No Witness.

You stop time
by blocking out the sun with one finger.
the world is eclipsed,
a monolith to a kingdom
of garbage with no king.

The cold bite of winter
that calms the hate generator
is nowhere but in the background
of muted televisions
hovering over the waiting rooms
and lobbies of medical facilitie across the deep south.
static angels.

Its been years
since ive felt anything
for anyone
who wasnt blood related.
way back when
i couldnt speak to the dead.

we flew dream kites
in to powerlines
and let our bones
fuck in small piles
by the country highways
in the aura of burnt down churches
and the dying lights
of a day spent talking of what ifs
and thank gods
and i wish it would never end's.

These are the things
stardust is made of.

A Journal from the last day on earth 20,000 leagues deep

I get
lost in the sound
of sleeping landscapes
no nearer to the world on either side
compass mystery spiral
leads a wandering soul
into the clearing.

Tired and worn hands
build fires to warm beds
below drifting cloud citadels
and aurora figures
moving from the darkness
into the light

The sirens of the deep
envelope the cast iron man
breathing a long kiss
into the air tubes
that keep a tired man moving on.

A witness of restlessness
body convolutions
die back to deep relaxation
in the sense of giving in
to the temptation
or the euphoria of knowing
youre going to die.

a stack of scribbled books
tomes pictorially describing how
a feeling felt when caring
counted as a unconditional feeling
instead of a gesture of human decency.

To be human in the dark
takes a thick skin
and a breathing apparatus
to maybe make it to the end
or fail and stand between two worlds
always looking in.

Funeral rites
by soft lamp lights
in the early evenings
of the dying summer.
the cold approaches
with the last fireflies
of the fleeting year.

The finger hold
on this flip-book life
tapers toward the edges
speeding the flow of time.
we progress from drop of molasses
to a grease fire.

out of control thoughts
contained in caved in hands
holding my cranium together
like a G.I. holding a foot to the promise of a landmine
with no friends to recover the glory
its just you all over the room.
collecting yourself would be a life long effort

The easy way
is to fill your mouth
with cement and shut the fuck up
when you constantly trample over sleeping bodies
like speed bumps you do off your car dash
before your soul vacates the passenger seat
and leaves you in a pile of your own imploding heart.

I would be angry at the cards i was dealt
if i gave a fuck about winning the game
but I just sit back
and watch everyone go for the throat
leaving a mess
I wont have to clean up.

Theres never any blood or shit on my hands
just lead from rewritten destiny.

R.I.P Dad.

The Visionary

I dream of life
in the spotlight
dressed nice
sipping mojitos
throwing dice
to the sounds of stirred ice
in empty glasses.

Taking trips across the world
meeting girls who dont give a fuck
about me
just as much as i dont give a fuck about them.
tongue painting the sillouette of an hourglass demon
with expensive tastes
and a soul that died a long time ago.
so i dont have to feel bad
about leaving a post-it note
by the telephone

Wearing ties
to drive fast cars
down the coast
to ride bikes through the city
with joint roaches
twisting in a south eastern breeze

Fireflies ride the fog
from the foothills to the beach
setting a mood
like god showed up for wine and a conversation
smoking a cigarette talking about how real we are
if anything
dying doesnt scare you.
because youve done it before.

The sound of spanish guitars
in the distance of the
resident inn's
throwing rocks out the windows
because i trust them
as far as i can throw them
and i can i throw farther than i expected.

all the days of my life
There's a perforated figure with a shirt that reads
"Wish you were here"
long and lonely days
with journeys that end
in churches
praying for forgiveness
with gods blood
still floating in an empty stomach.

Everything grows fuzzy
and the world is distorted

--
How our kids would have looked.


Im thankful for my imagination
and a brother who loves me.

The Restless

Ive been gone for a while and I apologize.
Things arent always as great as they should be but im back.


--

You used to have a mirror
you could talk to
til you were blue in the face
and your soul was at peace
laughing over spilt drinks
hugging the moon hoping
it would stay just a little longer.

Your arms snap at the joints.
Its been a long time since you felt
what you've been searching for.
The glow of the night
lost its way
to your tired eyes
and the feeling of being someones legend
has died down with the howl
of the endless river of beers
you drowned yourself in.

The bones stacked against the wall
with a blank expression piercing
the black uncomfortable atmosphere
touching keys
to express a degree
of loneliness that makes you sick
to know you're your own arch enemy.

To kill this stories hero
one hand
washes the other
and the dialog echo back
from characters
you opened all sanctuary doors
to visit spirit to spirit.

drinking spirits
feeling the sheeps skin
drape over your cold shoulders
you confess things you
normally leave for the ghost.
you dont care if they eat you alive
and they probably will
because tonight is the last night
you seek council with another breathing soul

im tired of being aware.

American Vol VI - The Calmer

I take the long way home
drifting like clouds
over cities
and boundary lines
that dot the atlas.

trails through lost towns
and the streets you grow up on
where postcards and flavored memories
taste like southern honey
and wet thighs
deep fried.

fumbling youth
speaking to the speakers
twisting bottle tops
tossing letters into sleepy waters
calling mother nature
like a bird on the broken finger.

Catching breathes
i lost in parks long ago
treasure teeth
i smile
she called me a gem.
Jammed foot
reckless texts
wrecking tests
a percentage of me
is imprinted onto you

and the vice versa.

American Vol V - King Slayer

You grow up in the age of ignorance
with dirty youth birthrights
and cigarette ting fights.
I stay the shit
like babies with bad parents.

