4.24.2012
compression. all i see below my feet is what’s coming up and preparing to squeeze me between a pursed lip and four years of jagged edges. there used to be a ticking clock in this world but now its hands have been replaced by nails threatening to nest themselves between my wrists. martyr sounds better when you don’t say it at all.

i don’t need you when i have art. i don’t need art when i have you. right now, i’m fucked.
within walls I am able to excise that which is separated to begin with yet still claws at my back. watch scars form against the tide of a culture shock and they will recycle themselves as a form of suicide to which i will be the background music. their eyes fixed on my hands. their faces pouring off of themselves. “i miss those days.” “i’ll see you next summer.”

hearts on wings, wings in tombs. hey, we’re buried in here. they have not been bleeding long enough to know its impact. hope to god that I won’t have to know. note to self: I remember “I’m half the shell now, but double the fun” does it die any quicker than this? isn’t it supposed to? harvest it.won’t the sequel inform the war happening outside, outside as nothing. I’ll get ready when you tell me what to love.

it’s gone, the part that’s severed, that I’m better off without. but it’s grown a reputation of its own which I salute before it shrivels up and dies. but it clones me while we live. i will tear out its roots. i have given it life and will burn it to the ground.

city streets, keep me from my feet. blur my reality to sew both eyes shut. I don’t need to remember how locked in feels, just that it felt. heaven felt the same in her arms. vulnerability- is this what you’re offering. no love, no hope.

please quit asking me to turn around. I will break my neck. I will go blind. p.s. I believe whatever I see back here.

different colored suits that stand side to side are painting portraits of a uniformly boring sky. now they’ve dropped the goddamn ball. look, now they’re rebuilding from the lungs out. now they make themselves known.

they yearn for love and for war. fickle candle light hope, sliding and shifting, evoking every scar, which in turn reminds me of what the axis was like when I could still maintain it. honestly, I can’t even miss it.

the skies in this world are stained by black news bearing clouds. they’ve restrained themselves from self restraint, parade each of our hearts as if it were the essential idea behind each cause. but it is and now we’re without a leader, all causee and no action. what will it take for me to pick apart their culture and restructure it? and by means of destroying what I have created, I have rebuilt the sky. I have eliminated the shallowness of their sun.

dear allegedly existing heart, if you are solely responsible for the repeated, even-beat-when-healthy process in which lungs can function properly, why do they staple malfunction to you, in spite of the fact that I am standing on my own two feet and fighting everything in front of me. is it possible I don’t even need you?

no amount of solid concrete ground can fill the gap twixt your ideas of complete and of me. I can develop legs to bear my own burdens and conquer all of the time and space in between. which war am I asking you to ask me to fight? fact leaves it’s ghost, but the choice remains as:
A) I can stretch my lips so far east and west while I beg my skin to hold together long enough so that I won’t actually be forced to expose myself to the sunlight.
or
B) I’m stitched up and situated between endless miles of windowless wall- unscathed by limited attempts to actually escape.
either way, I’m casually a casualty, unleashing a plague and plagued by leashes. and worst of all, I won’t let you hold my hand. I won’t let myself pull you under as I pour myself into another year of half-enthused hypertext fictions to which we will inevitably end up with different version of the same never-ending.

beanstalk
I can’t define the oily pores in by back as being anything other than a sign of what’s supposed to be. connecting things with a rhyming dictionary. increasing velocity won’t bring back the dead. it won’t wake us up. breathe down the oily pores in my neck and refine the heart’s divide. rough it around the edges. make it more human. give it space. it will breathe.

exhaustion, sleep, exhaustion
counting down, counting up. counted out before I’m counted on. fistfighting swan songs and begging for just one night of sleep before I cut the cords.

Genesis

every touch was cold. every touch is cold. it ate from the inside out like cancer and then turned on itself. then I was born. here I am again.

Guilt Admission #66

breathing to qualify. speak to stand out. I am incorrect in assuming that I hate your fucking guts. laugh out loud while you still can. here comes the sucker punch. 

Stories Told By Settled Dust

Post Post Script. After the after the fact. When the dust is not only settled but irrelevant. and when I can’t feel at home while cowering in the corner: Fuck you, dad.

 breathe life to this and see if i care  
I love to tell the story. You know, the one that you can understand. The one that helps me breathe, the one I help to breathe and the one that breathes through me, through to you. 

the pain you feel when the sun light bounces off the white house and hits you directly in the eyes
that blue coat fits so well. what are you trying to hide? my white film arrived in the mail today and I applied it just as directed. my ear plugs arrived today and they pump white noise. i swallowed those seeds today and they crept across my skull, they swallowed whole my spine. they reminded me what it means to fear. i cured it all yesterday only to repeat the process tomorrow.

getting to the top only to climb back down again (why mountaineering is retarded)
shift left and right, sway back and forth and never turn your head to all that should have been. I said a prayer that it’d stop blowing in the wind before I remembered who I was and who I wasn’t talking to. I hate when I forget that I gave up.

departure point
a soul reaches up as it’s carried away. the rest becomes the dirt. life springs out from the ground and begins to die again. turn the page and the page will die with the rest of it.

sleeping with the enemy (temporary title. new enthralled song)
I tried to laugh at how quick you were to point broken fingers but I  could only splutter an fail. Reprehension and a taste for the common has left my mouth squeezed shut while I’m trying to make sense of my own contamination. And now the pest in the corner of the room has been anointed savior, his legacy as a traitor to his religion in tow. Miss when you need to miss but take perfect aim and the blood soaked future will speak for itself. I know what it means to falter and fuck up because maintenance means your fists are clenched during every sermon. I slept with the enemy for that gutless eternity. And in the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit: fuck you.  It almost takes courage to hammer down the lifeless fucking ropes of your past. We fought tooth and claw for a crucifix that we would end up nailing ourselves to but at the end of that callous hope, we found ourselves nothing more than corpses left naked in the freezing cold as wind chill became the only factor in a series of “non-factors” for the rest of our short, drooling lives.