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.

shapeshiftrrrrr

the squares imperfect

a circle that forms

prophetic triangles

and octagonal devices

peering past a rectangular

perimiter, a cylinder

torn a sunder in my pentagon

looking out my polygon window

i am a geometric monster face

rejecting your loose ended

theories, seeking to dismiss

with some subtle gist

that the earth is three dimensional.

the circle folds the hand

that feeds in tiny boxes

squared away. tucked in

shelves, rectangular selves

profuse profuse profuse.

they put a lolly

in your pocket

the dentist waves

a warm goodbye.

im twisting and permeating the

office walls, my head

tight fitting, ABOUNDS

yr slight mounds, im grossly

misinformed.

the bloody shackles

tackle me like football players

and i hate sports

because sports are BORING.

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.

sweet dystopia

push me aside

down deep dunk dive

slurps and gluttony

halfhazzard homogeny

the companies own

our loyalty

a brand name is a

band name

rock star statures

i am falling apart in my

macintosh dream.

these people with their

fingertips on the brash

future smile widely

and i watch them on

a screen,

this is george orwell’s nightmare

this is all a mistake

(then it continues)

these clouds compute

deep red resonations

slightly reverberating

across a chewy

microchip center

and in ten years

our thoughts align

up and down our

various spines

distrust is everywhere

the sky is clear

and this new revolution

branches its own revolutions

and in this domino effect

i am riding the wave

lost in a maze

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

Special People’s Club.

Jim Morrison makes ancient
ghosts and chanting
seem like fun cartoon
2-part episodes where our
hero gets in trouble but
ultimately saves the day.
i am here to breathe in
these words.

September, Jersey City

The tippity tops of
manhattan skyscrapers
look as if they’ve been
smudged by a thumb.
a wet painting slightly ruined.
on this premature fall day
a hurricaine awaits,
or so it seems.
i am in a dream.

THE DROP

i burst and buzz about the place
wanting to impression a magic face
knowing i am much more than
what everyone else
expects of themselves.

and then the lucid drop
creates my fall
tripping down unconventional
escher-esque stairwells
and oh, no one knows

just how it feels to be unreal
to wish yourself into someone else
to hope and pray that
mabye one day
you will catch someone’s eye

from a low to a high
a high to a low
lo and behold
i am dripping
into my own puddle

from obscene fascination
to complete obliteration
lack of concentration
to multi-taskation
its not fair.

i want to be here and now
and do it proud
and care enough about myself
to actually work hard
to achieve

but i feel no need
to impress when i am so
much this mess. i cry myself
into surreal dreams
not knowing what anything means.

odd militantistic imagry

im bustin’ out from the floor boards
with my war torn rhetoric,
slanderizing your nations
with a sheer force of idea
a mere notion of overcoming
hackneyed little soldiers
doing the lingo jive
in their cat’s pajamas
all over the living room floor,
what a stink!

the ships fly with wings
in the pretty air
and as the sun sets
miniature men jump out into
the horizon, they grab verizon
cell phones and start
the digital embrace
its written all over their face,
theyre jizzing it into effigy
compost heaps
and im loving every second,
laughing wholeheartedly as each passes.

THEY STAMP you out with
barbed wire.
yr fetal brain loose and lame
this tourniquet evening.

BRANDO gulps spagetti
from a neverending olive garden bowl
the audience asks him questions
through the movie screen,
and he answers back quite graciously.
we eat pie slow
and are reminded of
the purple rose of kairo.
but no keen force, plays any role
in this woody allen film.

its all just garbage twists that
you never use and keep in that drawer
you have in the kitchen.
just throw them out!!!
you wont use them.