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.

Muzak

One thing I will always love about music is it's ability to express that which has no words.

Bleh

If I'd not said anything, it would have been counter productive.

Dancer

Dry mouth
chapped lips
fingers twitching to the beat
of base and drum
electronic arpeggios
inundate thoughts

Imagine her in her skirt
dancing to the beat
hips accentuating motion
as her body follows closely
like an enchanter
seer of visions
hair over her face
sweat pouring down her back
bare feet

The dust of the evening
seldom settles