I drink enough poison
i irradiate every mini skirts
in twenty meter radius.
Death rays
cover my dirty skin.
Toothpick
riding in the shitty tooth
shotgun with a backseat full
of demon smoke.

Little kitty,
my princess
No queen
i fell out of grace
from a monarchy
into burning bridges
and being so fucking blunt
in the bay.

Goodness
Gracious
It must feel so good
to look so lost.
Crank Cranking
jeans ripped
Mad love for the bloody knee
Timer sand
runs thin
and im up
and

over it .
A king is born
test me.

Bike at night.

The Degenerate

I throw dice at the wall
through the long reclusive nights
gambling wih a penny
i make it...
the house always wins.

We were cards
on the river
chips finger over finger
flipping like you knew what you lived for
and it was your business
to fuck up every step of the way
like constantly stepping in shit.

Maybe im sixteen forever
with the mind of a dreamer
looking for dream
catcher.
In a sea of gambling slots
trying to accept my coin.

I swallow my vomit at least fifteen times a day
just to look back on the chances i took
and thank allah i made it here today.
Jesus is avoiding my phone calls these day.
some thorn in my side
he says.

Im
throwing rocks
at cars from roof tops
in the heart of a city
that has seen enough crying shames
we closed all the water parks.

You told me i was pretentious
i had a blog.
the truth is. i cant afford paper...
even if i could I would least of all spend it
talking shit about you.

I am the tired.
I am the cold feeling of being alone.
I am self reliance.
I am unknown.

Maybe ill be famous.

Romulus

Black steam train
headed to neverwas town
nowhere usa.

Fifty gold pieces
will buy your way.
Burning smoke plumes
out the top
of your aching head
hanging half way out the window
decompressing in the open air.

God save the queen
from the man silhouetted in tv snow
with a sharp tongue
and the golden finger
making sparks
chipping away
at the coldest shoulder.

Meat hooks
coming through the dead door.
How it must feel to stare at the wall
letting the sun
slowly blister your tired aching hands.
picking up the same bible and positioning it
at different corners of an empty room
hoping god will see your suffering
But the wolves in the woods
keep feasting
on the messengers hands.

If i keep writing,
If i keep reading,
this will never end
and i wont stop breathing
and i wont stop sleeping
waiting for the wine
to turn back into water
as i build an empire
of slowly aging kings.

Romulus.

American Journal - Vol IV - The projectionist

I am a thousand years older than my body.
I survive by slipping in and out of comfortably numb focus
some paleontologist would refer to iceage like stages.

I begin to ask myself the meaning
of what the fuck im doing.
What will my last shower ever feel like?
When did i stop caring?
Sleeping in...
to the sound of a drum beat
of sunday morning cartoons
rotting away in a pile of my wasted youth.

I am the son
of the man with the golden fleece.
eighty generations of human life precede me
through war torn love stories
to miami lights and broken glass pipes.
If i had a third eye
it would be setting my body on fire
as it rained holy water
for the things i let happen
to me.

I lost faith
a couple miles back.
Eating pipebombs and glass snakes
just to see how it tasted
to look sooo cine-ma-tic
on the silver screen,
when the whole fucking world
is just a shade of grey
and my life was just
never your kinda movie.

3
2
1
Ơ

Cassandra Complex

You believe the world is burning
because the shade dances
around your casting shadow
bleeding what is real
into the reels of your home movies.

Old photographs
pictures drawn
where you clearly see the lead snaps
or the ink run thin
is where your finger follows through
from one center
to another labyrinth
you get swallowed
in.

Your nail scratches
the top soil
of my brain matter
digging in
and feeling for reason
if memory served right
i wouldnt be this raw
untamed
like water moving over the ice.
i refuse my prison
of rooms with broken lights
trying to read the writing
on the walls.
waking up lonely
because youre the only one
who knows
what comes of it.

you saw the world burn
without a casting shadow
and no one believed you
as you dined on the endings
of long stories
put to rest
in the authors coffin.

only in the dreams
you die in.

American Journal - Vol III - The Visionary

What happened to the times
where we stayed up all night
chain smoking and drinking beer
just kicking back
talking to the swamps
about everything.

How it feels
to reminisce
about past times
coming through the glass
projecting images
frozen in time
bodies in still posed
the way a finger sliding over my chest
as i killed the lights
while it snowed heavy
in the living room
full of kids
with no where better to be.

The music still echos down the hall
now pattered with the feet of small animals
who have become conversation artists
and make the rainy days never lonely.
A bicycle that carries me farther then
a father ever did
when i was too fucked up.
Hanging on lamp posts
spotting for cops
while demons escape me
in my afternoon adventures
up the broken steps
to a temple where no one remembers
your name
and its okay that way.
Because when i go back down
i wont ever come back
and the treasure will curse me
like a pocket watch
that knew when you were gonna die.

and you regretted it
every day the sun burned
your leather face
through thick trees and humid breathes
exhaling copper flavored gasps
of used up air.

The bench makes a home for hours
of blood given to forget how it felt
and why you cant stop running
even if it doesnt get you anywhere.
its okay
because the records
plays on and on
and the old faces wont ever go away
but one day that old promise kept by
an unfriendly watch
will make you cash in the chips
and pay the tab
for things you can never take back.

The Apology

The blinded horse
heads for new pastures
beyond the blighted landscape
there is a dream
of green and colors ive never seen.

I hold my breath as i take each step
closer to the edge of a canyon
between unfathomable space.
Is this what ive been searching for?
Is this where the promise land is?

