A spot or two
All that I can drink
I believe I got it all from you…
Er…what was your name?
Swing lowThree cold coins cast weights in his pockets
that's one for the ferryman but two for the heroin
and three states of being were left out as an option
birth, life, and death and he chose to choose none of them
you'd think that he could smell the approaching Death
if he hadn't sand blasted his nose to nary a snort in Life's breath.
and maybe he wouldn't have been blind to other paths
but it's hard to see the future from a low hung head
so swing low, and take a taste of the madness
but take a dip like a quill in ink to create your life's masterpiece
and if you sink too low then then just brush it off naturally
because nothings permanent and unless you make it seem to be
hold your chin up and breath sighs relief
the devils are on your back so they cannot impede
and child slow down there's no need for grief
you can't live life dead if dead set on living
two cold coins cast weights in his pockets
enough to clip a roach you'd think.
but for all the currency he carried currently
Snow Blind And SinkingWhen he winced and put another pinch up his nose
he laughed and huffed gasses that make cars go faster.
He’s an asshole who robs you blind at kind point
each dollar cast away with a smile but he still wants more.
Veins collapsed, a heart beat to death wheezes
or it would if failed lungs hadn’t already ceased breathing.
He’s agape left gasping with hate, for
the thing that saved him took away his only escape.
snow driven adrenalin pushes him into a tar pit.
He’d be never heard from again, for
it’s a sure thing he’d drown in it.
if it wasn’t for friends love
the he’d be another eulogy and
a fucked up, fair faded, statistic.
but he’s sadistic because he
but misses it.
but he can wipe clean the snow and
remnants of the tar pit
cause he loves more
those who braved it to save him.
Hooked on PhoneticsIt's not all in the hype, see?
You still have to set your roots.
Mine just happen to be hyphy.
I'm split-even like coduceus
fueled by semi-synthetic
ergot infested magic rye.
I'm a nice guy who likes long walks on the beach,
my molly actually sass, but still crystalline, and
using my spare time to visit worlds- dimethyl triptyline
lyrics are a pattern. Whose
divination's just a gift to me.
"They" tell me what to write,
point at you, and scream
"REPEAT AFTER ME!"
A little dab will do ya.
"How bout a line or two sir?"
"Dude, what about your health?
Do think that that's conducive?"
No, I think it's magic. It's talking to god.
I love it more than anything and it's killing me.
Isn't that odd?
A Poem Like TeethNot a line to sit half a happy couplet.
All the metaphors aren't fives but
still love to hear speech through crooked slant rhyme.
All the while wear a stupid half simile.
Ain't an old poet; though, old speech spoke colloquially:
speak Modern-English romanticized chatter,
Not a line to sit half a happy couplet.
All the while wear a stupid half simile.
Rich Man's Poor DreamsThe old man lived in a house of gold bricks and
thought his life a dream.
Though, when he paid for happiness brick by brick
he had company but,
no place to sleep.
A house is not a home and
a home sure ain't a bank.
Though, when you're cold and lonely with possessions to spare
what would posses you to think happiness comes cheep?
The old man spent it all away on a cashed cache o' bucks.
That son of a bitch couldn't buy happiness but,
he sure found it when he stopped giving a fuck.
Never-Empty EvergreenThe trees leaves leave,
casting not shadows, but bitter memories
of a full head of hair.
Willow's weep in winters dead grasp
and send not a prayer nor death rattle
only silent sighs resign to fate.
All will always be lush and green;
for, even when it is not I
pretend my vegetation is large and pristine and
think myself an evergreen.
Daddy Issues Check ListI was born a monster before a man.
Honestly, I'm a cannibal.
I never hesitate just so long as it's consensual.
Lose the shirt and pants;
speech not necessarily sequential.
If you're in a pinch I could pinch too,
if that's what you're in to.
I have a hunger in my chest that was formed up in my own mind.
I'd probably worry about my cockiness if I wasn't so spineless.
I'd lie if I was in a bind. Though, I'd rather bind you and play 'Risk',
We'll just live 'Life'. while you use your mouth to 'Sink my Battleship'.
Okay, what you want, you can't always get.
That's alright with me because I get to WANT to get.
Yo, I heard the wind sing strong that 'The Thrill is Gone'.
heard rumors that 'Love Don't Live Here Anymore'
'Babe, I'm Going to Leave You' 'cause I never really needed you,
wore you like a tattoo but the tattoo came with a rash too.
Maybe that's too rash an attitude?
I've been told I'm overly passionate.
But you're a little... what's the term kids use?
Something like 'ratchet'?
losing my mind againJust about the only things I can't hold onto,
a steady job and my sanity.
you know this.
Bong star goes hard when
ripping himself down
slightly underweight and
made of lead.
amphetamine found on the day to day
adulterous adulterants found in high dose in cheap MDMA.
either-way, pure or not,
I'm just happy to be happy, happily-
drop a call- drop a line
got a dime piece?
