...right to choke...

The bridge crossing so slowly faltering into the past, dashed across the rocks, my hopes. Dope for a new light shining on that fading light, drifting day by day, away, from our grasp and into the fermented everythingness of this. I hope for a day when everyone can invent words and turd with the best of us. But we is stuck, in a doing of our best. Rested souls deploring the rafters for Saturdays new high. Why cry for another day of pain and rage I stage an eviction of my soul from its hold on the cold and entombed, the dead dogs, goats and ex girlfriends are rotting in my soggy bottom boy jeans. But this spleen, this liver, criver cries out in pain for an end date rapidly devouring me in time and shitting me out dead like the rest of them. But I will dutifully fight for the right aspect of this book clubs agenda to switch out of Edgar Allen poe and into love, love, love that one shoving spite despite the scorn, but to quench the kiss upon her lips with gifts of thisness and returning the love she clenches into the cleft of his chest slumbering off soundly for centuries. But the rest of we, trudging on back into that war zone, where dead friends and relatives be-burdon the surgeon general warning on the back of the pack of their cigarettes. This deftness, clefting the stone with bone on bone skull crunching action of french fries and repeats, delete the creep and keep the steeping tea in the gauntlet of souls, why I can't write a song to hit the bong, beyond the steepled in we. Crying, crying for a day in which we can say we are, free, bleeding teething into that good night for the right to choke.

....elves to meet...

Something about the allure of the alcohol and the blackout passed out aspect of living a life as an, “Addict.”


Some may say, oh some may say, these drugs and chemicals are bad for you but I say rather. Splatter the clatter with talk about the things these drugs and chemicals like alcohol do. Soaring through heights like magnanimous steaming cleaving being. Pure being, just distilled in cans and spirits around the world.


The downsides of death and homelessness are just misnomers of a society that gathers we and steeps its tea in the richness of expression of being in the world but I say rather the true essence of being is the death, the drunk, the high, the life, everything in-between soaring and diving like an eagle steepled & stapled to the roof of the ecclesiastical acrobatic fanatics fan club email list shove it up your fist until it doesn't fit anymore.


Gaping.


Raping the dated aspects of refracted impacted reality singing on we song the wrong locket to talk to it again like a long lost son or daughters, dead veterans and maidens whipping him for the sin on the mantle, the halo swept deep into the bereft clanging of insane lamented depraved insane brains twisted to the core of the door leading them back home, or out the other way, onto the street, deep, like her wrist scars.


I remorse, of course. But detour from the murderous, suicidal recital every day repeating on like a BPM of one-hundred and hate. I can't devise a plan quick enough to spin, write, draw, animate or rape my way out of this cage I've trapped my life inside of a small white unchecked box next to insane on everyones Christmas shit list.


Widening this slit wrist cursed Christmas kiss I find Peace.


In her pain. Her confusion, I feast like a beastly rage of delving lava quicksand demanding the rental check slips, receipts, and bank records, record this. Take to wish the delving of self in we, but the test of limitation will remain un-satiated in the regression of formality in we, delving, delving, delving...


Maddening, the sliver of focus remaining in the brain of my command the demanded repent upon the broken altar of my mothers womb.


Stitching the sore in core atomic trauma while the sauna and steam drain on in the back end of every song, talking on, to the beat, on repeat, until the elves come out to meet.

...this dream....

