2/29

I didn’t go off the deep end, I chose to dive.

My spirit animal is a dead dog trying to play alive,

Chasing the tail side of a trick coin with three heads,

A spinning cerebral Cerberus barking up the wrong tree,

With brittle branches thinning as it climbs out on a limb,

Splintering claws carving macabre tallies of no apple prize,

Warning leaves show contorted faces crying out,

 As wise winds vie to blow off a withering genealogy.

The good book has been glued shut with the sap of God’s miracle elixir imbibed.

Genesis generated power zapped, lapped up by snake-long tongues,

From a hole at the bottom of the cup that no longer runneth over-

Drawn blood bank drops below threshold under pressure-

Of arrow-sticks in the mud muck made by stem cells,

Apoptotically shed,

From Saint Sebastian’s ironically smiling head;

“Smite me O’Mighty Smiter!” he said,

Lamenting the souls lost in transition,

Those of us perpetually too far from the river bed.

But don’t cry for me;

 I didn’t go off the deep end, I chose to dive. 

Fuckboy, I Don't Blame You

Fuckboy, I don’t blame you;

Everywhere I click someone is calling you out,

naming, or shaming you,

Saying you want to claim them without letting them claim you,

And when you’re caught fucking around you say some bitch

trying to frame you instead of owning up to it,

But really it’s more subtle than that,

Symptoms of a social degenerative disease that feeds on hurting one and other.

The follicles of your stubbly approach are deeply rooted in fear,

Lightly abrasive as each hair trembles when you start to feel,

Reminding you to indulge in that itch to shave off, sabotage growth, save the only face you can’t really show off.

After a moment of truly being bare, you become barely there, unable to bear the weight of your own emotional strands,

You’re so scared!

Fuckboy, I don’t blame you,

But

Everyone you dick around isn’t trying to drain you, lease out your brain or train you,

To lead a blind eye to their leeching lies like the one that hurt you,

The one you couldn’t shake off, but had to burn off,

With a stick that you now carry as a torch of your own,

Ready to sear, steer away any pulse that threatens to sync with yours again,

But reckon not to use that light and look at your own reflection,

Fangs you’ve grown still crave love to feed a warped bloodlust for all that is

A fulfilled life we all deserve, but now you too are causing hurt,

Latching onto the epidermis, but whispering to the epicenter of my soul

And you know you’ve got me.

Though your inconsistencies shatter the image of a past self you mirror,

Revealing no more than a mirage in a dry spell,

Little white hourglass sand lies of omission that

Don’t uphold,

But all of the good times still make me feel otherwise.

And fuckboy, I still don’t blame you;

Every game you play I play just to entertain you,

I make the choice to refrain and sustain you,

The fly I place on the wall of our lives has too many eyes for you to possibly blind,

And smells that my blood is never enough for the blood money you bet on this blood sport mentality,

That you’ve got to play to keep your heart beating.

But I do not fear looking into my own mind’s eye;

I see my own insecurity uncharacteristically rooted in this present state of ambiguity,

And I try to accept you as you are,

Not as you were,

Not as I’d like you to be.

I Haven't Drawn in a While

If you were a caricature of you and I of mine,

Maybe it made sense that we found ourselves uncharacteristically drawn together.

And finally on the same page, fumbling articulation with some rough edged animation,

We became the stippled, unedited angles that I can’t erase.

Kiss the Cook?

If you stuck a toothpick into my intentions, it wouldn’t come out clean;

A half-baked mosaic layered cake of indecision with intersections of decadence is only fit for another hedonist with a strong stomach for uncertainty and debatable principles.

It’s not long until the treat would come out complete, but yet I don’t heed the warning on the box and lick the spoon anyway.

I guess I’ve been willing to accept the risk of sickness for the reward of batter raw.

2/25

They say to face your demons, but I am one.

Never been no godly son,

No path to light,

Only clouded paths to false enlightenment,

Over blackened seas of bad blood deep,

Bad blood transfusion seeps from fallen goddesses,

Into my mouth as my bad blood to keep.