The summer
turns to winter
and back again
holding my hand
against my head
wiping the sweat
wiping the tears i hide
from the city evil doers.
The blood stains across the carpet
covered with cigarette burns
and jesus blood pouring from gaping mouth
splashing patterns ive never seen before.

I am the holy one.
I dont bare grudges
or hate the ones who hate me.
I live for tomorrow
fighting through the night
listening to the same songs
over and over
hummed by the girl
with her hands on my reigns .

It rains for days
watching the humidity dry to the glass
fogging the exterior.
I dont exist for a little bit
as the smoke pours out of my burning attic.
I am eternally greatful
for the good times
and the bad ones.

I am the man from nowhere
with a name thats only been said
by the luckiest gods.
And they know i forgive you
for being who you are.
Loving is unconditional
even when you sleep in.
even when you're alone.
even when its too late.
Lucky shoes
keep the faith.

im sorry.

Deeper

Thrashed through
the black rip tide.
Water filled lungs
have half gargled
responses buried deep
in my crystal psyche.

Golden gate
closed pride.
razor teeth
slide over the bars
looking for entry
looking for anything.
to stab deep,
the afflicted hope.

I've turned invisible
to the surrounding city.
Buried in the dirt
with arms wrapped across
the lost treasure of a forgotten
empire.

The sun never makes it
this deep.
The smoke fills,
The hand clutches
and closes.
Filled with timer sand
from ill spent nights
holding your head
or fucking the dead.

a promise is argumentative
Backbone evolution
digressed with the invention
of the high heel stiletto
through eyes wide open

i can see the light.

Cold Sound

Bloodless Sucker
in the mud.
Heavy rain
Heavy handed
holding fire
to keep the darkness
from closing in.

Reach from the sheets
of cold rivers
chalice cover hands
drink from the challis
of life
looking for meaning...

Im sorry
it tastes so bitter
the poison running
down
your faded face
as the shock
of
how empty it sounds
moving through you.

The curse of mortal moments
where you block the sun
with your thumb
and you let bolts from heaven
crush your spine
as the wolves leave the forest
with the smell
of rotting flesh
fueling a appetite.
--
Im sorry its a hard pill
that takes you far from home
and leaves you in an alley at six years old
with all locked doors
and a man who knows
your father is getting high in the attic
and your all alone.

A gypsy kiss
blows the mist off the
dusted table covered with relics
of different gods,
As she tooled away at bones an gems
speaking in undertones
i saw the light leave her eyes.
She whispers
stories of old glory
one of a kind,
losing the light.

Drifting for days.
weathering the storm
clinging to the ground
and fighting the monolith.

This was heavy shit.
bone fingers
grinding across the surface
of the
drinks knocked
in teeth
swallowing slow
and take it for what it is.

Because i cant call god
and i cant fucking move the sun
and i cant fucking turn out the lights
in your scary head
and i cant fix the hole
in the earth
you leave
everytime you go
kamikaze.
Godzilla is not impressed.

Bike day.

The gentle rain
looks like background static
living for today
haunted by the spirits
of last night.

Straight arrows
shatter in half
through eyes wide open
watching the sun disappear
behind the grey sheets
and break the atmosphere.

The lights burn out
blowing off steam
blood left
across the city
from leaps of faith
and a fucked up crank

Cigarette phantom
smokestack stand in
leading the only friend i know
home.
how it feels to truly care
about something other than yourself
that doesn't sink into a vein
or have you living
in a grave made for two.

The devils lettuce
brings visions
of old paths i could have taken.
Breaking down trains
of thought that
I dont want to know anything about.

God grant me peace
in the form of park benches
and the red sunsets.
living the dream
and never giving in

Kill the lights.

Stepping Stone bridges

You attempt
to inject substance
to fill the cracks
from crystal
bouncing off the porous ivory exterior

staying up for days
just fucking
and calling home
to hear the footsteps
haunt through
the oak floor
up the telephone cord
and out the skylight
you created in your ceiling
with a shotgun.
i just need space

Your orbit decays
like Challenger 7
the day it should have slept in.
The way it feels
to catch a breath
and have your lungs collapse
from a coal mining dynamite misfortune.

Now your just talking sparkling diamonds
instead of bullshit
and heads through walls
or drooling poison all over upturned zippers.
with wet panties in a wasteland of letters i wrote
to myself about how i wanted to find meaning

in
writing
all these
words down.

licked stamps
pressed against foreheads
if the only thing
that scares you is dying alone
then take a long nap on a train
headed up the coast
and every lighthouse
will remind you of how it felt
to lose your way.

white heels.

A parasite
gliding across
bare bones.
fingers reaching for muscle
thats ended
like your original thoughts.

Time warp
over and over
jigsaw sessions
throwing shapes at the wall
breathing heavy
holding myself
to comfort the emerging ghost.

Bleeding to feel real
afraid of dying
because you might miss one minute
of your never ending movie
With the diamond sun
and the statues of gods crying
coveting your deathbed
rolling over and over
putting bags over your head
fucking spiritual...
being choked by dream catchers.

there is no salvation
in the blackhole city
Just long goodbyes
and deep breathing
when you find out

this is the end.

Another year im not dead

Another year of getting told how
to live off the land
by the wolves and thunder gods.
Mother nature
and her helping hands
around my throat.

choking on the forever smoke
of dreams that burn like city churches
in the days of yore.

Youre one of those people
who know me better than
i know myself
living in shattered mirrors
with an attic full of bat shit.
You were crazy like the bible pages
we made into paper airplanes
and smashed into lego buldings.

