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.