Universities

Now it's moving on to higher learning
so its education is complete.
And from there we'll get a career,
where we'll spend the better part
of our years.
We'll prepare for our retirement
and it carries us to sleep.
Every victory we're told we've won
is the product of silence and subjegation.
Every boundary we decide to cross,
is crossed in the limits of emphasized loss.
It feels like repitition
from the beginning to the end
of a dictated regiment.
And success is performing these duties,
a little bit better, or with less grasp upon creed.
So you're living alone away from authority
but paying it rent and tuition.
Each dorm you slouch over the couch to throw up.
Is just more evidence how fast we grow up.
And abandon rebellion and heartborn contempt
for injustice, and tyranny, hate and opression.
These are the tools of success in that world,
and I'd rather be poor than described by those words.
The future's so foreign to me,
as the concept of eternity.
But that's really just fine with me.
No, I'm really quite okay with it.
I don't want to know where tomorrow is found
I continue to pray that it's not solid ground.
As strong and solid as they build the machine.
You will be gears,
I will throw my body between.

Bear trap.

This isn't about what you thought it was. All those dark rooms and leather couches, you thought, "this is killing me, but they'll know they're no better." Because this isn't about what you thought. This isn't about someone being closer. Our choices don't define us, but circumstance does,
and I escaped,
I'm out alive.
Somewhere you fit in to what I left behind...
You were alive and your eyes were bright. The beauty of the heart would fly off your lips and exploded in the air. It speaks morose; addiction's word dribbles down your teeth and falls into the cracks in your lips
behind poison.
Now you're waking up to face another day. Or plan at whose house to pass out, and it wasted all away. It's coming either way.
This isn't what you thought it was. All of this talk about getting up and leaving. All of the talk about being limited,
because every friend you left behind,
is now alive.
And you must have died.
Wake up, dear friend, and see...
This is your death,
this is your bear trap.

To a girl I know.

Domino
Oh don't you know?
How one word can lead
to a languages throne.
Spilling over and rolling
like the designs in your book.
Where leaves and flowers
cascade and bleed
from pages and photographs.
Sentiment is abundant,
but meaning nothing, I intend.
University life is alive with
the winter.
Future world leaders drinking
themselves into memory loss.
The cold of this season,
it's enough to make warm hearts
as foreign as the sun
or the color green.
You make yourself busy
by staying safe.
Sunlight flashes a vague recollection.
Where it sets, you can hardly remember.
It must be easy.
It must be fucking easy,
to forget about your friends.

Election poetry.

Like water, this division
this contrition unites.
Rolling over our best efforts
to remain with hearts.
Our eyes brought contention,
to be silenced in part
by Their ongoing, internal
concatenation.
Their diversion from accepted
tergiversation.
They bow down and worship
the god of the downtown,
the dot-com and Broadcast,
and partisan common.
(While Rome is on fire,
Nero is plucking his briefcase violin)
Ideas retreating from radio waves
it vomits, consumes it's pale renegade.
A nuclear family, A bastard son story,
The Singularity born, concrete matrimony.

The justice of doctrinal peace,
began to speak the benediction for
the wedding feast.
"If anybody has reason, or cause to conspire
for these not to be wed,
(the white house, and wall street,
sharing a bed)
Speak up good and loud
for in such a loud crowd,
it's difficult to see whose jaws are not wired"
And with that the two gave birth to a son,
the hive mind, the media the North Avenue slums.

Objection, an act of sedition.
And the red emperor passes
his baton to the next martial god.
Who, although dressed in blue,
returns the wink and the nod.
The donkey is walking with the carrot hung
just in front of its face. This is your god, this is your god.
The temples built 45 stories to heaven, to shield.
The skies advertising space. Campaigns purchased
the last hole punched in the card,
a generation of prosperity,
a generation of censorship.
a generation of control.
America, you may kiss the bride.

Porcelain: A Story.

She was a beautiful girl with a
porcelain face
and those kinds of dolls float on
water and waves.
Where it carries them to islands
or empties into lakes
and the paint runs down from their eyes
where it makes

Small puddles on her lips which fell
when she smiled
which, telling herself, she had not done
in awhile,
as she attempted to collect herself
in her usual style
the Missouri of Mascara turned into a Nile.

