I Am Forgotten Emotions.

A sacrifice in the park

to the pigs with their guns

searching boys in the dark, I beg forgiveness for you—

you are sent home;

meanwhile, I am jailed over and over,

spending a night of Police harassment with a head full of acid,

each time you slide your access card

to the places where you

wouldn’t be allowed in otherwise.

I am your forgotten emotions.

Now you, that first lover,

I am the pain in your heart—

those scars left behind from a series of kisses,

a gentle touch, the words I love you are

over and over, carved inside its walls

reminding you of the sacrifice we made

in order to keep your youthful allowances,

each day I wonder, was it worth it?

I am our forgotten emotions.

I carry the numb places in your memory

where once shone the abscesses of childhood trauma

which removed and dissected for you

keeping you sane through hell and back,

are then swallowed and absorbed in this psychic

vessel, burrowed to purify deep inside.

I am your forgotten emotions, watch them as we bloom.

I’m here to remind you,

you, the one with the pedigree,

that I remember how you walked up to the bar

during our friends birthday party, you were dressed

like the beautiful whore we all know you are,

flirted with me, then said “Gosh, I’m mean!” giggling to yourself,

walking away laughing, I was a joke to you,

but I never laughed—

when your story was something to listen to,

when my shoulder was all I had to offer you,

and your broken heart was all I meant to mend.

I am your forgotten emultion.

I am the nexus of abhorrence, your loathing,

something to talk about over a beer—

another one of the horrible people,

keeping your friendships glued together,

kindling for your hatred,

when you can’t talk shit about one another

in fear that in turn each will know the truth,

you, with the faces like revolving doors.

This is for you.

To each and every one of you—

I am the louse in the corner,

the weirdo in black,

the one you’ve all turned to when no one would listen!

Look here, don’t advert your eyes,

I am here to remind you

that once your emotions were real,

not make believe, nor shadows of their former selves.

I am the luxury of forgetting

passed around a table

full of empty rotating faces

all stuck drinking from bottomless places.

but now I am no more for you or any of them,

you’ll have to face the truth of each other,

Adieu.

I am a Black Star

I was born the day you died,
thirty one years ago—
I was reborn when you died,
yesterday mourning.
It all started eighteen months ago:
our slow death.

I Bow to you, master smith of universes,
Mighty Goblin Disco King.
You pass the torch on to the world
waiting for the next Black Star to shine,
we are many, a legion of your children
all awoken by the changes in your persona
arranged movements of your beauty
all spoken, sung, made into discourse
of falling walls, bullies pushing,
drugged out evenings, dancing china queens.

I breathe, because I once saw the light which took you,
it said that it would be hard
it said it would be difficult
yet I know it was love which spoke to me,
it was love you went towards,
it is where we all go,
Us, Black Stars.

Contrary to popular opinion I want to LIVE!

When your life is a roller coaster
you've got no choice
other than to take that ride
enjoy your time in the light
shadows and spikes
like a neon forest
climbing up the side
its glow engulfs you just
as you fall down so hard
as you fall down so far
that the only thing you've got
is that breath
coming quickly in and out
you're so in love with it
you're so in love with it
with yourself, and that is okay
because we all want to live
we all need a break

On a rainy day, court is in business.

There in the court

with the massive Queen

which sits in the middle of the great hall

just spitting out words to the masses, orders

Our lovely maiden–anticipates
swords unsheathed all in a row, stiff

a queue of would be gentlemen await her

across the entrance of the great hall.

While their hands tightly grasp their swords

their lips whispering of her great deeds,

it rains as the Queen loudly drowns away

a soothing sound of water coming down.

If it doesn't rain, the land withers.

If it doesn't rain, the crops die.

If it doesn't rain, there is no dinner.

If it doesn't rain, babies starve.

So she saves the world

enchanting crowds with red lips

floats across the open court

on her nimbus cloud.

Eviceral

That moment when you feel something cold and distant in your bones, when the pit of your stomach falls to depths unknown, and all you can do is watch processions of emotions crawling their way down your throat.


Eviceral.

On Moons and other stuff.

Time weighs heavy and yet people still dance to old routines. It would be nice to actually find someone "different" for a change, all the wrong echoes, all the wrong flags, and the blind following on the tail of the devil. M-O-O-N: that spells torture, a Chinese finger trap and a packet of fags, don't get smoke in your eye.

Naked With Sour Girl

When she used to grab my shoulders, digging her nails
into my skin at the rhythm of our fucking, it used to be
enough to almost make me explode inside her. Now it’s not
enough to just have her nail marks on my back, I want
her bite marks on my neck, I want bruises on my sides
from her thighs wrapping themselves hard around me
as I pound and choke her into ecstasy eternal, my balls
covered in our cum.

There was something about needles that always
perturbed me, something about the way they would
plunge into my veins and then made all that liquid
disappear. It just never seemed natural. Then
one day I had my first taste of an opiate, intravenously,
and my relationship with needles changed drastically.
I had never felt such exhilaration at the elation of that hard
steel needle, plunging through my being, penetrating me,
then releasing its payload into my vein. It still
makes me hard every time I think about Sour Girl, my heroin.

