Don't do drugs, kids. They make you write away your will to live. Sometimes you can come back, but if you count on it too many times, you won't.
In a splintered cell of rhythm-snorting cynics,
silence clones a feral orphan pornstar mimic.
Chittering manacles of iron-vermin ankle-biters,
a nest of creaking doors with key-shaped shadow-miters;
the stitching of a mother is the childhood they hide:
why what we owe is secret and insensitive to light.
You need the old-school sinners for a post-hell party,
not frozen poptart gods and softmeat angel artists.
Stricken by the seizures of apostatic trivium
the new babes nurse on smoking milk guns;
the protonymics of hearkening cynics,
near-sighted shrikes and narcissist finicks.
Romance that's ripe should be brilliant and igneous,
painting violence in pictures of love not religious.
No, not bellicose, but commanding,
entranced by instinctual slandering -
freedom isn't clean unless the traitors have no friends
and justice nurtures treason with the talons of amends
Stumbling through a lock-jawed iris
a perfume of sizzling culture drops its face;
eidos thrones are thrashed and deboned
so every phallus draped in swinery
can see the saint inside conspiring.
I think it's pretty when you sweat out your beatings
cuz it's not the pain that sweetens your breathing
(but the questions those freckles illuminate at night)
It's not that ripe if the threat's not gold.
Baptist lions bathing in fascist sadness
taking your hands out of your eyes and
skipping rope with what's better inside;
there's always a penny mixed in at the top.
The math a craven does is how we survive
but every coward will kill when one victim won't die.
summer murder/winter dinner
I want to crash through the symbols. Find the space where I can sit down and sleep without wondering about tomorrow. But i know that tomorrow won't bother me unless I let myself down once in a while - pathology.