With furiocity in each step
we crushed the land
never giving a fuck
that tomorrow might be
the last day we ever talk

we were already extinct.
dinosaur bones
grinding against wet panties.
clutching crosses
glowing in the darkness
xrays from my
kitty of the month calandar
shower us in a way
that we melt

and our hearts just so happened to clash
like a comet
on the night we met.
it was flint striking
in a blackout room.
creating what sounded like beats
that kept going on
and on
and on.
and on.
and on.
and on.
and on.
and
off.

-
Next Weeks Episode
Killer iceage faggots #23

This is prophecy. God is with us.

My bones collect
at the bottom of a furnace
casted into the heart of the
deepest frozen sea.

I glimmer to passers-by.
communicating a demeanor
that keeps me alive
without deflating.
Never letting the absence
of substance allude that
a predator has become prey.

We clutch hope at the center of a shell
desperate to make it somewhere big
but what could be bigger than the unfathomable
depth of solitude.

The juices flow from tightened muscles
and regurgitated thoughts. In the absence of light
we make our own. We breath the poisons
from the bottom of church pews
envisioning the rapture and bitter endings.

a let down in the shape of a man
holding letters and fruitless attempts
to see things crystal clear in a house full of shadows
and bad days.

If i could wrestle this gun from my temple
i would build an alter to the falling sun
and let the twilight hours be the holy moment
when heaven and earth split
and we were young again
able to make mistakes
we could walk away from
without regrets
instead of shutting out the voices
of those who love you
letting the waves pull you.

and at the bottom of it all
is where you exist
holding a moment
praying to swap lives
with yourself in a past tense.

American Heartland Vol II - Hunter Gatherer

I am a creature
of an extinct tribe.
175 pounds
175 pounds over weight.
I fall into tar pits
and end up resurrected
by the next morning sun light.

I give blood to the moon
and offer water to the sand,
the sweat of my brow
stains the floors
during faithless hours
in Purgatory U.

I sustain my spirit
by living life on the edge
with a thread
clinging to a collar
where seconds are more like hours
and failure
doesnt offer
another helping hand.

God damn
this beautiful sky
cutting through the blinds
into my rapidly expanding pupils
and this bed made for two
that nests more pets
than people.

I am the procrastinator
the cursed one
with high hopes
and self destructive patterns
low patience and too much sense
but never enough change.

im destined
for great things
like the atomic bomb
and the dead astronauts
who still watch and wait.
for the love
of just one final embrace.

Maybe its my blood
filled with heavy metals
and toxic waste
alkaline waters
from the run off
of Cuban beaches.

Or the pompous fortitude
of the Scandinavian northern
desolate winter survivor.
iceberg son
drifting into the darkness
hoping to strike home
reaching out
and feeling the oil
from her cold steel chest
cover me
as she sinks
deeper to her knees
and tells me


all those lives
are worth it
for me.

i would eat every heart
and let the salt water
flood in.

The Title of something youre the only person reading.

Sore back
and blistered feet.
walking for weeks
in an afternoon day dream.

The sun
it bursts
like vegas lights
when the power switch get thrown.
A supernova
we are eclipsed

my brains
spilled out
across the fractals of broken glass
that complete the street
you grew up on.

the fire
burns deep
like coal shoveled into the furnace
of my inner peace.

I slip on
old shoes
that know how to walk out of a thousand doors
but cant learn to feel welcome
in any city.

I cant
stop this
from happening.
with chewed nails
i refuse to except
my failures as fate.

i leap
to have faith
in something
like the early Americans
once did.
Geronimo.

We searched
for the holy spirit
in between vanilla tits
deep thighs
and tained glasses
Finding cursed nights
with demons
pouring ectoplasm
all over the bathroom sink

A psychic
witnessed
the promise land
She whispered
in her raspy cigarette voice

What the fuck
Does it matter
with the price of tea in China
how your movie ends.

Everything is about someone else
fade out of focus.
To Black.

Transylvania on the radio.

I grind my teeth
expelling steam
mashing gears
picking scabs
burning bridges
feeling the gravity of a world
with no feeling.

You walk down the empty streets
in a haze of memory and false senses
of "I've been here before."
Ive done this.
many times
finding my hands shaking
before the sun comes up
smoking cigarettes
unsteady
like a house of cards
around the windy kids.

Through the years ive
molted & evolved
the thickest
skin knives and tongues alike
dream of invading my carapace
like wooden stakes
This would be a vampire embrace.
Bibles on dressers
and money on the glass.

we lived like movie stars.
and ended up nobody's.

We'll always have Romanian sunsets.

Watch Maker - INPUT 2

Some days i have faded spots in my vision.
A psychic once told me that was the fate changing before my eyes.
A shaman told me it was the moment past lives over lapped in similar circumstances.
A doctor told me it could be diabetes.

--

How it would feel to just exist on the background landscape of my mental plain.
Knee deep in a shit storm of spinning lights and whiskey flavored pipe bombs.
How the sensation of falling stars clashing against my chiseled upturned spine.
The hollow sound when old spirits of my short life come to visit
and watch an interesting young man
become that weird old guy.

The projected blue body
masturbating in the night
to highschool panty dropping day dreams
the way you used to stain a dress in a high class
establishment.
Smoking the devils lettuce and inner city church hymns.

A golden fleece draped over my ghost
keeping all the demons at bay
til the moon crashes
the way my pupils dip south
as my eyes roll back
and im covered in my
good fortunes.

god let me live.

All my friends are in valhalla

One of my friends died.
A girl killed him.
he loved to ride bikes.
We partied.
We Giv'r'd
We miss him.
-RIP JJ.