Seeking what? I don't know, the look on your face at snow. My amassed pipe dream of cataclysmic cartwheeling consciousness contorting the face of God, or the Devil, I'm not sure which yet. But the yearning, the learning and the burning forever passing on like a gong song rocked bomb locket socket tossed into the rocket. This dream seemingly endangering the living, sieving, breathing of being. The untouched bunch of losers we are and dare to go too far as to say, this day, this moment a miracle among miracles the virtual reality insanity of pander to we. Un-bought sought across land and sea the dream, weaving into this or that moment so untouched by the graces of space nations and rations taken out of a basement. So poor and untouched the retch of the stench, beaming on through my being of seeing, seeing. The trees sway listless by the demands of the breeze, so immaculate and stature attacked, the defining rhyming moments of love and grace so spaceless in the beaming dreaming of we. The stinging defining moments of wholly glorifying divineness awareness aware of this trods on through the cleft bereft stinging clinging of the maddening divining plan. The sand in my eyes though times of lies still sticks likes prickly pear juice in the sutures of my deadened core. The roar delving on through the gong song rocking rocket popped socket lost locket in the demands of the rewind of defined purpose. Rehearsed and diverse from nation and key, we, stacking like action attack pack rats munch on the carpet on seething believing, teething to the suckle of the air. Bear bones and all we stall on to the wrong aperture of seeing this dream. This dream. So crumbling and wasted the dream seems. Delving deeper into a deepening of being so sufficient seeing the dying masses attacked backwards for this dream, that seemingly reprehensible thing. But dig, this day is so great, the night even. The tithing, rhyming and surviving. So breathless an inhale the stale meteorite crust breaks right off and this ever loving covening present is birthed into a mirth of orange afterbirth once more. And to be remissed is the tongue touch grace of space ladies sweeping the incoming and outgoing space cars into respective lanes of dangerous galactic presence. The essence is of this,... to breathe deeply, sleep seemingly, and die frequently. Stiffening the collar on the knock off bomb scoff t-shirt. Righteous fight this in the parking lot for free, seemingly indicted on your own causality. Reality stumbling on into the daylight, while they trudge back into the dark night of the eternal soul. Coal in the rivulets of their Christmas. The seeking, the constant yearning to burn the air off your chest with the best of them, sinning, winning, being everything in this thing of being. Crying dying for a manifestation of question upon the altar of being, seeing. Dying, trying to surmount the efforts of a once dead regime so seemingly alive. The striving for immaculate oneness in the tongue touched orgasms splitting the seams of reality, we cry on. For song and more bursting effervescent fizz on the stiff whiskey and coke, the toke off the bong, the spliff of the seams. Dreams daring to rupture on past the amassed pipe dreams, we singly spirited on, fly for more.

...the soaring light....

The soaring light strove on into the limited lower atmosphere with little hesitation, pausing upon reentry with a flash bulb puzzle thunder crash dashing the tombs of the unknown soldier into boulders for holders of the pot. The simple spastic, frantic rocket combusts spraying praying remarks upon the mantle on the rental unit I lost my love in. Shove the knife in again to befriend the end of dissent. You, blind chugging on, we sipping delightfully in this twisted thorn in the side. Frail crumbling remarks undarkened by the angels remarks unstained to the brain drained of LSD and suppositories for the sin in the winning. Delving down deeper to the core I implore the second. The second of this now to slow the course for we are on a disillusioned course for the divorce from time and high dive in the madness of the one. Still, one. Climbing, falling, rapidly, dissolving, resolving, the talk in we the steeping tea on the shelf for weeks, the cry unanimous of freedom, even among the dumb.


Those that would devilishly delve into that sacred womb of her. She. We. Her. The free reeling in disposition, at the winning smile of crying stye eyed boys. The torn socket, popped lost locket for the mother of the soldier. The locket holds a key for the rocket to be set free. From We, the, the, the one touching uncovering smothering, orgasm wrenched in the stench of sex and candy and steak, the break from tossed lockets, popped sockets and the like. Some other thing delves into me, telling me to strive to the edge of the cliff and jump, take a stiff bump and a shotgun pump to the roof of your mouth in your mothers bath tub. Do I have something to say or is this the way? Maybe just a reeking spirit falling out of my imaginary asshole of spiritual dialog on a log filled with rot for bees, the stinging we in the dream stinking out the dying I, in the try. The floating question mark block floats on among the assumptions of one touching the endeavor of this one play, one stage, one dream, fleeing on we, sing, play, dance, cry, cry, for the times and ones lost, the angry remarks lost to the heart of a lover and now you discover,...ahhhh. For stinging again the bees in this alter bridge are getting into my teeth and beard, the searing of the hot sun, too bleached white and white, and despite the dying and trying of the under colors, white again. The friend in me soaring to deplore the retractable action fallen upon the graces of the one sun, the one breath, the river crivering the crime of unwinding the winds steep ascent to madness, this glorious we. Crying.


Marvelous, absolutely marvelous. Sinew on the bone of this home is leaking like mitochondria mycelium. The helium depleting the balloons flight.

....to write...

To write, to spite the flight of the one so numb under the pressures, the vessels of coming and going and where to we go in this ever present snow is to be amassed in a rain cloud from the spring to bring,....a life, a wife, a struggle of bubbles in the after-form of drinking this sinking down and frowning of culture. I am an American and will be, this or that psychological logical conclusion to jump from bridge and switchblade the family sinking in we. The dying the tying of formats to acrobatic flying cartwheels of unanimous famous amos cookies. Book me for a grin and a wink, but never sink this vessel, crying out at night for flight from this species to a more affordable part of the universe. Tertiary the fermented garden for the wardens new boots. Clue in the suspect for a breast check of rights and privileges. Forge the whore sword debacle the sovereign right to float. Simply floating in nothing. Nothing at all, just crawling back to front as the hunt goes on for a more affordable place in this universe, the verse sinking and stinking reefer billows with the rights of a once whole bidding, but this ring, this sinking, the depressed restless mornings, the angry nights and the sovereign days. Playing for more while the whore sucks his cock for another child in womb, the entombing of spirit ripping it, until the split seam reality, lifts we, out of this pain. The pain, the pain, the pain, the raining of death in ones hearts for an untimely departing of spirits from flesh, the devilish relish the fact that this breath is all we'll ever have for....

