Finger painting.

How it feels to come alone.
tip-toeing over the internets anonymous love letters.
the way broken glass gives my feet long deep hugs.
theme songs for pets playing trash hockey with pictures
i drew when i felt something bluer than those skies
when the days had a fresh hue to them.
Like every day was 1997.


The dreamer
blowing the ballasts
on my afternoon submarine.
I am the chlorine crocodile
Floating in self loathing
and beer cans second gadget manifestation
of cigarette kamikaze receptacle.

Handsome as hammers.
i am the factory worker of your dreams.
saving frogs from street cars
and appearing negatively optimistic .
 i slumber in the sheets of the void
til a little past noon.
Wrestling with my demons leaves rest
unsatisfied.
I fall to the floor
digging in piles of dull colored
 machine washed scumbag armor.
for my first magic trick.
How to turn a boy in to a stone age smokestack.
Cromagnon man reinventing the wheel on the north side of town.
Where the weird looks
and "faggots" flows out  passing windows.

I fall in triumph
to the pavement with the thrill
of my heart beating like ten thousand,
thosand suns merged in to one small place
i get up and i go over it
again.
the hue is illuminating
i am skinned knees
and in my center.

I talk about it with her over shitty coffee.

I have probably written
enough pages of misspelled words
and poorly written feelings
of my misspent youth
jerking off in the shower to flash backs
of wet tits
and fingers gliding
as sensually as my clumsy hands could maneuver.
i bite my lip and bang my head against the tile
as I cum too soon with a dull ended feeling.

"Was it worth it."
I always ask myself...

I play back so many days of my life
I imagine myself sitting in
a shitty movie theater in my own head.
Sticky floors,
Smoke filled,
Broken seated,
Condom cupholder.

I cant be too harsh.
Some nights are better than others.
Like the night the power went out.

I am eccentric
a gypsy fortuneteller told me
last week...

My moon is in the death house.
"What the fuck, true."
 My moon is always in the death house.. 

I figured nine cigarettes for a balanced breakfast.

i am always in constant peril.

Always almost out of last chances
or free spins.
Almost always falling behind
hanging on by the strongest thread.

You stop checking your mirrors
looking over your shoulder pedaling
rush hour cave man.
Wrong  century for a wandering spirit.

I guess your not afraid of going.
Just afraid of being trapped
in tight small places.
watching home movies
cumming on sore bookmarks
in your journals creases 


This probably makes no sense.
...................................................
yea... nothing. nevermind.