semantics

i keep my language in the laundry room, where it can do my dirty work.

pulp symphony

dear everything that is anything to anyone, this is music written on paper, made from the tree that was once you. this I've written on your skin to aid in the creation of a composition, our concert which will serve as the soundtrack for our love. the anthem of our convergence. it is a symphony dedicated to the synchronicity of our heartbeats. a tribute to their conjoined murmurs; hers of ash and mine of dust. dust rises and ash falls, the distance between which our love can be measured, the tip of my tongue, the warmth of her kiss. let those words be said from those lips, and so i'll pray that in our time both our peaks and valleys flat-line together. a singular plateau of what we were, and will always be. then, i will come back to you as a crimson worm, divine and offered to you in worship. your body will be veiled in snowflakes and illuminated by fireflies so that i may find you and till you back into earth. from that earth you'll become a tree, one strong and tall, one i hope to come for, find again and chop down. and once you've fallen for me after that last blow, i shall put down my axe, chew on your sap, and fashion your flesh into paper, just as i have done before, to compose another symphony of ours. Comment Read

ill will

i was born in the direction the fingers are pointing, christened in her guilt cascade; the illegitimate son of contempt aborted, disgraced, and anointed (in shit). 

irrational violence is imminent, linearly quantized. it's only a matter of time. please do not be in my path/wake. i couldn't forgive myself. 

- the spiritually, morally, and metaphysically corrupted

enemy of the Good

Nothing perfect exists anymore. The Perfect, with a capital P, did once live.

pride before the fall

pride before the fall. i didn't invent the wheel, i patented it to reap the profits. mark twain is in hell. you'd trust me to trust this. someone's calling all cars for a death rattle on deaf ears. i am the cowboy killer, and this is my first rodeo in years. you think i am listening but i am really just watching the candlelight between us dim, trying not to stare at your forked tongue or the venom it drips. it flows like lava upon a city of outstretched arms, grasping vainly towards divinity. praise the rudderless who navigate the black eyed oceans en masse, hailing the sunset and losing their voices to the wind. plotting piety in wet sand, making reservations somewhere near the scene of the accident, scene of the crime, to be seen and not heard. deserted on a desert continent, an island with no horizon. hang yourself potraits on the drywall using sheetrock anchors fisted. street-sweepers sweep the bodies of dust under the tread of a 1,000 sons enlisted. execute my memory and shower me with gifts of foresight. change the channel while i light a coma candle. open your arms and love me into eternity. the fingerprints on your throat are like 10 tiny maps of a heaven prepared for evacuation. my blood, it holds your pulse. now enjoy the exploits as the caped crusader super savior stranger fills his quota, this is where i become a jesus christ supernova. a shadowboxer bruised and blind, left to walk the streets alone and out of time. there is no more trick, only trade, sorrow for an illusion or banality for the blade. afford me this soliliquy and i'll drown you in my iniquity. an orchestra of throats, strangled and slit with piano-wire. a cardiac-arrest overture in D minor, string accompaniment courtesy of adrenaline, blood, and vomit. i'm still so far from hitting bottom, far from anything resembling a clear moment. from the hills i have watched the skies, the horizon will burn while we are alive. enjoy the fireworks display for all to see and repeat seven Hail Mary’s after me. say good morning, you exiled god, patron saint of the broken fists and paper heart. spare me the rod. i release you from the sins of your father; seventh son of a seventh son, but the Eucharist is as far as you go. playing the silent movie villain, scrambling to tie myself to train tracks, praying for technicolor in an afterlife of terror attacks. under the burgundy stretch of spaghetti western skies, i'll draw a cartoon were the carrion fairy dies. no stranger to sin, i barter my indulgences with 30 pieces of silver that turns an empyrean cheek from my wrath's bludgeon to the ingorgement of the glutton at his fiscal feast, spare me sheba for i am a simple beast.

self-fulfilling prophecy

i need to befall a great tragedy. i have never experienced complete devastation. i don't even know if it's within my capacity to be devastated, so it's completely normal that i fantasize about it. for me time stops then. everything in my vision gets washed out into monochromatic tones, solarized silhouettes and shadows moving all around me. i feel a halo of fire. my heart stops and my blood and veins become canals of molten steel. my fists are heavy and aching. in that moment my eyes tense, the same feeling as it is to cry, only all my tears have run dry. no more tiny peace offerings. it's then that i feel completely fragile. only then, when it's dire that i fashion a black hole of the sun, having dug everyones grave, do i feel anything at all. losing all hope is freedom, is it? then i need to break and be broken. i fantasize about that lapse of time for me, when the grey clouds seal off the sky, hiding what i'm about to do from heaven. that will be my end. tragedy will give me that one reason to keep from breathing any further. Comment Read

love as immolation

he throws himself onto the pyre, in a vain attempt that it shall stoke, his sacrifice to build her fire, if only he may breathe her smoke. 

i know how you choose your words so well, so i wait for the story you that you can't tell. Comment Read