All those that you love

and leave behind

hide thoughts

inside your head

unwinding are

the salad days

of mispent youth

to be aloof

lost and so alone

a stanger in your own home

finding only pain

and anguish

turning to smoke

making the moments

of bordom more barabile

filling the void

with whatever is avalible

its a parible to how terrible

we feel inside

we are still alive

with time to find

what works

and what is broken

is all hope lost

I sure hope not

how do you begin again

after laying with lady heroine

death becomes all of us

so we skipped the bus

and dropped out of school

while eating LSD

promising to be nobody’s fool

when we did coke

we felt cool

with junk

we felt white hot

the sun comes up slow

a pink hue, an orange glow

under it we had our stunt’s

you are still out to lunch

I will be busy preparing dinner

where we will converse

over a coarse

of some rhyme and reason

there isn’t much we belive in

atleast this much is true

addictions are treasons

to our freedom

To the dark side of the moon

and the things hidden

behind the glam and glitz

or our proper art eye’s

its paparazzi

putting images

flashes

lacking brilliance

the bohemian era is dead

the punks died

of heroin overdoses

all the anarchist

are teachers

being payed by taxes

walking small

in the land of

hypocrisy

its all lost in a word

and a world

so lost and alone

we make hearth and home

making landmarks

of nothingness

hope is a four letter word

so is fuck

and I hope

we are not fucked

I really do

love might be

the only thing that saves us

finding it

may kill you

survival is a gamble

who knows what

will finally get you

but it will

and all the people you love

will love you to tears

silently thanking you

for the years shared

and the pain we bare

I look for that honest stare

everyday

but only ever see it

at funerals.

