Thursday, February 25, 2016


Revisions of time, time and memory
Gravel, disturbed, reins in on unrest
And the dryness of History moves forward.
Heat, swallowed. Swallowed in deep succession
Volatile process, wading into burnt reminiscence
Parched from the crunch of insolent misgivings
To vomit here is natural, but I suck in the dredge- deeper

In past the belly this time
Into the purgatorial wait, of a limbo locked in shit.

Who was I, in a field of unbleached titanium?
Barefoot again, and agreeable amidst the expanse of his freckled back.
He was yelling in the quiet, exasperated by his own insignificance
A projection he pawned off on me, as I moped about my own day in dutiful charm.
Those days at the lake, he drank in too much shortage
And allowed himself to believe in the philosophy of shame.
I am here today, wasting more time,
Adrift in the disoriented efficacy that he thumped onto my back.

There is no equilibrium in this dark set of pessimism.
Gulping down rot after rot, in the hope that if, swallowed promptly-
I can shit it out and away in due time.
To regurgitate these dismal emotional focal points
Is to dishonor the theory behind why I move on.
Continually wiping the ass of caustic unhappiness
Deforms the willingness to restore the optimistic morning.

It can't always be this way.
And it isn't. Thank fuck.

Follow the exit sign, Woman.
Walk away from the discoloration of those times
That fuel regret like a piss-starved, dehydrated cunt.
What words 'these days' hand to me,
To better articulate the rape of my heart.
I peel away from all notions that keep me cordial
An instead, exert the inertia of this cock-sucking hell that I roam into when I'm bold in my weakness.

I am purging myself of this emotional stench
Compliant to the urge of "Freedom of Speech"
And yet how I loathe this effective cruelty
Of killing my kindness with the brutal recollection of times - long lost.


Tuesday, February 16, 2016


Obliterate. The morning has offered truckloads of unnerving thoughts
I sense my rest the night prior was compromised by dreams worth forgetting
Some ships need sinking, and others demand to reject rescue, no matter how good the will.
I need warming next to kind fires that stoke themselves with well-intentioned ease
This day finds me smothered in thick restlessness of the mundane variety
I fall short of triggers to set me free and trip into the clean waters of optimism
Instead, I stop, consider the source of greyness, and come close to choking on the lack of answers.

This Tuesday feels like a Monday, imbued in the responsibility of monotonous routine
Only the layer of strata that remains snug to my skin is rummaging through my nerves.
Muffled voices mention nothing that needs bothering with, and yet I seek to bother.

Muffled, muffled is a good word for all I am contemplating.
The actions I take at this moment in time are evasive in their direction
Ambiguous connotations flutter by as though I have the time to dissect bullshit
I am training this cortex to waste less time on broken windows
Protecting the mind is of paramount importance, against the onslaught of idle hands;
Hands made idle through the disingenuous ramble of superficial squawking.

Some part of me is gaining momentum, the morning wanders indirectly
Prominent thoughts circle-in closer, hoping to latch onto one constructive iota of meaning.
Fuck this blatant misuse of time and belligerent waste: opportunity cost is seizing
Making a mutant out of muscles that move as though they were watered by morphine.
The ugly banter of half-past ten a.m. is souring my tongue as I deviate - anywhere.
These manifestations of another's inconsolable black-mapping have dug into me- good
I now duck lower and see the obvious antagonist, pawned off, post-dusk, stale and ugly
The night prior has fucked my wits and hog-tied them until further notice.

...and just like that, the aura about me slips into a coma...
As the mood of another finagles its way into my foggy psyche.
Slipping into any willing membrane with his own restless energy
Diving under aged motivation and descending (I hope) until he 'bottoms out'.
Chuckling in this new moment, as the royal upheaval from one coat of skin into another
Leads me into a kinder, albeit restless, agenda... of the melancholy lovesong that skin issues forth.

