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.