Untitled

This city is dead to me

It died, panting for air

And searching for love long ago in adolescent dreams

Its inhabitants are like zombies

Nothing will stop them from feeding on their own addictions

Vomiting whiskey flavored validation

Gnawing at the genitals of their most recent victims…

Within every shadow sits a child

Cowering in fear

At the tip of every shadow

Stands a victim

Masochistic suicide

With preluding daily devoted masturbation

It exorcises the mind

Keeps blood flowing…

My thoughts are limitless

But my words, limited to pen and paper

Or the tapping of letters on a keyboard

Going blind to the flickering screen of a monitor…

But this is my asylum

A Place of solemn sanctuary …

I find it slightly more amusing than pounding pavement

Even though my knees bleed from scraping by

Slowly..

Sluggishly through this afternoon cadence

And still I keep my distance

More so out of fear than hate

I’m dying, more from my own poisons than from the vile I’ve been ignorantly pointing my finger at…

I keep lapping at the blood of my wounds

Addicted to the taste

Becoming numb to the pain

Becoming one with the infection

Like making love to your murderer…

Its all animalistic in the end

Then again, we are all just mammals

Warm blooded and defected with weakness

At times cannibalistic

Eating away at ourselves

Jagged teeth tearing through epidermis and jerking away at Rubbermaid muscle tissue

Until there’s nothing left

Until we are just another victim..

Made either by our own hands

Or the murderous affairs of lovers in stagnant corners of basements..

 

 

Black Sheep

I look around and realize I’m surrounded by anomalies…  an orgy of uniforms and collected conformist in denial of their true form. I admire how they grope each other, stimulating a blood rushing erection of hypocrisy. Their voices loud and well heard, their protests bright and colorful…fuck the man!  They say. Fuck the man and his machine of oppression; they scream in between solid puffs of name brand cancer. Look how the skin of their fingers shrivels from the beading condensation of a beer can. I’ve watched them throw themselves into drunken trances congregating in social ranks, spewing judgment, finger painting their names in the blood of most recent back stabbings.

Antisocial you say? You are nothing but a character in a play, teetering on an axis summited by mainstream theology. Go ahead, take another swig of your cheap beer and burn the label black sheep upon your chest. It’s the joke that makes up your physic; it’s the skin that sags along your week and brittle bone structure. It’s the lie you fuck every night before falling asleep next to your one night stand and snuffed out cigarette butts that float in the monkey piss of semi empty forty bottles.

You see, I am that black sheep you so long to be, I’ve learned to take comfort in the icy shadows bouncing off the cold shoulder of society. I am that antisocial fuck lingering on the outskirts of the inside. I have no real interest in your thoughts, opinions and mortal day to day judgment. I stray from your hang out spots and avoid the hipsters in black sheep’s clothing that I’ve found you to be.

The Night Cries..

I step into the light, my weaknesses squirm to hide themselves,

They search for cubby holes etched within the tree of my soul..

I step back into the shadows, they suddenly rush at me, charge at me like a declaration of war..

Their serpent like bodies coil around my mind, around my neck, around my legs…

I am but a prisoner within a shell of a being..

I am but an infant within the shell of a man..

I am but a man within a shell of a world…

Is there no escape?

No release from these binding imps??

How they claw at my insides and scratch at my eyes..

Nothing of me is left pure; all is tainted with morsels of impotency..

Oh and how the night cries for me…

Oh how she weeps from the corner of her bed post..

Her tears paint  her vast breasts with an alignment of stars..

Her sobs softly kiss my exposed skin..

Untitled..

From the altars of the wicked flows the blood of mankind…

Genetically created generational curses…

We bare the sins of our fathers and feed our hunger with the impurities of our mother’s bosoms

Lapping mouthfuls of human filth…

Let us kneel at the river of genocide slitting each other’s throats, let us kiss and bleed out into its current…

Let this cleanse us,

Dear lord let this cleanse us…

Let us caress our deformities…

Let us fondle and fuck our weaknesses to sleep…

We will embrace our normality; we will leave our ambitions to the decisions of a firing squad…

And so we will dance in a holocaust, digging the mass graves for the corpses of self-identity.

It Ends In Irony…

Sometimes it seems like I am a ghost

Just a vague being.. … a nameless face walking along the border of a black iron fence of a graveyard.

I look out to see the sun set… its light tinted with orange, bathing the tops of cold headstones..

Short summaries chiseled upon them..  a life time fit into a few words..

Your beginning..

Your highest accomplishments.. war hero, purple hearts, loving mothers, fathers, or just being born…

Then your end..

I walk through the endless rows of graves, the grass is thick like carpet and cushions the souls of my shoes..

I can’t help but feel a connection to the dead while reading the last words left to describe them to the world ….  Proof they were here and existed

I begin to create visions of who they were, what they looked like, how it felt to know them..

Suddenly I find myself making judgments of them, people I never knew… People from totally different generations..

I then came to the realization of the irony in death

You could go your whole life, not catching a single eye… being a nameless face.. Being a ghost…

And only when death takes you .. People realize you were there.. You existed… they paint a name on your face ..

Only when you become a ghost.. You become real to people… You finally become someone, for some reason, people want to connect to…

For You Old Friend..

My soul has been set ablaze by your tragedy,

The ambers glow bright red like a thousand eyes of demons staring back at me …

I strive to become your catalyst, but I fumble through empty rants only handing over fistfuls of broken advice

I stand against the blowing wind, watching you bleed through tourniquets of rusty chain links..

The warm blood rushes towards the frozen ground.. Melting the spot where you buried your heart deep within the confines of gritty soil

When you are ready.. I will help you dig…

When you are ready.. I will help you bury the past, as you have helped me bury mine…

I embrace you as a brother, bearing an oath that is made in the corners of tree houses or midnight adolescent adventures…

Promises made under black night skies, in empty streets…. sealed with concrete corners of a neighborhood…

You now stumble along in feverish grief…

When you are ready… I will help carry your weight, as you have helped me carry mine

When you are ready … I will help you dig..

For I count you among my beloved,

For I count you among my brothers..

The Common Struggle…

An empty heart leads to a murderous hand…

Their fingertips drip blood like leaky faucets,

They strap on their suits, ties fastened tight upon the collar,

to negotiate the sins a whipping boy will take stripes for….

Our pain is of no concern,

They laugh in between stiff sips of expensive liquors, scribbling big words with cheap pens, exchanging cheap smiles.

The business man makes his move and kills yet another pawn…

Another life wasted, just a common man with common debts,

Common bills stack on a corner of a shelf, screaming to be paid…

They’ll surely starve a while more.. for there are belly’s aching to be filled..

Nothing left but common tears to cry, from common women, with common children,

All while they go to uncommon parties and somehow, fuck uncommon whores, drink uncommon wine-own uncommon bank accounts

They fight uncommon wars using common lives.. They continue to dance on uncommon floors built on the shoulders of the common man…