I am good, good in this disposition that I have habitually known and (somewhat) understood.
So many keys I have earned and locks that remain locked until I shake off my own weighty doubt.
My mind is everywhere and nowhere and wanting to get worked until sweat turns me dry

It is hard to ignore young muscle on the prowl, the prowess of which oozes thickly in my face.
It's best to let my own sleeping dog lie, lie on cold concrete and lie to my face
Because the last thing I need is another can o' worms,
Consuming my system just because 'it feels good'.

But O motherfucker, can the mind run wild.

Thursday, February 11, 2016


Wading through confusion, the bumble of indecision slurs.
Not all memories litter about like half-buried shards of shrapnel
Some are gentle, soft, warm, and cloaked in chiffon
They strike a bilingual balance among the halls of memory,
Recollecting clutched files that remain, regardless of their waning condition.

Warping egos fight to remain waxed in their arrogant brilliance
The arm's length here is long, strong, vigilant in its awareness
No more mountains to plant in light of the current 43 year old path
I've deliquesced enough valuable momentum into the drumming of futility.
Here I strike a new bargain, to eradicate the noise of indifference in thick gilded permanence.

I am plugging into the gentility this morning, to rinse myself of wretched tenseness
Taught shoulders wreak havoc on a neck that has harbored for too long, tensile sluggishness
I think to dream of lush acres in this 'now' is wise, as that is becoming my vitamin of today,
To strike a tactile agreement between these longitudinal muscles and the masculine form
I am running out and away from the strain of my usual gesticulation, and into something 'else'.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

The Dark Part of Water...

What is it we are hoping to achieve?
We? I act as though it is the plight of many
I know all too well these contemplations are my own.
It is the way in which we articulate that defines our level of engaging.

Repetitive denial is doing nothing for me
Conditioned to acknowledge one tenth of all variables

I plod along in the quiet understanding that becomes me.

Hairs turn grey, lines fail to connect
Brandished in the weight of midnight
Longing seethes and bites with teeth formed from stalactites
Aging in this diffused light, without the calming courtesy
Of a mate to call my own. How am I doing in this rusted circumstance?

Coping. Coping? As though there were a form of cope to soften the gritty cold night.
As much as I engage my stoicism, I fucking detest the love that blows out and away- daily.

But Love... is that what it is, blown to the outskirts of consequence?
Unwritten soliloquies, billowing blindly in their discombobulation, weakened by hindsight.
Sometimes, the proactive response to recompense for past wreckage,
Seeps into cracks and widens them, weeping within their destructive, injurious mutiny.

We can lose the goodness if the armor blocks enough
We? There I go again, this is no comparative analysis.
Just me and my fucked up threads of thought, rushing to make sense of nothing.

Nothing, blowing around without references to anything,
But the dark part of water and all that it forebodes.

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Outside - In

Devout - in a word, has reached its tenure
Ever encrypting all others from its echelon of distinction
For what more can be said to scare away the permanency
Of the loss that consumes every square inch of detailed need.
Devoutly devoured by definition and order of history's ruling

Of all the many voices that solitude has to offer
It is the skin's calling that crawls with most defeat
Like a well-fed baby, stripped of its confidence
The lover in me wails for more milk.
Ripped and thrown adrift into a sky without sun..a sea with no blue
Into a land full of waste, without even rubble to kick away in mindless boredom.

Tying instead, knots of restlessness, threaded with resistance
Deserving this choked essence has become something I strive for
As the league I find myself in delineates what I have become
By measure of what gravity has bequeathed to me.
Pricked fingertips, bruising this place.. this place of homeless warmth
A warden to the disfigurement of what I have become.
Gaining vigorous momentum as I let go of the point and resign myself to what I am.

I am eating myself from the inside - out

The educated consensus to this planet of one- rotating in diligence
Fails to glean warmth imbued kindness from as far back as day 1
Nothing I say makes sense, so it stands to reason that I keep speaking
The garbled junk tumbling from my mind into my cognitive trunk
Feeds into the restlessness that has uprooted patience infused understanding
And beaten back the act of 'consideration' itself,
And for now, flippantly wags a middle finger in my face. Maybe...
Just maybe, I should eat myself from the outside - in.