disembodied egg drop soup
I have sacrificed so much
for those boxy hips
the lightning rod on top of the weathervane
the rooster spins around
guarding the sky
an erection as the barn burns
late night calls for sex and not love
bruises on the inside
they only come out after dark
that is when you let your hair down
and recognize your weakness
this slow death with alcohol
and then the throwing of self
into trains
under buses
off bridges
they have two legs and arms
and a heart that has been surgically removed
no one plays with the broken toys
those that were left behind
they played with you too early
before Santa came and put you under the tree
the bright lights only scare you now
the broken hearted sob
of the expossed soul
the scares heal they say
the memories fade
you forget the tatse of blood in your mouth
the hard smack of the hand
I miss your atom bombs
I have seen the monster that is eating the world
we are hand to hand in an unfamilar resturant
I can't read the words on the menu
I just know it saying something about the pains of the sky
how the clouds feel her skin roughly
I am not so giddy any more
thse dreams are kept in a paper bag
next to my brother's old playboys
on a shelf in the basement
he doesn't read anymore
now that he gave his heart to Jesus
he thinks its Halloween every day
even on Sundays
I'm still trying to fnd a reason to live
my hedonistoc calculus comes up with nothng
balogna sandwiches on plain white bread
I can't find the mustard or my plain potato chips
your body is bent like Modigliani
curled at the bottom of insanity
you drank and toasted humanity
for all the bitches
trapped by your salvation
you are reading me the bible
in your underwear and wife-beater shirt
I'm sucking on your mustard stain
struggling with the schizoid substructure
we are in the moment
slithering in the primal ooze
it wasn't just about religion
a fight that is sexual
an easy target
a silly futile thing
this phrase upon my tongue
intrigued by your toys
the dream still vivid
we love the idea of there being a healing
that the past can be put to sleep
we want your wrongs to be taken away
to bind you in love and forgiveness
the way of speaking
making you another little girl
gone are your big girl dreams
and the strength that took you so long to grow
pulled out from the fertile ground
by your roots
it is like a trauma
withdraw and hide
head is heavy
I am tired and worn out from tracking the victim
wanting to make it alive again
in its death I can see your death
and maybe even my own
the past is full of shit
feeling the past as the present
the noise of the grinding wheels
they speak to me like no other
I will sit and listen for hours
making things up in my head
making the crooked straight
if that is even possible
painting me as a villian
not fitting the model in your fucking head
dealing with your unresolved emotions
it is magical how the words flow through your head
the secret cabal with assasinations
setting the sack of shit on fire
a petty move in the first place
contolled by my dynamic negative personality
taking the cult sign down off mt door
declaring me a prophet and priest
your head up your ass and spinning
declaring allegience to dramatic solutions
expending the suffering and grief
not giving the horror a face
a drop in the garbage can
one little tiny drip of the world of pain
playing the morron's game
the addiction of consumption
telling you what you should believe
dark circles under my eyes since I was fourteen
I am still writing down all my conversations with god
I recorded them and have to transcribe them
god keeps wanting to edit my writing
but, I told her that my writing is my own
no god or country can buy my soul
my spirit is not for sale to the union or the tea party
they want to put words in my mouth and thoughts in my head
she is trying to find her own voice
cutting firewood for the winter
it closes in like the darkness
she is waving at cars passing by
trying to get the weight ratio right
shaking off the dust of old times sake
your own form of anarchism
The throwing away
Why must it be a dappled shadow?
you want the pain to be just
to be equitable in some measure
wanting to make sense from the destruction
it is the way of the throwing away
the throwing off
it never makes sense
maybe at one time
in someone's turgid mind
but when we see everything in the light of day,
there is always something missing
don't ask why
just accept it as the way
tradition is a strong emperor
and blood is paid with blood
feeling the long cold rounded promise
I once forgot about the seeing
now, it seems an impossible thing to do
to forget
but, we do
we all do at one time or another
some out of habit and others out of necessity
I am not sure which is the cause
I can be dishonest to myself
like when I said that I wanted to kill you
it was not really you I wanted to kill
never before have I felt in such a way
it seemed impossible before
to consider such a thing
we are indoctrinated
believing in a preciousness
it is all lies
there is only destiny
I wanted to kill
A genius once lived here
were you aware?
I drove by this dusty corn town
many times in my hurry to somewhere else
I was not conscious
the car went its own way
knowing the way homne all by itself
could my heart feel the presence?
is there an afinity between souls
that can be felt?
even when the mind is full of ignorance?
I have learned to formulate questions
and not too many answers
just as he
and in my heart I can feel
I can hear a voice
a presence
guiding my fingers
as I feel the barbed
the insects working
I think his point was that we could find meaning
in obscure places
odd places that would never find significance
for anyone else, but only us
in that one specific point
in the selfish details of existence
and nonexistence
I had to walk away
making me see the beauty in the odd
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