--
I cut the sun
with a flea market straight razor
depicting wolves in the wind
a gypsy once told me
would free my strings.

I bled for two years
and i havnt herd a beat since.

Dracula drain
the molten ember blankets
my skin
flooding the holy city
evaporating the shadow
leaving a neutron star
at the heart of my spirit.

Climbing mountains
rolling out of bed
minutes tumbling
from a digital clock
as i drift from room to room
haunting my own inner child.

The pressure
panic attacks
mine shaft temporal lobe
collapses
have diamonds
compressing black lungs.
a fortune in a deep breath
the world turns dark
the noise drowns out...
i am at the center
of the universe.

A guillo-teen
the youth of a deep south wizard
doing necromancy in parks
after dark
with kids
from the void
and highschool.

we burned the photo albums
things like this were slide shows
from deathbed memories.
Documenting a miracle
just makes magic
science.

I cant break into jukeboxes

Red Rover
Red Rover
Lucky
Four leaf Clover
destroyed
and rebuilt every day over.

Brain storm
give birth to flashes of
the olden times
before the temple
she was caught fire
prospects
of a rebel lost in the night.

Fast train car kids
watching the white lines too long
road hypnosis
with pantie overdoses
limp dicks
and coffin kisses
Malatov sun rises
burning bones
to keep the skin warm.

We ran out of last nails driven
at least five fucking nails ago.

Bandits holding
smoking pistols
escaping through windows
into vanilla sheets
with demons and tits.
Finding honor where it doesn't belong
never respected

this was never a heroes song.

i wish it was.

American Heartland Vol I - Domino Effect

You were the fence god
pinned up barb-wire wrists
with a lonely son
who prayed
till he fell
and the constellations
were exposed across
a battered back.
washing the blood
would clear a conscience.

Gravel dug-in knees
palms in the dirt
the levitation act begins.
God forbid a helping hand
pivots my way.
The glory
of sweat on one mans brow.

The loneliness...
such a glassy constant setting.
the projecting blue glow from a television
into vacant unblinking eyes.
The revelation
of the present and future
intersecting at the sound of a metronome.
The houses heart keeps beating
its self to sleep night.

Claymore Facial.

You feel awkward
being the only person
in modern society using sun guides.
Buried treasure never took anything but a little spirit
and a timely manner.
Just a few years too late. . .

I am expelling hate
like a blanket of muted volume
that shakes the walls.
I cant understand how
to feel as more than just one
unknown son.

two
times i tried knocking on your door.
in the rain with a heart
that just wont stop beating
like my ghost is being carjacked.

Now i smash empty bottles in telephone booths
bleeding into the mouthpiece
how it feels to believe in god
and know he fucking hates you.
or just loves watching the devil
give you handjobs in the gutter.

i just want to believe
in something better than this.

Pressure Switch

You have been brewing
in a cauldron of self loathing
with your head in the ground.
blocking out the rays of the sun
peeling back layers of atmosphere
to reach out and taint your skin
from white to grey.
How it must feel to live in the deep space.

The heavy weight
butterflies feel in death throes
on an african coast
beg to differ with my afternoon planner.
The thunder from car bumpers in the distance
flashing lights
and vomiting monsters in the fresh moonlight.
The steam is lifting from the streets.
I like to think the city's soul is escaping.

Finally put to rest for an evening.

The sounds of clanking metal
and snapped carpel bones
are the soundtrack to my astronaut vacation.
I exist around places you would know or go
but the copper taste in my mouth
has a different frequency only dogs can hear.

The green grass
from the devils garden
floods the entry to my holy temple
I witness the world from the reflection
of the panel glass in the witching hour.
3:33
73F
--:--
:
All the lights go out
the air is a musty southern hint of rough sex
and painkillers.
She would always tell me about the ways
the scars on my body reminded her of ex lovers.

How they were so much better
and the way the stars collapsed when my eyes rolled back
and stopped giving a fuck
a head injury for a headache.
a broken rib for a heartbreak
a cast for a curse.
I will always be a friend
you remember in daydreams or
on deathbeds.

Shredder.

update incoming.

XIII

Biked all day.
listened to sweet jams.
I hope to see
how things turn out.

What the fucks the point. . .

You smell like i hate you
You taste like old news papers
from past tragedies

everything i do never
set precedence.

I was the last ride
of a dead president

good dreams
and assassinated
character.

Now the days move slower
than honey on cold glass.

I make love to the street post illuminated night
losing time in private properties

buckled feet
to the animal mother.
save for a few fights.
my time could be worse.

i could still be making childhood visits to
Dade county correctional.
clutching crosses till my palms bleed

a miracle
i made it this far
escaping to the golden gates
and all the noise
of people thinking for me.

I did my best
and sometimes i had to except
that somethings you just cant win
no matter how hard you try

Morning comes.
I fall to hell
and fold my hands in prayer
that i make it out of the coffin
card
in a gypsy's hand.

XIII...

oops sorry im tight.

Cowboy Killers

the god of molasses
every time my crusty shutter
open to the the morning harbinger.

a constant plaguing sound.
humming in my ear
the deafness
a hollow sound.
uneven balance
in old broken shoes
keep me a skilled navigator
of unforgiving waters.

Just another fifteen minutes...
The rotery belts turn
crushing the ice
into my steam conductors.
hydrolic arms push
the earth further from
fantasy into the hard lights
of another day
full of nicotine exposure
and a cerebellum implosion.

Vacant green eyes channel the glass
on the drives across town.
my voice is in recension
but its bad all around.
NPR zombies
drinking my brain jelly.

