Saturday, December 5, 2009

skulls on pigs.

In the corner; the man with the typewriter
constantly fixing his hair
eyes escaping up, trying to dart back and forth, only to be escorted back down
collections of secrets all over and inside his body
lost in detail and anonymity
magazines he has never read
conversations he will never have, already strategized
written down like word pornography

shades pulled together to the point where they are overlapping, like it would make a difference and the volume of the television barely audible in case he listens
saved missives from god knows how long ago
clothes he will never wear again folded perfectly
each hidden tattoo a reminder of a mistake in his life,
and the curious outfit he wears barely hiding them all

The people that proclaim loudly that they don't care what anyone thinks of them are the people that care the most. Crumples it up and throws it away.

I hear it's snowing in Houston today.
curious.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

what is never said.

when the terrible planets align, I'll be nowhere to be found
as if her name was Militia and she brought a war to town

and what sort of dance is this, angel?
is this sort of destruction beautiful to you? I've pushed the line before
I've had the oxygen mask on
I've designed my own headstone with clay that melts in the rain
but you're not even a murderer. at least they have goals.

it's coming so I starve
I keep the phone lines open and my vein lines open
we are
a mailbox in front of a long-abandoned home
because you haunted away the residents
and I didn't care enough to stop you

(the crowd begins to loudly whisper to each other)
so stay on guard for Militia
because she's beautiful and she's deadly and she's on her way

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

ode to oxycodone.

codeines and chemicals, synthetic and natural alike
we don milligram smiles
walk out the itchiness like we’re shaking off fatigue
senses sharper, thought processes stronger
these are God pills.

like my veins are taking a hot, steamy shower
like I’m somehow becoming more than what I am
meta-human indeed
I talk like I move, I write like I talk, I move like I write
nerve endings can dance!
there’s music playing in the illegal Speakeasy’s in my body, and we’re all intoxicated in here, except the streets outside
read: the people playing out the roles in my life.
they don’t know what goes on inside the building
as it builds up, my eyes almost roll over themselves.
they can hear the faint sounds of music and laughter
each of them might not know, but they know.
but from the curb, they are all involuntary curious glances
“he’s definitely got it together (cue laugh track).”

like if pins and needles were sexy
fingertips running slowly under my skin
I’m my own electric blanket, one that doesn’t smell like Grandma
she just provided me with the amber bottle

this is why junkies don’t fuck

Monday, March 2, 2009

immaculate, immaculate, immaculate.

(breathe)
As much as you’d like to impeach me
Righteous wind
Hope is too slippery to hold
Your fangs still show in your smile
A languished victim’s denial

I am a lightning strike.
I am your headlights in hell.

Close your eyes hard, little boy
The volume only goes louder
Brace yourself
The perfection storm is near
You can sketch out your route in the sand,
But it will be gone come sunrise.