CONCRETE ZIPPY ZOOMS
November 4, 2009

COPYRIGHT: DETOX
this area pours onto me
the street is my example
shrouds circle emphatic figures
mimicking dance routines
lamped by an urban glow
i flow like this
windowed
turbines are cemented fixtures
with surrounding trees scant
between old, forgotton railways
where the homeless lay
the people make a fast dash past
shuttling harmlessly
they have jobs, you see
i am in a sea
and in the dark my waves
are memory laden of some place
a fully charged graffiti wasteland
i see a city past a river
its buildings are quite tall
seemingly this city has it all
but underneath its bluff and gruff
lies the foam of sham
its not who i am
or what you are
i stare off into the zips
my fleets are soundtracked
by blips
no holster to hurriedly capture
my flipping you off
no camera encapsulates my scoffs
because i don’t make light
i am here in my plight
studying people
gawking at concrete
feeling incomplete
having the taste for something sweet
suckling on the dirt and sheet rock
that compiles a life
within construction and discarded
ever so inter-connectedly
trees leaves grass and images of such things.
November 2, 2009

Copyright: DETOX
the rolling skies are rocky hills
demolishing my retina stare
through a screen
everything is green with pink embers
i was so high i can’t remember
how it looked for real
i cannot feel past the lower extremities
parts of me are peices passing through
a new envisionment
most of me is old wet and tampered with
too fat for you
too fat for school and life
but not pink trees or pink cigarettes
my mind frets
i am transported, suddenly, to another setting
like mars or the jetsons or something
cuddly and cartoonish
all that acid from highschool i never took
CATCHING UP WITH ME1!
and then i vanish back into this picture, back to two years ago when i still felt somewhat fresh, before my puppydog heart was crushed into kibbles n bits by a cruel girl. back when things were ok and tree’s were pink, back then i think that i had it all but i was seriously just as miserable. it’s a constant and perpetual. the past, if we could all just live in the past where we see ourselves as “happy”. too much of living in the past will kill you, i say. too much fantasizing about the future will get you in trouble. the present is OH SO VERY BORING. so what’s to be done?
i love to fantasize, i love fantasy. I AM FANTASTICAL. im fantastic.
YOU SEE THESE MOM’S ON TV EVERY DAY
October 25, 2009
they arrange you in tiny cupboards
so the visitors can see
just how charming you appear
in such pretty dresses
so polite to sit so quiet
in a small box
you have small pox?
i can’t hardly notice!
how charming! yet how awful
for the mother…
how does she do it?
she stuffs you so coarsely
into that cabinet
its become some force of habit
for you both
the mother grins
to your chagrin you are stuck
as she plucks
your feathers clean
shes not mean
but over blown
you cannot win or
try to compete
a winner’s attitude
admit’s defeat.
but it’s not as if she’s a monster
just a mother.
HARRY POTTER ANALOGIES LIKE CRAZY
October 20, 2009