An electric sun meets the horizon

on a cold southern day

its December now

there is no powder snow

or day glow dying leaves

this town is a ghost

to its wishes

the watchmen

wade the hoards

and observe sociology

while the animals

hide from predators

the sun soon hides

from night

everything is escaping something

only to find themselves

back in it

the next mourning

america has become

a desert for dreamers

disappear disciples

take your knowledge

like precocious jewels and metals

and hide those thoughts

in jars and under mattresses

there are burglars on the prowl

listening to our tall tales on the telephone

I speak only in code

all my words are ambiguous

and the decipher dictionary

is out of print

I am the enigma machine

you can’t understand what

I mean

but there is more truth

hidden under what is seen

the clean fiend

who has a lust for life

it’s like being the only

one at the party

it’s all what you make of it

how you interpret it

and digest it

what is it

we have never had the answer

we make fiction to fill gaps

and pass it off as gospel

its truly awful

the ugly mirage

of all things beautiful

white wash fences

turn gray

enough with the rain

the dark days

when henchmen

only saw red

threw the filter of pain

and in those eyes

behind the disguise

is fear

the lies are prevalent

honesty wears sheep clothing

let the truth be told

whatever it is

it seems like its the stuff

thats easier to take down

than the digressive bullshit

are you a surgeon

do you open people up

I am the lock picker

anther door opens

and its more of the same

we are wrestling

with death

in our boredom

we have not been

built for uncertainty

or permanence

so many of us

without pants

genitals in the wind

its a circus of death

and an orgy of life

in a comedy of tragedies

victimized

and left violent

our violet velvet

interiors melt

till it meets oxygen

and its all a red mess

on this gray day

I wish the rain never came

but it did

and I watch it

wash down the drain

Who reads poetry anyway

even novels go unread

as I dread

not getting one last word in

its an instant world

with no need

for anyone

to stop and smell the roses

entropy is the instinct

of our design

always trying

to pull our shit together

to make some sort of order

in which to follow

its hollow

and hard to swallow

imagine it as

a cosmic coconut

our earth

is the only salvation

the land we poison

with possessions

trying to work

with what is given

its unforgiving

and newtons law

will clash

with natural selection

degeneration

destruction

deviance

and our digital demise

we wear tin foil hats

to make the sky’s spy’s

know we are the crazy ones

the outsiders

with fire in our eyes

the leaves have fallen off the trees

and I never even noticed

I am assuming its that time of year

the whole show goes on

and I am at the center

of our organic carious wheal

watching it all spin around me

we might as well try to wear a smile

have a laugh

we bought the ticket

enjoy the ride

Everyone is watching and waiting

for the moment to burst

into a thousand tiny spectacles

off to the horizon

hovering around the clouds

everyone in their own worlds

paralyzed by the human condition

forcing smiles

taking miles in an endless

romp of numbing sensations

she puts a story on him

as he is writing novels

on every passing face

a once protagonist

turned conformist

paying the bills

an anarchist

who pays taxes

sometimes

I am a hero

king of the trash heap

what a horrible job it is

I think i will retire

where?

to an attic

with a typewriter

a few spools of ribbon

and piles of paper

the con man fades

to a day laborer

while the cowboys work dude ranches

and everyone is pretend

blue button up shirts

slacks and black socks

false pretenses

walking to the beat

of a monotone drum

all the crooks

are undercover cops

false angels with plastic halos

our complicated speech

and delicate language

make our dance moves

and guide our motions

down to wicked wall street

at the crossroads of our hear attacks

and in the city

thats where it happens

the sleepless junkies

the vestibules of whores

bought for change

and hope left hanging itself

from a ceiling rafter

because the mind

ate itself from the inside

the misguided youth

of broken homes

this pertains to you

some times life

is nothing more than

a pair of dirty blue jeans

and a little food in your stomach

we start big

with cow eyes

and end up small

squinting

osteoporosis of the ego

wondering where our souls go

and its a let down

our impermanence

the story tellers

and fiction writers

want to sell us

our candy coated

tragedies

but we are to poor

to pay attention

remember to breath

and don’t panic

the end is near

but don’t fear

your bended ear

its all static

to make sense of it

we draw from our delusions

to one concrete conclusion

everything I thought was right

has turned out to be wrong

everything I despised has been lies

as I dressed the part and played them

there is a fire inside

cooled by water

pumping earth and oxygen

and its called alive

what a momentous pariah

we waste

Looking into the mirror and seeing a stranger, I start to wonder who it is and how it got on the outside of my mind and just laid it self all out in human form.  I know this person, for the most part. He isn’t a complete stranger, I have seen him in passing and stranger still , naked, wet and making funny faces while getting foam off his face with a razor. The mind and body can be in perfect harmony and at war all at the same time.  The surrounding world, outside the mind and naked body is chaos’s forgone conclusions. Think of all the sand pebbles on all the beaches in all the world, now take them one by one and examine each one, one at a time and you have four. I think about all the lifeless bodies of water humans surround themselves with and think that someone is trying to tell a joke. We move our lifeless bodies made mostly of water at rapid speeds to nowhere to places to be forgotten. I often think of life as a piano, with each key being choices as we all try to play that perfect song with no rehearsal always giving our final performance improvising along the way.

I have become my destiny

a shadow known only

as the stranger

my magnificence

is a bulb burning

in a fictional daydream

hanging from the ceiling

by a long enough cord

with just enough light in it

to be called dim

but its that little light

that I have to make shine

and its hard enough

paying the electric bills

the sober moments

are hard to take

intoxication becomes a way of life

and I am an old dragon cliche

making buildings fall on

his birthday

this is to the ghosts in my attic

the folks in the first few chapters

that made madness manifest

and I am left with what is there

we make the best of it and beds

to make our selves comfortable

for the oceans creeping up

to our porches and doorsteps

and asteroids coming down

from our heavenly father

but don’t bother to pay attention

sit in those comfortable beds

and sleep

practicing what death will be like

freedom is letting go

and being comfortable at terminal velocity

most of the time I feel nauseous

but show me a man who truly

understands gravity

before he hits the ground

and I will show you

and endless array of cadavers

that have come and gone before

we are all grave robbers and diggers

waiting to be next in line

justifying whats mine is mine

the truth is hard to swallow

and everyone lies

while fighting there own private wars

trying to settle scores

and at the core

we are just

sons of villains

and

daughters of whores