No You Step.

no you step no you
crush my appetite you make
my heart recite murmurs of incongruence
you are speak of the devil
you are the tongue of the wicked
shooting down the locals for the gun
of words is ulcers pulsating my
stomach/// a butter churn stuck with
saturated fat glopped and
pulse quickens when you speak
and step you step you crush me under
i roll away deterred
as man falters when he
determines worth, succeeds
when he is used to determine such.

Spunk.

celebrate what/////
push mommy push
the sedatives
the little white room spinning blur tops
and the cats outside searching
for garbage dinner deluxe
i get born
i get dead
i do no work, i get no baby
kicking at///my/// insides
we celebrate birth
yet when the reaper starts
paging us in the middle of our
sitcoms and golf games
we pretend we're too busy
and run for drive-thru windows
churches for the hungry
food for the spoiled
celebrate the moon, the mother
forget the little men
the little wars
and the little sins which
create compelling television.

End Begin Twirl Begin End.

somehow i think self sustained is successful.
i am wrong. oh so very wrong.
as happy as you can be sad. as fair as you can cheat.
this upside down treadmill has dropped me on soft skull
denting reshaping reevaluating nothing. no thing. not one.
chicken skin, i am peeling off layers. i am meat attached to bone.
i got a gunshell. unfilled. i make zooming sounds as it passes my ear
i imagine danger. i would like to believe it's imminent. that's a crock.
when
i
die
the sounds
the glorious rhythm
won't
mean
jack.
yet i can pretend with the best of them.
bank account dwindles and we bleed sweat all over beds bought on
credit cards, apr financing, the moment the system shows its belly
we grab spears, sticks, sharp shiny things and stab the fucker
like a prone pinata. candy coins yum, i eat like a king i act like
a petulant prince, and i own amounts of air given to me for
breathing by corporate ration. three piece men own the towers
of Babel and Wall Street. they forget about decay and death.
they
just
find
peace as
peace is
forgetting
the
details.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Outpost.

It seems bizarre to me.
My whole life has been spent with death knocking, bony hands pounding on windowpanes at three in the morning...radio hum unintelligible comfort soothing sound waves pounding the demons into quietude as the morning breaks. I see my wife, my friends, my parents, my little kitties batting around fake mice...and i feel intruder blood bursting at my temples, a problematic systematic decay dropping me to my wooden knees, splinters cutting seams and I drop out my skin, seeping through carpet fibers...
Sometimes it pays to just stay ignorant, sports scores replacing birthdates, celebrity gossip replacing funeral procession memories/ forward momentum into every wall in the god damn house. I disqualify myself for lacking hate, and craving love and safety, a distinctly un-punk attitude. I want balance, little reminders of my worth, small wonders to make the big picture more palatable.
It's bizarre when the pain just doesn't figure in anymore.

Triangles Falling Out the Window.

The couple across the way is clumsily making love while balancing mental checkbooks. It is a bum deal to see intimacy only going cock deep, barely a boundary passed, barely a moment treasured. The cell phone bursts out, "Johnny Hit and Run" blaring; both going limp, figuratively, literally, emotionally. The real world eats love like green M&Ms, little trivial candy coated smack your lips and say your peace...you're never half the man you wanted to be yesterday.

If You Tolerate This....

a dead form:
I need a thousand ghosts splattered on my windshield, going 85 down farm roads, going ballistic in skin wrapped bone auditoriums, falling faster to get up slow. Walking through book stores, the weight people place, the feelings they displace, onto printed pages bleeding boredom busting nuts, brains that is, all over hipster boots shuffling. Peers say the art is there to question boundaries, while they confine themselves to lovelorn loser lice-filled fuckfests where the throbs of meat rockets transpose to pen squirts, scribbled love admissions sadness, sorrow, suck. Art is building ladders from the bones of the deceased, to reach construction zones, claiming (Heaven: COMING SOON!) Yet, now it is strip malls with little problems and little people, blowing little kisses and espousing little disasters. And all i can think of is...
This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission.
Move along.