Four Years

Four years ago I met you,

those golden locks

like a fleece to be worn

by those who earn your love,

yet I never made a grab at

such wonder when

you had exposed that soft,

pink underbelly, the morning after,

as we smoked hand rolled fags

on the porch of your luxurious beach

home, I could have had it all.

Regret is bitter, that is why

you will always be my sour girl.

It's Okay

Trust issues disappear with age

once we realize

no one is to be trusted.

It is okay to tell yourself

that it's okay.

Trees will still sway

rain wont stop falling

your hair will stick to your back

and your dress will be see through

as long as you don't trust anyone

it will all be okay.

Don't forget to tell yourself,

it will all be okay.

In the shadows of betrayal,

it is best to not allow the knife inside,

with its wriggling motion—

a solemn reminder of being alive,

and that is the whole point

isn't it?

Pain is little reminders

of being alive.

It all becomes a part of the great show

curtains drawn

spot light on

and it's your turn once again

to shine.

So you better do your best

to hold the tears back

when it's her face you pine for

but it's the back of her head

you'll always remember.

per se

Wake up in the middle of the night,
aching to hear the voice.
Press play.
Ignore the universe,
lost in sounds of golden ratios
and flapjack devilfish.


http://greyanne.bandcamp.com/album/facts-n-figurines

Temporary Crossing

When I tasted you

it seemed like something

we'd already done,

maybe a life time ago -

in another dimension,
another dream.

Lips kissed yours
as the tongue caressed your open smile

and with each lash you moaned,

back arched, hands lead
to squeezing proud tits

with little mounds,
standing to attention,
my attention.

Soft feel of thighs
against shoulders,

moaning pleasures

of a kissed connection,

sound waves in the dark.

Lost for hours

between your meat

whispering sweet nothings

into you.

Never want to be found.
Fuck our escape.
Let us be.

On depression

So the thing about depression is that you can never really leave it behind. No matter what you are doing there it is, no matter how hard you pretend there is always something hiding behind eyes that once ached to see the world which turns them towards the dark and only want to sleep. In fear of sounding like some over sensitive idiot I tend to stop writing mid sentence, but that's only because of a series of social stigmas implanted by schooling and television, ex's, people who often drift through your life, which dictate that expressing emotion is wrong and shouldn't be done. Well, sometimes we stop caring enough to actually put something down on paper, or a digital format to be viewed by others. Maybe to help, maybe to vent, or it could just be to help the ego.

It just hides back there, in the darkest little parts of the mind. Any moment and every moment you spend on your own is a moment it gets to reach out further into your soul(?) and pulls it apart. So far, 28 years have passed through me and each and every year since I recognized this, it keeps happening. Sometimes the happiness lasts enough to let me see some sort of opening ahead, but just then the depression comes back and drags me back into the bush, away from reason and the ability to contain one self. As of recent one thing had kept me going, and it was as selfish as it could be. Being selfish after all, is but a lingering string that lets us find the way out, or sometimes even deeper into the woods. It really does often feel as if there is nothing one can do, that this is an end of sorts.

Covering up the wounds has become second nature, smile at the passing professors, the fellow students. Every once in a while you run into others who are pretending just like you. Something calls you to them, there is an inherent need to be near them but... it's never going to go into fruition, damaged goods and damaged goods probably shouldn't be together. Then again, in the pit everything seems like a bad idea, even the best of things that could help one move forward in life. There is nothing like depression to bring you to a dead stop, literally.

Drugs. Never had any experience with anti-depressants except for one bout where a doctor prescribed some wellbutrin to help with the cigarettes. They didn't do very well, still smoked. Ended up dropping the meds, it just didn't feel right. Alcohol has always been a friend, although sometimes it seems like the kind of friend that is willing to stab you in the back at any moment, a real cunt. Cocaine and other "hard drugs" are just that, hard. It's like getting fucked in the ass by a large prison inmate. Feels great at the moment, you enjoy yourself and even cum a little, but afterwards you feel dirty, used, and like your ass is going to explode. It's a real fucking trip. Marijuana is the only thing that has helped to keep it leveled. It lets some happiness in, reminds you that it's alright. Too bad it's as illegal as it is around here, nothing like having the government tell you that you have to get their sanctioned anti-depressants which might kill you instead of smoking a plant which grows from the ground. And people wonder why I'm so fucking depressed.

I was about to write some great paragraph about how people can be there and help you but, it's all a fucking joke. People only make it worse, you start to depend on some cunt of a friend and next thing you know they are just another notch on the post of souls to be avoided. Real fucking hypocrites whose only need for you is to justify their existence, be it with words or my dick. There is nothing like fucking a corpse, someone you know is already dead or dying in the great scheme of your life. Good-bye, it was nice knowing you, don't mind the load I've left in your "tunnel of love." There is something wrong with me, and all I know is that I'm the only one who can deal with it. I'll stick to my drugs, to my loneliness, to a sort of conventional mind fuck trip, a trivial yet ergonomic existence with the way in which the world has treated me. A real fuck you to the stars and to the heavens. There is nothing holding me back, so I feel like I can do anything, even if it's writing about my sadness, depression, about the small moments that add up to nothing, about the love felt and ignored. Because no one is going to read this and thing "gee, he had a point." They'll only think "what a sap, glad he never made it."