nobody understands harry potter
oh especially snide little nasty boys
who pooh pooh everything
without even knowing
anything
simply assuming
snippy little malfoys
small frightful things
boy toys and cartoons
geetars and hillbilly notions
envelope into repungnant potions
that push people away
not that it matters
NOT THAT DRACO CARES
that his actions might be hurtful
he has his guitars and girls
he has other languages to escape into
he has rock music to fantasize about
but he dosent have harry potter
harry potter wants nothing to do with draco
and DETOX is totally HARRY POTTER
in this analogy.
THE ONE I WROTE IN THE PSYCH WARD ABOUT GRETA GARBO
October 15, 2009
Greta Garbo
Swilling that thick
Swedish face
all over our collective
Hollywood past
She is a Bently formed from
from working man’s
ford bones
her engines creak
ever so suspiciously
I am thinking of her
like family or close
personal consiglere
since we are from
the same country
but in other ways I
think of us as just
the same
hiding from some sense
of self we portray
on a screen or
in a dreem
in front of thousands of fans
who do not understand
why should they?
and, garbo, i am
just as bad because
i am so dubious to be curious
i want to know more
about how boring you were
because i want to be
boring too
like you!!
im almost there but this
psych ward thing got in the way.
so they say you were gay
or bisexual or a-sexual
or something ——- BUT
none of this matters to me
as long as you ate pussy!!!!!
and so i havent read about you
in quite some while
but here i am again
and im thinking “damn greta,
you were so dope!!”
because flowing amber locks
swept across lithe eyes
and softened features
accentuated such soft lips
that swedish face filled with grace
and if we were related
we could have still been kissin’ cousin’s
had the advent of time travel
made it so we could meet
age appropriately.
i would have wrote you
a lovely poem mentioning
something adorable i may have
noticed you doing
you would look at me, sillily…
OH GRETA, JUST STOP
BEING DEAD ALREADY!!!!!
NAH, you’re just astute.
October 5, 2009
the bee’s have knee’s
and the cats have pajamas
well im tripping the light fantastic
all over your 1920’s catch phrases
existance happens in phases
and this generational gap
makes itself a pulley for
entraping the allknowingness
of hip and happening youngsters
they look to the past
to make up for the lost
and our collective sense of self
is admonished
oh, and obliterated
obliged by this hard hearted tide
it;s as if some happenstance
that hardly ever was
comes back around
for another turn and we
sizzle and burn
fan those flames
its all so lame
i watch this from my tower
as i scribble into notebooks
i’m such an asshole.
shatter me timbers
September 30, 2009
the earth is a shattering
grimace of time
suspended above
blood thirsty sharks.
i am a ghost
surveying all of this
because my report is due
tomarrow, first thing
i know not how to walk
or speak or move
but float around your
headspace, checking off a list
piercing sounds impose
the swollen idea
that we are all here
for some purpose
i laugh at this
and at you
the sound of space
circles my brain
giant ships
exploding and such.
HOT MESS
September 22, 2009
this hot mess
slithers unexpectedly
around the heart’s
ventricles
like a vehicle
this splurting spout
bubbling over
this hot mess
i carry with me
inside of my pocket
feeling so easily
how it is to
boom around
i wear a crown
my mess is hot
im sloppy and you
can see
how it appears
all of these years
this mess so hot
my heart neat and not
interested
but as a mess is how
i impress
im bubbling over
with fear
a mousy mess
a furtive ear
a slushy dress
a stupid fuss
a hot mess
and nothing much else
they raise the bar
ive gone too far
but not enough
i push and shove
get what i need
a mountain of greed
i give it away
there’s no other way
and i am myself
hardly anyone else
still i confess
A HOT MESS.
poetry serves no purpose
September 19, 2009
well i like to walk around stuffing my ghost and anchoring my position as some complete nut job because it is so. and how embarassing to feel this common need to make everything worse. god’s cruel joke is my harbored existence im clamoring and glamourising things that shouldnt be. but for me, a cave is my own locked sense of space rearranged and in disarray. i close my eyes and feel so real, but everything is fake. i am looking out a window sill at this world that surrounds my own general sense of self loathing and despair, needing repair. wanting a pretty girl to see right through me but it hasnt happened, no, not to me. and i appear so free to those who have lived, but i have not lived. im caught up in time and the candle burns slow, the medium is transparent but somehow defined with a photoshop filter so i know it survives. its spitting these knives into my shins, and i am all grins, an extraterrestrial face not at all common place yearning to feel alive.
Twin Towers of deconstruction
September 16, 2009
a svelte face germinating softly
lends itself through the magic stops
marauding hallways the prison leaks it’s
on guard always rusty ghost
stuffy and stifled i am no host
i am blowing past from where i sit
notions i leaf through various
like a breeze typefaces
a swift, gaunt mechanically
manipulation of manipulating an air
soul. of some self destructive
they crawl into my nature, i search
box and hole for a piece of paper
they sit upon my and scroll down these
chromosome puzzled words
until there is in my world
none. and girls hardly care
in my dream dozens to deal with my fresh
make heed, running on air and piercing
cosmic fuels spirit
a neon fluid takes control my heart recoils
and we all know and sweats to have
how these faces hide. someone understand it
i am on a roll it cannot be, and
with insect feelers after all i am not prime
instinctively healing enough stock material
my own, private mistakes no shock or
i may be running late fancy explosion
to catch the bus dancing in harmony with
and on a train me through
i feel insane, my fellow the streets of
passengers in an uproar new york city

