CONCRETE ZIPPY ZOOMS

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.

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

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

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.

i am in griffindor

sippin on seeker snitches

eating my sneakers

i laced them with two different colours.

i spelled colors ‘colours’ and only used one ” ‘ ” because of the british reference, btw.

THE ONE I WROTE IN THE PSYCH WARD ABOUT GRETA GARBO

back when nicotine was good for you

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.

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

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

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

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

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