Happy Green Trees

Sun shines through leafy green trees, all lined up on street medians cutting the black asphalts poignant composition upon what once was their home. Lined up, one by one, they wait in silence. There is little that they say to one another, besides the usual whispers carried by the wind. Last year it was the passing of a beautiful oak tree near the intersection of ninth and 32nd ave. There was a bit of an explosion as the internal combustion engine of the Maserati slammed against the ancients bark. Flames over took this majestic being and burnt every bit of green, the fire burned for over an hour before the fire department put it completely out. By this time though, the beautiful green was gone from this one tree in particular, and its bark damaged. This is when the city decided that the trees were much to dangerous... or rather, the money of the Maserati's owners thought so. Their child, who'd been driving intoxicated wasn't to blame, not at all! Rather, it seemed more fitting for the trees to be blamed, after all they didn't have twelve lawyers and the backing of a family fortune that spans over generations. No, the tree was definitely to blame. As soon as Mrs. X showed up in the office of the mayor on that morning, the trees knew what was to come. Soon they had all kinds of little people climbing on top, tying themselves to their giant branches. This was all so surprising to them! They were unable to move, and had mostly decided that if they were to die then what best place than that very spot where they were born, next to their brethren and fellow trees. Some of the humans though, some whom they'd known as children crossing the street, brushing their hands against the strong bark, made it clear they appreciated their shade and free oxygen by spending entire days and nights at their trunk to make sure no one hurt them. Eventually the rich family gave in, and decided that it probably wasn't such a good idea to cut down such majestic beings, who had often covered their subtle and fragile skin from the sun as they drove in their convertibles down ninth. They bought out the street, built a bridge by-pass, and allowed the trees to grow and have even more friends and green around them. It was beautiful.

This story is fiction, all of it. Even the way in which humans behave, that is also fiction. It's all fiction, the whole thing. This makes me sad.

Strange dreams

Recurring dream: Sourgirl ended up pregers, had my child. Kept it from me. The dream was third person omnipotent, I could see myself living life not knowing about the child, missing out on all sorts of awesome thing, like reading, playing games, teaching how to be a righteous human being. Not sure what to make of this, it gets under my skin.

Makes me want to call her and just ask "do we have a child together?" I think she'd just hang up on me or cuss me out.

There is no place (to loose your head) like home.

There is no place like home
it's a quaint little chant
said by people far away
in worlds filled with flying monkeys
talking lions, metal men,
and the occasional stuffed brainless idiot.

There is no place like home
where the heart is
where the mind rests
a place to hang your hat
a nice niche to call your own
a world packed with comfort.

There is no place like home?
Another day between four walls
spent time seeping through fingers
as the bacon grease smooths hair
cholesterol is just another name
they give to the golden goodness in the veins.

There is no place like home
to loose your gourd
speed through movies
reduce the vitality of self control
triumphantly cumming on their lips
after an hour of oral fixation.

There is no place like home
to isolate and enslave
the last bits of humanity
to which one holds on so dearly
as to not loose bits and pieces
along the way, trotting
down a path all too well known.

There is no place like home.

Possibilities are endless, but tell that to a corpse.

In the moments between sleep

with the shades drawn and

allowing just glimmers of sunlit

reflections of an everlasting green

that seeps its way onto walls

well known and forgotten,

breaths escape from lips

which are too tired for anything or anyone.

In between the covers

there is a corpse,

or soon to be at least,

and as a mind winds down to moments

captured and preserved

in formaldehyde filled jars

stacked around the room,

the realization strikes

that these memories

just don't taste the way they used to,

a realization made

as this bed which was

kinder to passions untold

becomes a coffin

once the covers wrap around

to keep and swallow whole

in the warmth and knowledge

of being dead to the world.

Dead to SourGirl.

FML (Inspired by Stitches)

You know, it's okay
life gets better
no need to
fornicate it

Poetry for Zombies

I would love to caress the ridges of your prefrontal cortex,
slowly feeling with my fingers the crevices of your reptilian brain, touching your pituitary gland filling the rest of your gray matter with orgasmic tremors synapses light up and illuminate your brain case the light behind your eyes.

Second round of publications

This is my second time being published in the publication P'an Ku, a bi-yearly publication for Broward College.

Dance

Long legs and thin frame
She dances for the men
Who stare with eyes of green
at her slender frame on the pole
Meant to entice
Bring forth the need to be with her
But she covets the vertical smile
Of a woman like her
This is but an escape
From the nine to five grind
As she makes the pole hers
From eight pm to four am
A living is earned
Bread to feed the body
Dances to feed her soul
She rides the brass dick
To keep her head above water
As her body grooves to the beat
Of the music
Naked
A breath spent on words
Riding on solace
Just another night

le meh

Who am I to you or anyone?

No one.

Sky Line

I'm a literary hobo,
jumping trains of thought.
Never staying too long
in one place, unless
something makes me do so.

Peaches

Her black hair flows over her shoulders
like the weights of time weigh upon mine.
Except her's is beautiful,
while mine is just a reminder.

A reminder of a clock counting down,
but who is to say that death itself is not beautiful
that the act of disappearing is not joyous,
only to be left in the memories of the few.

Coming up my throat I feel a snake crawling
inching it's way past my esophagus
cutting off access to lungs
and all of this is just one instant.

She waves a salute of goodbye,
never knowing when that bright smile
kind eyes and soft voice
will inundate the soft recesses of my mind

where pleasure is stored
and create a chemical reaction some have come
to call love, making me addicted to you.
I wonder how long this withdrawal will take.

How long my veins will ache
and my head will pound screaming
"more... more... more..."
with rivers flowing from those orbs

which knew and gladly accepted
the glow of your being
the curves of your body
the taste of your words.

Time stops when I'm around you
and death takes a step back.

Q

Thom York sings
through speakers.

Melancholy leaves stains
only wisdom helps to clean.

Oceans are abysmal and dark
as is the id of humanity.

Kurt Cobain liked heroin
he even fell in love with one.

Only time erodes the facade
which people use to sustain normalcy.

Chaos is a symphony.