The neutron star
on the edge of unfathomable journeys
apparently began dumped out
at the local gas station
educated guesses would say
i get lied to every mother fuckin day.

shred it and forget it.

If trust was a cheap thing
Momma would've raised a fool
spitting seeds across the city
shooting my sewers full of toxic waste.
breathing in paint thinner
sitting naked
on magnetic north
in Pluto's summer solstice

I may be fucking crazy..
but at least im not stupid.

Deathcatcher

I weave threads
gray with time
silk followed folds
binding the edges
a bone of an animal i killed
a feather of the bird i live to be

the dresser vibrates
the bible crusher
vodka obstructed message
has traveled from space
and back
to destroy my nightmare.

The sleeping giant wakes
scouring the wasteland
eating the ultra violet radiation
creating fusion in the dead reactor
powering the gospel of past spirits
that've been further down the road
im walking along.

a church
with no organ.
you dont lose much faith
when the deafness sets in.
ringing constantly
folded hands
trap the last light.

The evil eye
fuels the vultures appetite
a stiletto touches me deeper
than cheap words
hanging me from noose
with every wrong letter
the floor slides out
a
little
mo_e

the swan drops the sound
if i was drowning
would you see how blue
i could get before you
placed a straw
on my lips
to smoke a farewell cigarette
while you pop my last breathes
as they float to the surface
inhaling the essence.

A firing squad
of anxiety
cluster fucks my quick reflex
to fight or flight
when im all out of forgiveness
and short of breath on retreats
for other days.

the war is over
but the battles never stop
like the out of touch Japanese
my eyelids set
on a rising star
where instability
is defined
by bursting bolts
and gauges with broken needles

you spin the charm above your bed.
you spin the charm below your ankle.
a curse is lifted for a night
and the feather knows a road
where a few letters
could save a soul.

what i think about.

What i really do..

holdin on.

Dr 3D

We sit down and watch tee-vee
in three dee
on telemundo
with the subtitles on
pretending im moved
by the ballads of corrupt politicians

The ants on my skin
dig in the trenches
for the holy war
i always attributed
to afternoon cold sweats
the awkward facial expression
mouth half hammered open
in the back seat with
a heart beat reaching mild cardiac

arrest.

I lean forward and tuck
my spinning visions between my legs
and breath deeply
oh god fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckk
and the moment passes

i am on the verge of constant meltdown
some nights my ex soviet union bloodcells
and cosmonaut skeletons drifting around in deep cerebellum space
have forsaken me with the promises of revolutionary dreams.

Not dyslexic hand writing
and a faulty machina in the face
of steam powered afternoon gamma rad exposure.
You were built on a family of cuban cigars
and dutch architecture
the lead paint interior
keeps so sweet
as well as avoiding public crisis
a small star
a soul

falling out
and
consuming everything
returning all the fucking shitty things i never deserved

back to sender.

Crusader

I unscrew my top
and let the garbage fall out.
true north.
unaccountable movements
follow me home
for the days where late nights
weren't long enough to interpret
the length of time ive been drifting in circles
cutting holes in the floorboards
possessed by turned stomachs
and the ghosts lost at sea.

Family photos are elevated
above eye level
looking over my life list.
on my knees praying
if could make it just this once
just one more time
if i could just do it again
would i do it right
or find a path to turned down lights
and weightless feet.

I hold myself down
weighted by the baggage of a thousand
lifetimes of predecessors
predictions
and post dated letters.

The panic and hysteria is a constant
sound like a plane full of psychics
who dont make it home
and cant give a fuck
so they roll the ball and let fortune
slide into the pilot seat.
being fortunate wasnt a life skill i acquired

The ants in my belly
bite deep being consumed by honey
of a better tomorrow
looking forward
walking the balance beam over shark tanks
with a blindfold
a stiff breeze
and a comical banana peel.

The moment comes and passes.

My ears hit a hollow sound,
i cant sense the heart beat
the earth used to pulse beneath my feet
sending electric current into my dying battery
now i come close to digging my own grave
on a month to month basis
over exaggeration isnt in my repertoire
of human functions.

We sit on the roof tops
of this undeserving city
watching cars bleed into
the afterglow of the next morning mist.
holding on tightly
to things that curse our eyelids
like the phantom in the movie theater
playing the old reels
about the legendary moments
where the world was options
instead of slammed doors.
how it must hurt
to miss an ugly exterior.

We live with the choices we make
and the bad taste in our mouths
are just testaments to the flavor
of the way we used to be.

a body in the desert
is a gift to the sky
and the land is the witness of
the great communion
as it consumes a pound of flesh
and pulverize bone
leaving
an ending
fit for a king.

i am alive again.

--

I was always good
at seeing into the distance.
the self doubt
from the lighthouse
where the day wind came calm
and the pages of time
a page or two more.

I bite my lip
Growing a little older.
Growing old.

I can see everyone i know
and how the road bends
forks and dead ends.
but i cant see myself

Do I
feel afraid?
the loss of life
the final embrace
the unknown train ride
i would take anywhere
for you.

in this life
i roll the dice keeping faith
in the leaps i take.
landing hard and broken.
soft and unspoken
drifting out the backdoor
gone like a bandit

i imagine the place...
a dark cave waiting
at the end of it all
for people i know
thick in the blackness
warm or cold
burning or blissful
absent or absolute.

The question rolls around my attic
as i trace the memories of the first time
i took a ride alone.

The sleeping giant tumbles to the earth
out of his perch
in slow motion the broken bottles
cushion the fall.
The taste in my mouth
how it tasted to be alive

rubbing rabbits feet
clover rover afternoon park loner
sipping tea under a tree
blind to life
i see nothing
and i walk with boundless feet
the fool
sees the world
fast as light.