Where it drown that poor doll
in shallow expectation.
And the image she created with her
upbeat fixation
just didn't quite mix with the flood's
devastation
and she picked up where she'd left off
the week before

She filled pages and pages with dreams
and desire,
but seeing the waters had silenced
the fire,
and she remembered the light which would shine
from the pyre.
Her ambitions dragged and crushed, like the chains
on tires.

So the doll waded and floated in that river
for days.
And misery can make such a current
to sway
the most beautiful dolls to remove their
own paint.
And turn the bright porcelain into
a dull clay.

But on the shore, which from the river
looked plain.
There was One who was watching the
helpless doll's pain.
And when the river had washed off
the last of her paint.
He whispered...

Oh beautiful girl, now where is your face?
This world and your sorrow have stolen your paint,
and wiped off the joy I wrote in your blood.
With delicate brushstrokes and all of my love
I weaved and I painted and called you my own,
and this river you cried has now brought you home.

She was a beautiful girl with a
porcelain face
and as hard as she tried to remove
all her paint
One little brushstroke was all
it would take
to restore the image of the smile
He made.

And when the doll looked at what
he had done.
She cried just one tear which started
to run
down her cheek which was now as bright
as the sun.
She could tell she shone brighter than ever before,
but could not understand what the art was set for.
He looked her in the eyes and said "Only you."
As hard as you've tried to erase your hue.
I could never forget it, it's everything true.
And I've made it again,
I make all things new.

Lost unknown.

It's easy to disappear
when you're not trying to stay visible.
And although it was once a sun,
it dimmed and collapsed.
And all the movement got so bright
it blew up on the inside.
What used to shine
cooled down with time,
and its easy to think it died.
It's so easy to disappear.

The Spider Part III (The Bumblebee)

So there is this boy who is deathly allergic to bee stings, but aside from that he is a normal young child. His dad has a very important job which requires him to be gone all of the light hours almost every day the boy can remember. One day, though, his dad tells him that some day the two of them will go the beach.
Every day from that point on, the boy wakes up long before the sun and wakes his sleeping dad up to ask him (mispronouncing complicated syllables in an innocent youth) "Are we going to the beach today, daddy?" And the dad has to sorrowfully tell the boy "Not today." This continues for a couple months or until nausea is induced for anybody who has been a child of the present cynicism of the air, but his faith remains in his dad. One day, after going through all of the same motions the boy has before, he waits for his dad's answer by the side of his bed, this time though the dad smiles and says "This is the day."
The boy can hardly breathe he is so excited and the two of them begin the long trip to the shore for a day at the beach with daddy.
They are now driving in the car, and the boy is still smiling, a smile that has not worn off or been tarnished since his dad put it on his face earlier that morning with a simple "Yes." The window is open and the smell of an early summer morning is pouring into the backseat where the boy sits, at this speed down this road it is a completely new experience for him.

Abruptly, though, the way any story can not continue in harmony, peace is cut out. A large bumblebee gracefully gliding along what it considered a dull grey grasspath has now found itself inside the backseat of a long awaited experience for a small child and his father.

The boy begins to grow increasingly upset, as he is old enough to be fully aware of the consequence of a single act of hostility from the steady flight of this bumblebee. "I forgot my pen dad, if it stings me I'll die." He begins screaming; in an instant his world has been reordered and the peace and happiness he felt in the presence of his dad has been replaced with fear and torment in the presence of this tiny but deadly invader. "It's going to end." he is now yelling almost incoherently.

The bee was beginning to reorient himself for an escape (this was not the first time his world had changed so drastically) when the smaller of the two occupants began to flail violently. Some unknown instinct spoke reciprocity to the animal and he began himself to grow increasingly annoyed to the point of whatever small amount of violence his low state would allow. He flew one more circle toward the roused form occupying at any point more than three-quarters of the bee's space.

The boy, now increasingly worried of the threat of death, was now frenzied, although nothing coherent was coming out in between thrashing screams, certain words like "death", "pen", "sting", "dad", "die", and others could be heard from the boy. Without notice for the dad, the boy fell silent, he now gazed on the bee as it made one more circle toward him and flew a straight line to the boys now suspended expression.

He closed his eyes.

