untitled

你是美丽的化身

我是一个魔鬼

我们不可能

Nǐ shì měilì de huàshēn 

wǒ shì yīgè móguǐ

wǒmen bù kěnéng

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.

Captive Audience

Hanging on to the back of The Dragon, on with
plumes of smoke, floating resonance through the mountains
inlaid with the popular neighborhoods of the birth land.
Faces smile, bellies swell with booze
and echoing laughter resounds through the air.

Watching the iron birds fly in from behind a chained link fence,
in a country where terror is just a corner away
most times all we find is smiling faces
filling the air with freedom and grace.
No wonder they want to take it away.

People come back from captivity,
the nine to five grind of the "American Dream,"
back to a reality they'd lost with "American Idol"
infused with propaganda legally rectified sealed and processed,
to smell freedom in the air puffed just a few feet away.

In the words of a drunken genius clown
who levitated 6 machetes, 3 balls, and 4 pins
up in the air for the world to see,
right on 24 and 6th, in front of the coffee shop
where the green worm makes a left turn:

"Thing I love about all of you Pereiranos is that you're rebels.
You do things the way YOU'RE gonna do them."
So he took a swig from his alcohol just as he joined
a dispersing crowd who carefully ran away
from the falling machetes, balls, and pins.

Sunsets come up every night in conversation
as the day slowly wonders into night with twilight
close behind the two, it is never sure which way to go,
covered in golden twilight splendor
memories are recorded, stored, to be later remembered.

Floating along on the back of the dragon,
plumes of smoke behind and
there she sits with her one hand in her hair
as the other passes the spliff she rolled with Prometheus–
Eris just loves to be around good company.

Postcards To Hitler (part 3)

Can you imagine what it is to finally have your chat with your Devil
only to find that all it had in mind was to undress you—
ripping each and every article of clothing, tearing at your very flesh—
a frenzied attempt to subdue, to make a fool of you, with words
slicing at your very being, because that old demon knows what to say
to make your skin crawl. Another fine specimen is presented
all it has to do is breathe in a little deeper, and it is all gone to hell.

On the coming final courtain

Grandma is marking her last knotches
On the tree of life that has flourished
Given and shared so much with her
Her graffiti paints the branches rainbow
Just as she's about to
Completing a cycle of life in this universe
Yet she regrets not having loved freely
Being sold to a man for a family name
Bold when she professed the man she wholeheartedly loved
Was never good enough for her parents
Her heart aches still, so full of regret.

Tomorrow to visit an uncle
A poet, writer, philosopher
Who has lost his health to indulgence,
A leg chopped off due to diabetes, health
Thrown the last years down the tubes
All of his artistic work
Lays in the hands of family
Who hope to cash in
To make something out of the beauty
That the old man once saw in the world

To look into a mirror can change you
To look into two will change you
Throwing the towel is no longer an option
Loving art, giving it all to make a mark
To not end up missing a leg of life
Or regretting not having lived, loved.

Thoughts while she's getting naked

She looks cute
I like the way her hair smells
Her skin is so soft
Her thighs are as well
Her form envelops my mind
In the lustful things
That I am about to do
Between her thighs

As we climb the stairs

Past the gated door

Into her realm

of sexual ecstasy

Soft skin gives way to fingers
Coursing through closer
Just as she takes off her top
One thought comes to mind
With her sagging belly skin
Her reluctance to remove her bra
This whore is someones mother

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.

Musical Post? Musical Post.

Cover of Ben Folds "One Angry Dwarf and 2,000 Solemn Faces".
Sometimes mediocre attempts at popular music make me happy. It helps clear the mind.

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

Idiot

I really don't understand why I allow myself to feel anything at all
each and every emotion drags me through the murky depths of my mind
with turns leading to parts of my id unknown, places that I should have left alone
though it seems like I always drag parts along the paths taken
or scooping up pieces of reality to keep safely with me.

Postcards To Hitler (part 2)

Who was dancing in the middle of hell?
It was me, with the whore and swill.
Wish you coulda' been there,
it was full of fun, they had this fantastic
grilled tofu. It made the evening.

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.

Postcards to Hitler

Correspondence with heaven, send a letter to see the devil

Spend a lifetime waiting for a response. We just didn't know,

there was no way to know. Everything fell into place when we feared

our own shadow as it made its way to hide behind us, we faced him

it was then that we drew, our conclusions became delusions

floating on the ether, high upon the clouds

riding the back of Pegasus, the winged muse of hope.