Now this old companion has grown, it has
made its way into the circles I keep and
without fail has taken the heads of
a few people I’ve escaped hell with. There is
something to be said about the ones who have cut off
their own strings and burnt their own bridges, but that
is another poem all together about floating corpses
in the milky waters of the river Alf.

Gin used to taste terrible, its strong flavor would
make the sides of my tongue burn, the place where
my jaw and skull met would ache, much the way Vodka
makes me feel today. Then it was distasteful, but today
it is what I usually like to order, and with a simple “Gin
and Tonic, please,” my youth slips down my throat.

Speedy drugs had never been something I wanted to try,
look at, or even get into. Time starts to change its flow as
one gets older though, the days get shorter, the change of the seasons
becomes more apparent and enunciated by the aching
muscles and bones. To keep up through the pain and fatigue,
now there will always be methamphetamine.

Sometimes it is easy to forget when I meet you,
sometimes I’m reminded after I pass you.
It is not so much that I’m afraid of you,
but of the experience I’ll be missing. I eat my drugs
and drink my gin, toasting to old friends I’ll never see again.

Untitled

Lyrics to a song I'm working on. It is untitled, I will try to post a video of it once I have it down. It might be a while.

For Now:

there are some places between spaces

you shouldn’t cross

there are some creatures in the darkness

who ride the lust

calico vision vestibulary

you wear that coat

cos a harsh winters’ a coming

and it brings a razor of teeth

its got that beard of yours in sight

and it’s gonna win

time for your void inside the news cycle

no time for tears

the drugs they feed you seem to make it better

and while we’re here

go on forget about the way she mattered

one sorted kiss

lost inside diatribes

kept away from light

stinking of pesticide

and it’s gonna kill

She said ­— way he keeps on knocking on his coffin

might make me sick

I wish he’d stop going on with that rattle

won’t let me sleep

there’s someone out there digging six foot holes

right in the shade

of a cherry blossom tree

green pastures, happy green hills

of happiness, I sigh

as she lowers me in

Hot Box Rental

There is a hologram that reminds of your golden splendor

another apparition of irresistible charm and woe,

so full of love and willing to commit itself to a life of rendering.

All in the name of passion, a life of unforeseen circumstances.

Junkies

People dance on the streets,
streets covered in shit and piss,
but they still dance all the same.
As the little bit they share

of fun and debauchery
course through their vain,
meanwhile just on the other side
people starve and beg for food.

The happiest people on earth
all have a reason to look away,
otherwise the front they've built would fall,
they wouldn't be as happy.

To truly see the pitiful eyes of the addict
begging for more change,
will make anyones heart quiver with pity.
So instead of looking

deep into their darkened ocular orbs, sharing that pain,
making that human connection for just one second,
it is easier to reach into pockets
paying off the junkies to walk away.

Junkies know and use this to their advantage, beggars
making sure to look into their darkened
empty souls, asking them to make a donation
to the nation of addiction and injections.

People dance, dance the pain away.
Needles drop on the ground, junkies
shooting away the day, trying to be
the happiest people on earth.

©Who_Leo All Rights Reserved

©Who_Leo All Rights Reserved

All Images Are © By Who_Leo May Not Be Used Or Shared.

Empty Seats

Every where I go
there are empty chairs in front of me
and no matter what I do
there is nothing that can change that fact

unless I spend my time with some junkie
unless I spend my time with some whores
unless I spend my time with another husk
of the people I used to know.

It's not so easy, to breathe freely.
"A lifetime of fucking things up,
all summed up in one determined flash."
No one wants to sit across from that.

Who wants to share my pain?
Who wants to share in my joy?
Who wants to share in the way I see the world?
Who would want to sit across for me at dinner,

starring deep into my eyes
as I complain that the carrots and the peas
make me feel like I could scream
at the top of my lungs FREE PALESTINE!

No one, at least no one I've met yet.
Each night I sit alone,
consuming the necessary protein
to survive another day

so that I may sit across from another
empty chair, mocking my intelligence
integrity, sanity, and reminding me of my negligence
when it comes to make friends.

Good-Bye's: A juxtaposition.

There she is,
blonde hair and painted up face
with her beautifully crooked smile,
her soft eyes peering through the crowds.

"Where is he? He's not here.
Good.
Now I may resume life."

There he is,
black hair and painted up skin
with his beautifully crooked spine,
his bright eyes peering through the clouds.

"Here I am. She's not near.
Good.
Now I may start life."

Songs of Velvet inundate her ears
as warmth fills the back of her skull,
she collapses onto her bed–
dreaming of days long before.

"I rest my head upon my pillow.
Tired."

Songs' Folds inundate his ears
as cold mountain breezes brush his skin,
he rises from the stairs–
walking with carefully calculated steps.

"I lift my head into the sunlight.
Alive."

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.

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."

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.