

like some tragic redundant notion...is that about it?

who cares? life never happened!

it's always getting to late,

break new scientific boundaries within ending of life

siamese twins integrate with one another to give birth to anti-christ.

like the chances of good weather.

does shit suck more that im disappeared?

get completely quite when i need a glass of water, see what happens.

all these holes in the doors are mine, i fixed them myself.

the way they look arnt the way they felt.

dress the rich like gamins or somethin

they're all to good for all of this i think...

i am disease, cradled at the roots of my rotted peach tree

losing things feels better than keeping them....

thats why all those messes are fallin from stems

orange spiral of seeping flavor

aroma and moisture

slowly death in savor ....

a car, a plane, couldn't take me far enough away