America: The land of the falling son

I run all night
losing my mind
on roads never been down before
hiding
letting the blood roll over my forehead.
licking my lips
and the vomit
pure and black with self loathing
or
how it felt to shed your skin
and unravel centerfolds
in the burning hours of an afternoon
holding onto seconds we call revelation

we were just kids.

The wood rot
from your wormwood figure
selects the fractals of water
to swell and purge the sap
from aching joints decompressing.
letting the toxic vents
in my epidermis pour out
spent stress
semen and old curses.

a cracked window
exposing the air to a wind of relief.
a smog
and the dense copper
from a deserted mine shaft
for a mouth.

You turn the radio way down low
so it feels like you have friends in another room
and its not so lonely.
when the telephone
never rings.

I used to have a ring
i wore to promise
id never do the things
i still do.
Just to get through the end of the night
i wake up with a shallow line
of pale skin
in a perfect world

this would be a sign of cancer
not a self delusion.

I spent my whole life trying to give meaning to my days.
through scars and turbulence
legends and out right lies
rested eyes and red eye fights.
i cant say im perfect
but im probably better than this.
and i wouldnt live any other way.

Relax dont keep your eyes open...

The grey days and tv snow.

You call your heart collect
across three states
over static discharge
frequency.

Your just an old ham radio
at the side of the road
breathing out smoke
short circuited fuses
blow out butterflies
when no ones looking
you lost your mind

and you still cant find it.

The air taste like ellaye
all the ufos get mistaken for planes
out here.
but everyone's an alien anyway
who the fuck can make any sense.

You sleep with one eye open
because you're afraid of yourself
the days feel automatic
without the great gospel vibrations
pouring over my afternoon reception.

The white noise
you are the holy ghost.
god damnit stop using that word
but it sticks to you
and you cant forget it
the day you threw up
all over the bathroom sink
and the coffin line
vibrated twice...
...it gets texts too.

how it felt to lose.
An old ham radio
at the side of the road
making collect calls
just over the noise...
hoping you can hear the sound.
and fortuna never told.

--

School is tough.
Life is tough.
An exgirlfriend whos one of the better friends i got.
And i prove urban legends wrong.
maybe life is hard..
and it fucking sucks...
but its not that bad....
all the time.

Maybe i didnt sign up for this
but fuck if i cant make the best of something.

Sometimes i wear nice shirts....

An Owls Story

My head
hangs like a broken crane.
Listening to the vultures
eat the eyes
from fresh green-gone-grays.

The sputter from a mental gasket
the duct tape binds memories
and holds in unhappy ribs.
These words will take any exit
they can.

my finger forces dew across the glass
entertaining the moment
letting prior engagements
and urges unsatisfied
fall victim to an apathetic afternoon.

A telephone that just wont die
blinking early warnings
cascading thoughts
played out on a motion picture ceiling.
messages thicken the plot.
the lighthouse never spots the rolling fog
before the cargo is a mercy to the tide.
all in a nights work.

I could almost sleep easy.
knowing these letters might find there way
to gods ears.
this never was a prayer for salvation.

Just a thanks for listening
for a moment.

Repercussions

Ive been drowning myself in bottles
outside old churches
leaving notes to old spirits
in street chalked breeze ways.
But he always sends his regards in heavy rains.

Just like the old nights where a needle collapsed vein
raised from the dead
just to speak to the lake monster about the miserable words
you left half buried in my head.
In chalk, he continued...

The clouds.
I was so distant
i drifted across two states
looking for a soul
sending postcards from a forwarded address
of the attic we grew up in.
Asbestos and all American
I stormed for nights letting lightning and hell fall from mouth
Dimming down the lights
letting the gloves fall off.

We drink from the blood of the old moon and spoke to the text wizard all night
about alternate realities and handcuffed bedposts
our hung out heads
making drug fueled getaways
from highways or highwaters
We could sleep in again.
It was never gonna be safe
so who cared anyway.

Now the coast looks poisoned and pale
like a tv that just dont work right
reclined in the condom adjacent front row seating
to the apocalypse
or the end of everything
Ragnarok to my viking friends.
God was god to me.

The way two suns get too close and the gravity is so dense
a misplaced hand could backlash time
and the fire would wash away the guilt from the ink stained excuse nailed to the back of my head.
its the most beautiful
scary fucking thing, and i was alive.
--
A recap on my life.

Problems...
Tight shit...
Bike Stuff....
School...

A few pictures....

talk to you soon.






fuck.
crap.

UNKNOWN NUMBER / Religous Experation

She broke the silver lining
and crippled a silver city
a temple of obscurity
i had no security
because it was the desert
and only the sand visits
the green mirror.

and im sorry that i cant hold still
and lay in place
but these oily scales
have me swimming in gulf coast rivers.

Irish holidays
ive wasted melting away
Looking for someone to hold these tentacles back
from bursting out of my head.


I could hold my own
but im afraid of grounded telephones
land-lines
that reach out and touch me
carving notches on old bones
broken and holding
holding in dreams

the way the concrete turned to stone
when the door closed.
i wish i could stop sleeping.

I slip into a green beer
with a wide angle view.
Veneer necklaces
chomping on my flesh
looking for whats old
"Buy what you know"
but ive been all bought out.

I dont pretend to transcend human understand
but I do know that when you go to sleep at night
regrets are gonna roll around
with or without me.
And so the dice keep rolling on.

