It's always darkest before dawnBlack trash has died before he was even buriedSitting next to scarf wearing girls on the busBut no one can hear the padded rhythm of his shoes before stepping into the devils denRoses in the devils garden I tell you,Roses in the devils gardenI used to tell himWhat is your name because,Angels who I have known climbed high and never came back downSo I left them thereIn the sweetness so coldAnd they stay there sedatedSo will you pray for me, for them, for allBecause you have electricity in your soulAnd it could have a chance to come out playFor once before concrete depositionAnd he says to meWho the fuck are you to sayYou’ve felt a shot in the darkAnd whiningly speak of beingblinded by the sun and stars
May the moon shine bright aboveRed Rover,Calling you over,to breathe sweet monoxide to my lungsleave me black and deadin a cold alley's gutterso I can spark up little purityto prostitutes and pimpsjunkies with lips locked around run-away'sthat pause to pay hesitant respect
Another AbominationNever love your mother.Because you deserved to leave that clawed up house from the start, and no hours of relentless sobbing will turn you back. Do not trade weak spoken slam poetry tinged with lisps for unspoken lovey-dovey ramblings.She was not there with your peeps of suicide, slitting your wrists with paperclips and etching out tree branches to your skin.You deserve to write ANGRY UPPERCASE POETRY on bathroom showers after standing in the shower, breathing steam. Wanting to turn into some abomination to swim away and sink faux fangs into human flesh.Rare moments of shoving freezer burned chocolate ice cream into your mouth is delicate, with laughing your ass off like a crazy man, eyes glued to the T.V. No amount of disappointing desserts foreign to the mainstream eye is worth it.I still think that men who love men who drown themselves because they love the sea are ABSOLUTELY PREPOSTEROUS, AND SCHIZOPHRENIA IS JUST ANOTHER POINTLESS CARICATURE OF DREAMS SPOILED IN THE MIND OF A
How I loved his battle cryTo him, loyalty was the single witness of your crucifixion, and as you lay upon the makeshift cross of decaying metal, maybe, just maybe, she would breathe you back to life with her hoarse words, and the feet to hold up your body would tread once again on this forbidden planet.I believe these were not his exact words, because he was a simple machine, and had been hushed by this mistress for as long I had tried to make him speak.The day I first met him was when I was shifting through codes of binary, and stumbled upon his locks of lavender with green eyes sparking the darkness. I only watched him as he played with his brothers, and then waited for my father to call me home.That night I asked him again, and he said I will never love another man. He said this while I averted to the deer head mounted next to our psalms. His coal hardened eyes made me guilty, and I mumbled a word of recognition for him. I never felt sorrow, but hedeserved my respect.On the second day there was mu
Affairs and other amiable thingsMrs.Mallard sang, a ballad that could make Mona Lisa cry out in both wonder and fear afflictions with the heart you say?... what is this? railroad disasters, it was only an open window! Catching patches of blue skies, flying free,free,free! And to honor a lovely life, I say she loved you sometimes Because she drank the elixer of life,
A Confession of love to a worker of many sortsMonochrome skies with the seekers flying high,What a wonderful day,I dreamed of my beloved and I setting sail,I beg you, take me awayAnd honestly there is nothing wrong with,kisses drunk with passion and the atmosphere of the imaginary land I walk .
Airplanes in armsHeart attacks in a glass, what a wonderful dayBreathing in the blackness of greedWait, what?A moral on its way?Chop its head off, and let the true blood flow,For we live in the land of pure metal.
Puppy dog tears and golden ringsLet words unwrap you as if it was your first raptureAre you breathing in too tight?I may not believe in God, but damn I believe in life.Oh noIn the end we are all clinging to violin strings, where was the grand symphony to play us out?I always knew the cello was the wisest of them all.