Although he hadn't been stung before, the boy was sure it hurt and in the place of the anticpated initial pain was instead a sharp jerk in the movement of the vehicle. He slowly opened his eyes to see his dad's clenched fist, barely in front of his face. It took his immature thoughts a moment to connect and tell him the story of what happened. He began to smile and rejoice. "thank you dad! Thank you so much, I was going to die!" he began yelling, with more happiness than he had ever experienced. The dad said nothing, but instead opened his hand, and the bee began to fly about again.
The boy's face changed with even more abruptness than it had before. His screams began again to erupt and he was now more frantic than he had been before slamming his hands up and down against the velvet upholstery.
The dad then spoke with a tone the boy had never heard, it was full of so much control and so much calmness that the boy had barely forgotten what he had been so upset about.

"Relax my son," The dad said and opened up his hand to reveal a spot of blood in the middle.

"I took the sting."

(rejoice for the mouth of the grave has been sealed with blood)

Planetism.

Green daylight
disappeared behind luminescence.
Provocative to a level of feigning syndrome.
Coma. Garden. Acidtrip.
Whitelight bath for the newborn passion,
birthed in violence.
The death of her mother,
clinging to a bloodclot for dear life.
I am nothing to...
Awakening from her sleep, the child now
grown and lucid to the realities of the world
left the beauty of phosphorescent existence.
She walked for days pursuing a life void of such
revolution
because it's turning like the open buds of flowers
to absorb the footstep song.
Coma. Garden. Acidtrip.
But she never woke up,
mortem in utero. Still born.
Or did I abort it?

Cold wind conditionary.

First-person is such tranquil reciprocity.
They never mentioned themselves
as though they were just in line.
She validates the cold accord by changing
what she felt when the storm was a fresh scent
in the air, unmarred by the pollution
of the factories she built to change the organic
nature of everything they had seen.
They embarked without her heart, pacing like the rest
but realizing she had left it, refusing to let it go,
she collapsed and bled from a hole in her chest.
He desperately tried to seal it but the pollution leaked
in and changed her and she began to cough,
a circle forming around them disappearing for days.
The scent of the air became toxic and the geometry of the landscape
cut them both in myriad ways.
"This is the ends for such a human existence?"
was the cry from the young lover's mouth.
The people around heard nothing and continued to romance
the violence and drink in the poison of the air.

These colours don't run.

Diplomacy
just doesn't work you see.
When you're dealing with
such an extremity
Because their war is a war
on humanity.
Preemptively, speaking,
a strike is the option.
Which gives us dues
of creativity.

Because we're different races
different faces.
Our insides are rearranged
in opposite places.
We'll win all of this,
and keep the death on their soil.
They fight for blood.
We, for blood and oil.

So if it returns and stars getting you down.
Just pretend you're not hearing the sounds.
Of holes being punched on voters cards.
Or our holy cause exchanging machine gun rounds.

One day those animals might all see.
The flaws of their sac religious ideology.
And D.C. will continue,
to let god run the country.
Red, white and blue.
Blood, shit and money.

(OLD) "Ssssserpentile, the Brave"

With the threat of a grave we folded our bodies like paper.
One hundred bones breaking
each time we tried to show the world what a mountain looks like.

And remember we were walking and we saw a bridge
that had been torn down to build one up stronger,
or add to the city's degree of pride
in their material accomplishments,
I promise you this is nothing like that.
Eden,
she has escaped a stare,
and the tendency of eyes to glare into her direction.
Dissemblance,
an empty heart should not be wasted.
But the places we've thrown ourselves
have been rough ground
where not even the lies grow as time continues.
Dissemblance,
I looked for you in a Birch wood forest,
but couldn't find you among the white.
It used to be the only color I would look for you,
since I couldn't picture you in anything,
besides a wedding dress,
or standing anywhere,
except behind a picket fence,
kind of leaning on it.
But now I look for the color of blood,
and that bridge we saw,
well you're more likely to be leaning on something like that.
Dissemblance.

Gravel.

