Detris

Smoldering ruins is all I see all around. The smell is acrid, full of the stench of death. It exhilarates me to no end. By it I know I have life. We have hope for the future.

The year is unknown. The planet seems to be earth, but it's hard to tell from our perspective, being as we're so close to the ground against these old giants which once ruled our land.

Our shells are hard as the chrystaline stones we walk upon, but our insides, liquid to the core, pure in fact, cannot be touched by any outside force, no matter how large and seemingly powerful. We are purity itself, hidden in our shell.

The gods are instrumental and deliriously figurative for us all. This land is ours for now.

Shit. They have a bigger weapon than us again. Back to the research lab! Build them bigger and smaller till we erase them all from the face of this ground. They look nothing like us. Any similarity is purely accidental.

We must do everything in our power to gather the remains of their day so that we can survive beyond these small days.

God is ONLY like us. He has six legs and has omniscient antennae. Thus we mustn't ever be confused about God's nature.

Devouring the remains of the dead is essential to our well being, just so long as it's not among our own.

But the dead among our own count too. The dead always serve the purposes of the living.

After all, we must live.

Feedback Machine

I'm tired of the sugar
I need the salt
Filling my acrid tongue

Filter it down till I can understand

Filter it down till I can understand

Filter it down till I can understand

Blessed are the poor until you get rich
I've seen her type on the side of the road before
Piece of shit begging for her life
She's pregnant with who knows what
Hospital wrist band still on her hand
as I hand her a twenty dollar bill
with assuage in my death like grasp

Hello Jesus on the side of the road.

Wrists

Slipping my wrists
into the slits of your soul
Awakens me to the pain
of borrowed time

Slamming doors awaken me
to all of your days of old
Always trying to forget
the stamps of my own
daguerreotype

Splicing the dice
until we both rolled
our lives away

Splicing the dice
until we both rolled
our lives away

Playing for keeps

Blinded Visionaries

Blinded visionaries
seeking perceptions
Lids hanging low
by sights too hard to see
Freed by the weigh
of a thousand burdens

Poet Tree

You helped me to plant a garden of words
in the soil of my life
Seedlings of laughter and pain
sprinkled across my soiled soul
into the dried cracks soon
to be rained upon by droplets
of love and hate interspersed
with silent embraces with dripping
sarcasm filling the chasm
which sometimes stood silently
between us

Weeds sprout there too
but sometimes even they have flowers

196

The frequency of your posts don't make any sense to me.

Sheesh. It's almost like you make sense to me.

Written wrists slip across your wrists slit

Permitted to lists, sometimes insipid,
slitted inside my wrists.

Invisible wounds, seen by no one
except everyone with
Eyes to see and ears to hear.

Visions invisible to any natural eye to see.

Visible to every eye to see.

Sheesh, your eyes,

It's almost like I can see your eyes.

Frequencies can be a hard thing.

Betwixt and In Between

Bipolar opposites
swirling intertwined
Fueled by swirling emotions
Cued by instincts
intuitively inspired by
you and me.

Figuring the signatures
Signing away the rights
Flights flying away
to highways and byways
slighted and benighted
by signatories
always lying.

The Great In Between stands
in between the chasm of
what we all are told to believe
Dropping down to the valley below.

Visions of Gehenna
and Hosanna
intertwined
Voiced together
Sung in harmony
Various singers
stepping in and out
Deciding when to sing.

Until the song is finally
spent and sung
unintentially expressed
as chaos and a voice
betwixt and in between.

Nervous Nerve Endings

Inexplicable pain
courses through my body
An excited calmness
pervades my skin and everything within
Till all of me
all of me quivers within
With equivications
inexplicable
filled with pain.

Photos in a Suitcase

Your feet are drenched, smelling of the ocean water.
You carried what you could as you ran for your life.
But the smell of sulphur clings to your lips and nose
as you fled the missiles and soldiers seeking after you
selling everything, sometimes even yourself,
just to get away from it all.

The photos are wrinkled and terribly fragile.
Discolored by age and wear and tear.
Over exposed to the elements of the age
we all find ourselves in.

But we hold them close to our chests
fractured though they are from the wars
within and without.

We hold them close to our chests
fractured though they are
from the wars within and without.

Seeking asylum from an insane asylum
only to be looked upon as an invader
scapegoated, segregated, isolated
barely tolerated, constantly berated.

I can feel my humanity slipping away
as layer and layer of who it is to be me is taken
away from me, or at least I think it's me
I'm talking about.

But at least I have photos in a suitcase.