Golden seekers are the blindest ones of them allYou are,not so great,Thanks to your blessings,The poisoned hummingbird continues to pollinate till this dayMaybe the proud spider should stop spinning its knotted web,So you can smell the burnt thunderbolt falling from the sky
The Space Between DreamsI walk between the landof gods and monsterssearching the spacebetween light and shadowfor a familiar face.Every angel wears theface of a demonbecause Good and Evilis all an illusion,we all dream our owndivinity.Prostrate before the tree of lifehere the Holy Grail waits,Odin's own drinking cup,this is where the seedof knowledge begins.The shaman knowsdeath and life are onlyshades fading in and outalong the spiral which theyfirst dreamed into existence,the place where all endingsand beginnings meet as one.
Wake in VegasIf I could drink you from the sky tonightI would -drink the brown bourbon blacknesswith stars for ice -as the moonlit-salty neon lineseparates the landfrom the lonely battered void.I'll raise a glass to the sky tonightwhile the neon splits and the world crashes throughlike a broken necksee me praying you were here - through tumbleweed canyonsthrough all the static porno wavesthat crowd the space between us,and in swollen spite watch me clean my bony drunken theatreof all your hungry, truant atoms.(time)Fear ebbs - a sober starlight wakes mecold - inside paltry sobsI gather you like kindling from the ground - tossed polaroidsin the windstack you upon your pedestalwith you watching downthrough all this madnessthrough the bleached love/guilt curtainslike an angel.Watch me drink to you in the sky tonightwith me still caught in this thickening landlike a quantum boxed-in slave,like Schroder’s cat, like I might be alivebut I might be dea
The Anarchist SermonI like the silent church before the service begins, better than any preaching.- Emerson ~*~What fruit is left on Sunday morning?Days have past since the last ideato hear the pitch of life saw light.The children pawn their sinew offon unexamined vessels.We gather up our thirsty voicesand watch as they are driven offinto the moorings of our hovel.If I would teach them nothing more;“savor this, these delicate miles”until we sit along the pewsand stare into the quietus.
Pandora's CrackI breathed in a little dose(s)of caster sugar and cocoa dustbefore I leapedI dove in ear-deepto castrate this soured identity "Who I am"will no longer associate itselfwith the "was" and "had been"of "me"The rust that ran through my shacklecould not wear my ankle bonesnor the wings tucked in betweenI licked off my salt-covered wounds-all that once burned me, cured youThis timeI will be my ownsalve and salvationThis time I aim to amsparkle,swimming throughthe moons of mighty Neptune
Congenial LoveSomething resounds in me,In my silence,You –Forever acquainted:Infinity here and now.It is youWho is in me.Love, closeness,OnenessSince eternity. When I think of you,When I feel yourself as mine,Then I enter another world,Where absolute silence prevails.There, everything is different.Congenial loveIs a gift.It is inexplicable,Unintentional,Unconditional.I feel this perfect silence in meThat seems to be everything.Boundaries blurAnd time and space becomeMeaningless.Congenial loveNeeds no wordsOr thoughts.It is beyondSpace and time.Confidence andCloseness -From the significance ofSafety and certaintySprings inner peace.Congenial loveIs tranquility,Is peace,Is healing,Is everlasting happiness.Spiritual memoryOf you –Given up for lost –Dawns slowly upIn my silence.
seraphs and sinsyou can see thatthis is a give-and-take warzone,but somehow, we made ita give-or-devour domainand i'd tell you you werebeautiful in every languageknown to humankindif i could,but there is no such word in yourbook, only lists forranks of each side:angel or demon,succubus or cambion,creators or destroyers,weakness and strength,the broken and the never-been-brokenthe sad and the exultinggod forbid you ever decidethat keeping mearound was worth the fight'cause if you wanted me,there would havebeen a word for love in thatbat-skin-covered diaryyou never untie from your cloak(funnily enough, there wasnever any mention of my racein that little red book of yours)
Do you hear me?Cracking your knuckles against my teethAnd singing silly love songs to insomniaRoses are red,Lobelias are blue,Conjunctions are just sighsSped up to you