I saw a diamond on a beach, in a pile of gravel.
An extreme of the stone's attempt to sparkle
even in the sun.
But the way she spun light into attention
and filled in grateful vision.
She was as bright as a star.
And as humble as a raincloud.
I wore her a ring on my finger,
and never touched my heart.
I kept my hand near my mouth,
and spoke to the diamond with words.
It disappeared one night, while I slept.
I woke up and my finger no longer stole
my speech as it had the day before.
On the beach in a pile of gravel.
A pile of stones.
I can no longer find it in a pile of stones.
Perhaps the diamond was gravel.
But she twinkled.
Oh how it twinkled.

Future World Leaders

Consciousness
Streams of Exaltation
Consistency demands allegiance
allegiance to all of this is killing talk
Living in preparation
your in the commencing the habit of a:

Future World leaders
Future war leaders
Drink socialite poison and count the bodies of your failures
You're such future world leaders.

Capitalist universal
Exchange of the rolling world
Presidents and CEOs
Accidents of corporate woes
Stock market/downtown motion slows
The skeleton shows
The wealth of such misfortune grows. It grows

Future World leaders
Future war leaders
Drink socialite poison and count the bodies of your failures
You're such a future world failures.

Future World leaders
Future war leaders
Ivy league grads and future wall streeters
The rhythym defined by your marching in time
Future world failures
Say what you mean.

Day Two: Thirst

Trees are a river of that which swallows light.
I remain wholy unimpressed or satisfied by those aspects
of nature that were added mine.
Within the cycle. Containment.
My memory is moving between,
like a carousel it rotates.
Control is an illusion a prediction a joke.
Now I am lost in the confines that I have created.
The thought and insight I need to leave,
was traded for such a vain exploration of everpresent
landscape.
I AM ONLY WHO I SAY I AM.
Beauty's water is filling my eyes, my blood is drying up.
The gorgeous surroundings are reason enough to never let
another drop of that cold poison past my lips.
Lucid, is just a word.
A vestigial organ on the tip of my tongue beyond my teeth,
as I attempt to satisfy my body growing in desire of water.
Sweat soaks my shirt its all I need, but the last thing I want,
all I want is to succeed in the failure of physiology.

Day One: Belongings

Encircled in blades of grass, my mind racing.
I am frantic, imagining the line of silence between light,
and the lighter light.
Every image is a recollection of two hours, differently arranged.
A vague picture of walking, of leaves crunching underfoot, small sticks
being seen and stepped on simultaneously.
IS THIS WHO I AM?
Ventures, feelings, longings, aspiration, right-and-wrong.
Every boundary has been crossed, except that single line of silence.
For now, I believe I'm hearing the sounds around me.
Light sings vivid symphonies, my senses are breathing in everything.
The cawing of distant black birds, the soft hum of the woods, the irritation
from sticks and coarse grass, the bursts of blue,
and overwhelming white radiance burning through the leaves above me.
Today is Thursday.
My mouth begins to tremble, I lick my lips
but the rain brings no satiation to the desert.
My body will get used to this.
All of these colors, these sounds, these feelings, these smells.
They all belong to me, and their name is Sepulchre.

-End of Day One.

"Cling"

She wrote in a note she discarded upon an audience of stars embedded into the dull grey-white of the sidewalk. There is nothing to cling to anymore I guess I whispered into her ear. We kept it professional and sweet, with the promise of ran and the cold nights of the Sierras as conversation, a closing eye was lost on the privilege of a face turned away vulgarly from the sweet aroma of personal communication. There is nothing to cling to anymore. But she didn't hear it, her voice was lost on preaching the gospel of meteorology and other topics of small talk or laughing, or singing along to songs she wont let herself empathize with.

There is nothing to,
She is nothing to.


I am nothing to

Cling.

Cling.

Cling.

Forget about outpourring and downpourring, and emotion and love and memory and faithfulness or truthfulness or high definition audio and
Cling.

You are wrong

You drown in velvet.
You sing songs
with words.
And paint pictures,
with muscles and bone.
The ends of your mouth,
are the ends of the moon,
the end of the world
and the end of what I wish.
Your night is escaping,
and the sun is rising.
As a bright as a star,
but as brittle as earth.
Drink darkness.
Drink speech.
Your image bleeds
oceans.
The right shade.

Journalism

Receiving
Responding
Perceiving
Unbelief.
This doubt is a lump
in my throat, I can't swallow.
Deception
Relieving
Conception
The truth is that they
are all just the same,
with a replaceable face.
And you are no
exception,
deception
conception.
Execution.