I commit a crime here or there
and i do a penance
to make it back
to make it okay.
But whenever one takes a mile
i take a few steps
and the wood creeks so much louder.

--


I have moments of unimaginable action
where my heart beats accelerated protons
and i am critical mass on any god given beautiful sunday

I am motorized black tar poisonous scar
on inner city no smoking society.
I give blood to the earth
and the hearth cracks from the corner up.
jesus i wish atlas would swallow me up.

I have cat scratches
on the inside of my brain foundry
falling down a slippery slope
and i hope i wish i dream i would
make it to the bottom of something
not alone.

Theres a deathbed in a crystal ball
with a mother mary
holding my afflicted coil
wiping the fear from my eyes
and in that balls shadow lies
a reality thats cold and honest
and hurts to know
that sometimes you leave the door
you might not make it home
the same
and everything falls temporary

Your friends dont love you...
everyone is accustom to your face,
and the motel in keeper
from the town you decided to lose yourself in
points you to the bible in the dresser
and the bullets in the bench base.

I have vacancy.

--

Fuck St Patricks Day.
This holiday is stupid
my soul hurts
my body hurts
my head hurts
Downtown sucks
Downtown sucks
Downtown sucks
Downtown sucks
Downtown sucks
Downtown sucks
Downtown sucks
Downtown sucks
imsleepinginouch.

Atlantics

We are the colorblind
following the reflection
into the river
of the black gods
holding onto mirrors
"oh this is my boyfriend"
not at the end of the night.

You project a best foot forward
stepping down the spiral
of the deep city.
fathomable pressures
decompress youre seemingly solid
exosekeleton.

Iron clad man
breathing nitrogen
and hearing voices
from older places
air supply insufficient
collapsed throat
and cold sweats
my chest hurts
and i cant feel my leg.
grabbing at the absence
looking for a light
at the bottom of a glass.

You rise too quick
and you feel your organs explode
with the elecrtic eel wrapped around your neck
the halo is becoming more apparent
like a fire escape
to catch a breath
on the other side
of the heart monitor.

Call me to collect
my bones
from the trenches of your bedroom floor
when i roll off the bed
and onto the old.

a species lost.

And so it begins..

My American Dream is coming to life.
© The.Holy.City Web Design

MJ morning. Grumpy and Stupid

Thanks for running away asshole.

The Hypothesis of a fucking moron.

You tune out the city
with your steel radials.
The sun reflects
of your tinted soul
reclined in rusted beach chairs
killing the day
driving over a hundred
with the wind cutting crop circles
into your bed head.

For too long
these feet paced the area
of the smallest rooms
counted every carpet fiber.
followed every fault
in the weak floorboards.
Drank the black jelly
between the world
and everything else.

My eyes are fixed
on the air between
myself and the distance.
Nowhere is where im going
and maybe ill never get there
but if it takes forever
at least
i can meet a few good faces on the way.

You are so prone
to the negative approach
of every single morning.
But opposite
day cant just be a word without purpose,
Its gotta happen now and again....
Even if you wake up too late.
And you fucked up.
Holding out in between those days
was your golden spoon.

Nothing matters.
all my crosses left
in closets
next to
skeletons from past lives.
You could kill yourself
enough times
you wouldn't have to serve the life sentence.

If nothing matters
does the absence of anything still amount for something?
You could roll up your sleeves cause you dont give a fuck
today,
But is that just perspective based
to the giant knife wielding cunt
painting x's on your postcard back.

If nothing is a place in nowhere USA
you could make a lot of enemies
with just a smile and a wave.
Silver tongues so smooth
you knew they were guilty
but the jails would let them loose.
with a rope around your neck
because no one wants
an honest man.
with troubles
and demons
and good intentions.
Get the fuck out of here.

"Just passing through..."

"Just passing through..."

Play me.

The antisocial was given a gift by god

Sound
The fourth dimension
The way the words
make your heart break
welcome to hell

Im terminal
in all black
kicking dynamite
down hot blocks
with a gas rain
spectators throwing matches
just to cheer on pain
waiting to see my spirit
pour out of small round holes
from being too nice
too long
but even "too long" has an ending
thats short and devoid of a heroic setting.
You see the arena in everything.

Neutral expression
like a low end funeral parlor
undertaker
letting things pile up is just business.

Your friends with the cold
and you seen the other side of the mask
its just a collapsed star
that sits in the back
of your head
swallowing light
like hookers in church.

Short term memory
is replaced with
legal pad and pen
holding lists of words
relating to organ donations
and blood debts
i owe to the last drop

Super slurpee vampire
brain frozen like the time
after the land before time.
melted to ripped up leather seats
God save the queen
because another horseman arrived for me.

A few shallow breathes
and you wonder
is this really the end
or is it just someth

The time you asked me if i believed in telepathy

We should just bury it in the woods
and catch splinters hopping the old fence
crossing our chest
like a bat out of hell
on the run
from the restless spirits
If my head
was your movie
oh baby we'd be a western.

We took the pale horse
and headed south
to the tomestone
lawless country
where southern women
poison the river
washing off sins
and i drink down stream.

I exert hate-o-active waves
the company of sketchy shadow
on high noon at puker mountain
my wounded knee is calling
the Geronimo in my boney cavity
to stop beating

For a second i feel the whiskey
hold off unending hand tremors
come and go like the seasons
and its been a long winter.

the survivalist
sucks the juice from a berry
before biting
consuming to its end.

the fool
insomnia has you
catching sun ghosts
you cant trust yourself
and you leave things
just so
half - buried
in the woods.

What manner of business is this.