...best schism....

Ringing, clinging, sieving death. A breath of effervescent wetness, on this lips Christmas. The dying, the death, the what if clinging to the side of the cliff. Bereft I jump and land, demanded and living on impact, the redacted impacted sore locket popped socket tossed to the side like a wet pair of panties dainty in the wind. Some fog shore offshore beach tour detour for the implorable imagination station. Through wind and snow and sand the man tramps on to the destinations of his forlonging in the song we sing dying slowly. As a pair of handcuffs tightened and waiting for the saved date of reprimanding and sanding down the tone of one who. Suffering on the sands of demanded airlessness the wish list of forlorned lovers and spasming orgasms so insufferable in suffrage right to fight the dying of this now. Steeping your heart in my guitar chords I implore you to a date down south, the deep southem, where gators and laters could recombine us with a love so untouched the gods would cry. But this date, this now, implores only a lonely tone we shift from dereft clefting of the rock into doe-like pigeon pot pie. Why die in this living ever breathing now. The stowing of time unrepented and repleted suffers upon itself. Chalk dust waste to paste another implorable action of the fractions of souls untold and resold by common lies and factory ties to the dead. My friends come in, sit down, we have all the accouterments, the flaunts, daunting and daring with the best prepared, daring and flashing though the stolen key hole to bring we back to the city. Some cats backed by the rats attack in this, we kiss the dance, air fair, dare the spirit to split me with deep dream. Crying forlorned the sore attacks back with a refracted camel back. Speak to the weak, to those unaffected by the dead bread in their cheeks. My lies could drown an orphanage to suffrage to taxation rates speaking the price of gas as last demands a way home from the entombing of spirit we clear it and load another. Brother the spike in the end zone too re-thrown across land and sea, denying this miracle of life but stilling in the strife the wives club drones away from my destiny of we. Orgiastic split seams, with wet marks and liquids splashing and spraying and swaying the demanded orgasms of vessel. Wrestle the knot of ecstasy out your lover and shove her another meat spiral denial. Hands down the best schism I've ever had you mad woman of my nightmares. Tearing the toll of what was whole, from my once whole soul.

...halcyon backflips...

i question why and where do these breathes of insane lamentation come from in sun dumb we run on through the being and seeing a cue pool hole diving and diving and splashing wet with chlorine and being for teething at the suckle we double down on an information highway scheme dream these things all begetting into forgetting the altar to saint and sinner the winner for maturation and elation brought about by shouts of potato stew and word salad to bad it did otherwise the cuing doing unfurls into a supposition status of madness in reflection of deflection of the latest asteroids…

bereavement of a babushka...

In the beginning was the sinning, and the winning, and the pure holy water on the martyrs folly marks, dark angels too possessed to be lifted, this sifted curse remains like another dark stain from an old way and wave. This habit calling me back to my home leaving behind the stone in reprehensible fashion the dash in and out for a quick stake out on my soul, the skin lilting on mine like unforgotten lover’s babies. The rabies shot darkening with each repose and rest the test of all three dark sides of the moon filled with paintball balloons rather than spoons deep in the lifting of a soul the source of action reframed in time and sought often by forlorn lovers the scent of her, her, her,…smelling like teen spirit in my rivulet of something. Bringing the tension away I wish for a tennis play date but the knot wrapped tighter around my neck while I gamble every cent of winnings on sinning formulas for more, more, more time dancing an an effortlessness of thissness the orgasms of heaven spasming like unborn babies in this we. Spiraling out with a gun, pun, fun gum mixture, I will tear down and restore the door broken and stolen the grace of this concrete place, dungeon, no crab, no light, just jail, tail behind my legs rehabilitation for maturation of the station inebriation, frolicking on a tightrope with no hope for a day after the ways have passed, 90 days in treatment for this bereavement of a babushka. Hope for time and flying fluids past desperate clinging for one more day I find solace in the tombs and tones, deeper like ebony goddessships, deep in this we strive on for striving in the knifing of being and believing, being led to home, a place beyond being and breath.