Born evil,

Evil borne,

A stained glass mirror is no transition lens.

Iris red,

Pupils dilate,

A pupil to the anti-saint;

I’m offering to die sooner than late.

He lets me peer into hell’s oculus rift,

Sifting through the future’s past exploitation of inaction potential,

Electric misfiring bringing fires of chaos to my dispense.

My head is a sanctimonious sanctuary,

Ashes of cremated past selves,

I’s occupy a pedestal of death,

I sacrifice all that I have left.

The Tale of the Ship's Wheel

There once was a ship's wheel that grew legs and nonchalantly hopped overboard.

Question marks, exclamation points, and other punctuation appeared above the frantic, flabbergasted captain’s head.

His bloated aging-man belly undulated amidst the frenzy;

He almost loses his hat as he scurries to peer over the edge.

And then the ship's wheel grew arms, crossed them behind and mockingly reclined.

Now this almost sent Sir Cap-i-tan over the edge, literally,

But he remembers that he is a soggy rum sponge and that the sea might suck him up just the same.

The brown-nosed lap dog of a first mate made certain to validate his highness’ frustration as his wiry, underqualified body swayed with the sea.

Little-boy-dandy wasn’t entirely useless for he could swim, but never had he fathomed he’d be walking the plank (it’s hard to walk when you’re on your knees licking the bossman’s boots clean).

The rest of the crew sneers, leers, and cheers while they meticulously adjust the trembling sails,

Even as the wind picks up they swing and cling to the ropes like little circus monkeys, seemingly unaware that a storm is on the horizon.

These sailors-for-hire were well tempered for their kind; rarely rowdy or rabble rouse-y,

But Monsieur Captain had a penchant for disciplinary gestures to be carried out by his mood-swing muscle-man beef cake.

They were always keen to muster an excuse to lock someone up and take their already dinky dinner and  rum rations (I must admit they did run a tight ship as a result).

The wheel held no grudge for its handling and knew the crew would be more amused than troubled even with the tempest approaching.

Bulging-bicep Betty is commanded to motivate the transformation of whimpering willy; golden boy to golden retriever,

But this little doggie didn’t want to play fetch anymore, not when fetching isn’t a bone to pick with the others to bring to daddy.

Guilt washes over him as he watches the waves below and the winking good-bye waves of the men 

he had slandered.

The wheel continues to taunt; twirling, swirling, and whirling about!

As expletives are thrown, the jib sheet grows a face that can’t help laughing at the red tomato-headed tantrum-having Mister.

Our cannon-calved-crony shows his necessary scorn as he lifts that shameful shuddering-Sally to meet the depths of potential demise.

The wind whips warnings and rain drops drip in the place of absentee tears for fear of drowning, threatening a lesson in more than course divergence.

Captain courageous and his muscle suddenly realize they are running out of time and hastily give the first mate encouragement previously denied.

The main boom is wise and tired of everyone’s antics so it grows a hand that pushes all three over the side and scoops up the wheel, knowing they all need it to survive.

It high fives the crew, the wheel does a jig, and the jib exclaims, “Let’s get on with our lives!”

The end.

Pyromaniac

A hothead that refuses to spit fire chooses to burn from the inside out

Hiding devil’s hands in clenched idolatry

But all work and no play makes Jack a ticking time bomb

Flames will erupt from thick skin cracking, crackling

The whispering elemental reminding him of his nature

Each thermally abrasive lick tells a tale of pain that is pleasure

A cackling expression revealing that to succumb is self-actualization

The most intuitive and pure gratification removes his fear of destructive implications

Trading apprehension for a gas can and a smile

The truth is,

Some of us just want to watch the world burn for

Hell is a pyromaniac’s heaven. 

2/23

I'm a lot more functional as an alcoholic
Just like my fathers before me
Because everyone rather a stoic
Than someone that can't keep their shit together