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.

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