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.