Common Ancestor

Part 10.


Speeding,
her pale body's a race.

Here eyes are the moon,
but she calls them by names
of teeth.

Rainforest in her head.

You're so green baby.

You're so green.

The Butterfly

"What a lovely morning," said the butterfly, awakening from her distant thunderstorm slumber. "I have had the most terrible dream, a dream in which I was a worm who inched through branches and along leaves." But upon seeing herself in the new light, the Butterfly began to grow worried, because the harder she looked and the harder she tried to imagine her wings were gone, the further they disappeared. She could not help it really, but stood in front of her mirror and tore the colours from her body with every word that she was speaking. "I am not the kind of creature they want," She would say or "How much can change in a night? When I slumbered last night it was as a caterpillar." The longer she stood there, the more the colours began to fade on her special wings and the more they began to shrink until at last they were a dull grey colour, and no bigger than either of her hands.


But she could not make them disappear, and the next mourning, when she awoke the wings were just as big as they had been the morning before. Leaving her house, the butterfly discovered very quickly that she was hated among all of the insects for her captivating beauty that all of the people she thought were companions, had a deep desire to tear the wings from her back.

While she was walking under a tree, a hornet sat on the branch and when she passed underneath, tightly gripped her wings and took off.
Looking down, however, the hornet saw that the wings were still attached to the caterpillar and around them lay 6 black bristle fibres he discovered to be his legs.

Before long, the insects had all discovered they could not tear the wings on the butterfly's back from her body, but the garden spider had an idea. He had seen what happened the day before and knew that the only way to make the Butterfly's wings go away would be to convince her they didn't belong on her.

The next morning, the butterfly's wings were even bigger and the dull black outline of such had been visited by some deity, who had graciously blessed it with new white and orange spots.
She was stunning!
Moving, though, for the first time that morning,
she discovered only contempt from her insect peers,
who laughed and mocked and sneered,
and tore the poor animal down to the level of worms. When the day had ended her wings were visible only to the gnats and her colour had given the black sky a vivid quality in light of its bright dullness (?).
She was once again a caterpillar,
but she is a butterfly.
You are a butterfly.
When the morning found her she woke up as a caterpillar and thought about building a cocoon out of makeup and sex, but it is that cocoon which changes the butterfly into the worm. She had told herself her beauty had been in the wings but as hard as she tried to remember what those glorious appendages felt like they would not reappear and her colour would not return. She spent nights trying to dream of the colours that were now utterly imperceivable to her during the day and upon waking discovered the colours which appeared so bright in her dreams had only been tones of grey.
She was now in a spiral, where every day meant a new sad high. Every day would bring a new standard of depression that the only plan the next day brought was to shatter the standard and replace with an even more inescapable anguish. One day, the depression became so great that happiness had seemed to die inside of her, instead of merely rolling and choking as it had been before. She lay on a piece of bark that had fallen off of a tree unto the flowers it lowered.
A bird which had been perched in the tree on a branch, flew down and grabbed the caterpillar between its beak. As it reascended and the piece of bark became a brown stain on the coloured background, she heard her skeleton crackling and was lost in the sadness of hope's final death. "You are the most delicious butterfly I have ever consumed," sad the bird with it's tongue.
And the butterfly was a butterfly,
and she knew it.
It was the happiest day of her life.

