Leave the Car door unlocked

Poetry has been established
As the biggest game of bullshit ever played
Little phrases and manufactured sentences
How does something so fake improve
How does something that barely exists in the mind of the poet
Get any better.
How can I willingly dedicate my life to something
That I know has the same amount of meaning
As a car theif.
That is what I’ve strived for
My whole life
Is to be your very special
Car theif.

Creative Mind

I live in the back of his mouth
Somewhere in his navel
Behind the yellowing teeth
And the endless assault
Of smoke
And hallucinogenic

I live somewhere behind all of the work
All of the writing
All of the pain and the misdirected hate.

A Pretty Piece of Plastic

All I wanted to do was shop
Consume the objects in my life,
That I know
Will make me happiest
Just like the boys starring from across the pool
They tell me I’m beautiful
Like I’m their baby doll
I tell them this doll’s a collectible,
but was surprised
when on my shoulder
was a tag with a price

I present my problems to the world
reveal the cost
They know anyone willing to pay the time,
the attention
Goes home with a pretty piece of plastic

Cheeks and breasts on display
The showcase of any collectible
I age,
become vintage
an antique with diminishing value
desperately, I reach and grab for my buyer
Trying to steal him into an old investment,
But he hides me under his bed
in the bottom of a box
and leaves to find a new collectible

New and refined
with a soul reminiscent of mine
Naive in a faith in love
A much prettier piece of plastic
Than I.

Herding Hurt

Sometimes with narration,
Unlike poetry
The sentences hurt,
You can feel them leave your body like thorns
Or splinters.
Or maybe we’re the wood
And prose is the axe man
splitting us into dozens of tiny pieces
Before throwing us on the fire
And using us as kindling.

I don’t need it.

I don’t need anyone
I don’t need anything
As long as I can be left alone
my fingers walking thousands of miles
Across each and every keyboard
Until it’s all written.

Defeating Bukowski

Sometimes I kiss her
The one sitting alone at the bar
Looking over her shoulder as the men pass
Desperate for attention
Desperate for a fuck
I give it to her
And she asks for my love
I’d give that to her too
If I wasn’t so sure
That the human strains from my voice
From the shared moments
Wouldn’t later be weaved
Into a noose.

Insanity Meditations

Helping the masses understand insanity
Just a little bit better
My words
Aiding contemplative suicides
And real men that don’t bother to use a mask

Only 18
And already my heart aches
Like a swelling, slowly inflating
Far beneath my ribs, and decalcified bones.
Where I forgot
That I too am human
Pump me full of another drug
And I’ll soon forget again
Hopefully I won’t remember
How it hurts
To be real

Masturbate, music, migrate, massacre, mediate
All of the things
At the disposal of 18 years
Of rot.
These are the tasks of a writer
Changing the world with words of wonder
While asleep on the girlfriends couch.
Fighting hate and fuckery
From the armchair, blue pabst in hand.

Prostitution: A different means to fame

There is a poor boy behind the counter
I tell him what I want
How I want it
And by the next day
It’s carved into the inside of the eyelids
Tatted in bright red ink,
To make sure he never forgets my name

He’ll be the only one to remember
He’ll be the only one to know I’m famous

He makes it for me,
I’ll eat enough to make this ass
In torn daisy dukes
To not look good,
after a night of perspiration
When you’re alone
And it’s 7 in the morning,