Then, man, everything fine
we go tradesys, man,
it's crazy, but
the higher I get the
less the worry 'bout what 'crazy' means.
Coffee Shop MemoirsPhilosophers think
We may dream our reality.
With earphones attached liked IVs
I dream my own melodic universe.
Until someone laughs behind me
And strikes up conversation with a friend.
And in that moment they become my anchor
Are they spinning through my dream
Or am I spinning through theirs?
Sometimes life fits in a coffee cup,
Sometimes inspiration pours out slowly like a packet of honey,
And sometimes it all mixes together
Like liquid incandescence that I drink right after brewing.
When no one speaks to me for hours
I begin to wonder
Is everyone dreaming a reality that includes
The whole café but me?
The street outside the window
With passing strangers, dogs and cars
Is a whole new Milky Way
Waiting to be discovered.
But I am no space explorer
Aliens are beyond my reach.
Whispers of the people around
Reach my ears distinctly
Like waves lapping on the shore.
Words on paper go no way
Towards proving that I was ever here
My identity is slowly condensed
Not into the people who kno
pyromania.I tasted your lips sideways,
and they were lit like
but in reality,
your breath simply hovered
above the bowl,
and you smiled at me
as you lost control.
Who are you?"Who are you?"
said the Caterpillar.
"Who are you?"
But how could she answer?
The identity of a person is not so
easily known, and one has to think very hard
before one can say with certainty.
She could be a beautiful winged horse whose flesh
glows with the golden, incandescent dust of fairies, her
mane a sugary concoction of pinks and blues with streaks of
black and green whilst her tail is a brazen red that would shock the senses of
even the wildest of flames.
Or perhaps she could be a jellyfish that carves paths through
the darkest and lightest of waters, the bell shape of her body
as large as her blue skirts and her trailing tentacles as
pretty and glittering and perhaps even brighter than
the heavenly stars that hang from the
silver strings attached to
the sturdy yet gentle fingers of the puppet master.
Or even, perhaps, she could be a pixie, with fluttering
dragonfly wings that beat faster tha
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
tutorialtake an evening -
reclassify emotions as chemical compounds.
remove one atom,
see what changes.
take your field notes, transcribe them
back to front.
add line breaks.
be scientific. be too scientific.
replace the word 'entropy'
with the word 'god'.
be so full of want that you can feel it
scraping its numb jaws against your insides.
write about flowers instead.
make your first line provocative.
follow it, let it unfurl -
inauthentic, try again.
who the fuck
read, find inspiration.
find new ways to plagiarize old ideas.
hash and rehash,
slash and burn.
look at the mess you've made.
spend an hour flicking back and forth -
write about family. if it hurts too little,
write about flowers instead.
use a word bank.
write in the dark.
write from within your own skull.
write your litanies.
write your lines.
z.perhaps i was born to be a bird for you,
grey wings sprouting from distended shoulder bones;
the inside of your eyes are darker than midnight,
your hands having bled blue until you could see right through them,
glasslike, they shimmer around my face
& it doesn't matter that they're cold,
the mountain ridges that you've carved for yourself are not something to shy away from,
not something to be ashamed of;
lie still as i run my hands like hikers across your mistakes,
your old certainties,
lie still as i discover how it is that you came to be here now,
so quiet & unsure,
so caught within the old sheet of your past,
lie still as i discover every fuck up you've ever made,
every moment of control that slipped out of reach,
every extra drop of sanity that escaped from your pores.
i have always shivered my way into tomorrow,
too busy searching for something i couldn't find to warm my own bones,
too busy to realize that i was dying of a chill i couldn't cont
A New CatOur neighborhood stray is dead. I know this
because there is a black cat here I've never seen.
This cat is not the black splotch covered canvas stray
that clawed up and down my arm last winter
when I mistakenly tried to wrap it in a blanket
for warmth. This cat does not have the matted
fur that the stray did, does not deliberately stretch
out in front of my car tires the way the stray did
right before I had to leave for work, does not
chase lizards in the grass like the stray. This is not
the stray that aggressively meowed at me
when he wanted affection, nor is it the stray
that climbed our fence to try catching birds.
I'm certain this new cat must be lost, or else
looking for that same blotched canvas stray
that had become part of his family, too.
Sex Object Between her legs, lies something that
every man seems to want.
A place where she should be able
to call her own, between her legs.
She feels that men only want her,
a true want, to have sex with her, and
The breasts she has, they gain
stares from men passing by, tripping
over themselves to find a chance to touch.
When will she stop being looked at,
as an object of sex? when will a man
see her as someone he may spend his
Her hips curve, and she doesnt
want your hands on them, if your
just going to touch her skin.
She wants a man to touch her soul,
not just touch her skin, and run his fingers
where they do not belong.
What made these men think, she
is just a sex object, a toy that could be
put on display, and taken whenever they
Between her legs, lies something that
every man seems to want.
Proud she is though, that she hasnt
given in, hasnt