The Spider

Coagulation, a ball of blood had been rolled in the throat of Adam and Eve who were entwined beneath the large cocoon. As the two blessed the carnal, the cocoon which had been growing slowly for as long as it had been a part of existence, began a subtle, creaky expansion. Without fair warning, whatsoever, a vile filthy aperture began to appear in the spindled surface of the dripping sack suspended above the two
Movement
Heat
Sex
The aperture began to grow at a rate, contrasting the speed at which the cocoon had grown from the size of a mustard seed to the volume of a thunder cloud, at which is currently held itself.
As hands tightened, and lungs flexed the cocoon began to fall away, in sheets too thin to reflect any light and they were hardly seen by the distracted couple beneath then. In its wake a giant black form hung ominously from the same existent thread the cocoon was once suspended from, and the once believed magnificence of the pod was diminished as it floated to the ground in sheets that were thinner than the outer most layer of human skin.
In the now black statue that hung, two yellow bulbs became visible like a far off automobile turning on its headlights, and the eliptical form of the beastly shape grew with a portrusion of eight hairy appendages, the thickness of a sidewalk or a treetrunk each. The bulbs had now focussed downward, and as the head segment dramatically began to loom over the two, the legs planted themselves on the cold carpet, surrounding the pair in a cage of black hair and bone. The more furiously humanity moved, the larger the creature grew in relative view for it was only getting closer, as it lingered over them, the once solid form now three solid forms and eight tree trunks began to salivate at what it knew was in its immediate future.
Without so much as a gasp, the humanity was torn from itself by the jaws of the Spider, leaving only a stain of blood, the cocoon shedding became moist in.
The blood dried,
we keep moving.

Hey Valentine

...the flowers of the arctic
the moon
arrows. I am asleep I can't be dreaming.

Universal spindle thread around ring fingers--it's growing.
The pale cool canvas=glowing.
Heart fought its way from a warm white cage

stopsign arithmetic!

Her father, the aviator
Her voice woke the stars, night's victory.

Shangri-La

Well your friends are all wrong,
I've subscribed to what's right.
Because our world is filmed in black and white.
And a perfect god isn't colorblind.
So what makes you think you've earned his delight?

And the white live forever,
while the black dine in hell.
There's no doctor for the sick, so pray that you're well.
If you have any questions just follow the bells.
To the church where perfect people have a story to sell.

You see...

There's this god who wants you to work for what's yours.
And keep it out of the hands of the sick and the poor,
Who would stop their own hearts, just to decrease their chore.
And gods love is reserved for those who've earned more.

More money to throw loudly in the offering plate,
or use it buy flashy jesus displays.
(that scream) Thank god, I've got so much in my bank.
I made more than some countries and to christ i give thanks.

The value of the heart sinks to move to the ground,
pushing with a fervor that's probably found.
In the noise, the numbers and equations we drowned.
Beneath the city lights and the battlecry sound.

Oh America, who will weep for you, if you don't weep for yourself.
My eyes are as dry as anybody else.

"Blessed are the poor for theirs is the kingdom of heaven"
~Messiah.

The Bride, The Carriage, The Beast in the Ocean.

Science is easy with a conscience offset.
Rape the world of art and beauty, just add up what's left.
Like waiting for the fallout in hiroshima to set.
It's pointless without the pills.

Numbers and figures held my head underneath.
the limits of reason's great barrier reef.
From the bottom there's really no point to this reach,
for what we'll die before we have.

While water was filling my lungs with nonsense,
I thought all this profit wasn't quite worth the expense.
I'd go home but the killer's still asleep in my bed,
and I'm not in the mood to fight.

The spheres move in such circles around heaven that,
their trajectories are patterns of a world that was flat.
Before painting it seemed to dissonantly contrast.
The idea of what would be truth.

...for my life.

We killed her and buried her.

insensitive war vanity sunrise

summer shock
in storm its gone
it was always there all along
he walks with the sheltered
the scent of the dead
upon entering his house
surrendering his flesh
a golden stake reflection
this agony film
the light to the world blurred by
airwave flirtation

This body is as cold as a tomb
breathing injustice like cigarette smoke into the womb
the son of tomorrow dragged dirt in the room
and fell into his body between two prostitutes

hang up your fucking coat

Aviator Migraine.

monster.
religion.
lovedeath.
to passion.
decreasing.
creative.
the darknesseatsshit.
transforming.
battlegrounds.
logic is useless.
quantitive estimation
silenced the heart.

Minima

Their march had led them to the gates,
the final maneuver of a dark campaign.
Their armies had filled the angel's halls,
while the cannon screamed "hatred" against it's wall.

This is a war
{beloved}
this is a crusade.

His drive had led him to her door,
their clothes, now in foxholes, on the floor.
The carpet heralded the shells in tears,
I bet it's cold (where you are) this time of year.

If this tundra's your escape
then misery moves in such a way
that her stomach isn't full until it's choked down the last of land
my poor reaction is off I know
but sadness just sinks in snow
and buries itself deeper than you or I had planned.