Wednesday, October 27, 2010

A Minute of Maniacal Harvest

Sitting on these crying rocks 
I look along a setting shore
tinted by the falling clock
in twisted shades of black and orange.

I soon bestow a little dream
on the side of dying docks,
collide my lids and then it seems
everything but time has stopped.

The smell of wood is burning hot
through my nose into my lungs;
my mind has started tying knots 
with every string I should have strung.

So standing up I lean to fall
forward with my eyelids locked
to seal up everything I saw
in me as I'm crying. Stop!

Sitting on these crying rocks ,
on the side of dying docks,
my mind has started tying knots 
in me as I'm crying stop.

On The Beach of Lake Erie [Pt.II] - 7:29pm



There is a plain that sits above
slowly drifting side to side
emptying its heavy tears
that it always tries to hide.


Following a dying star
to the corner of the lake
covering and hovering
watching as I calmly wait.


Staring up and to the west
I wish that I had time to say
crying giant public fool
everything will be okay.

Between a Ragnarök and a Hard Place III

Within my heart I'm constructed of sevens
but my body is slave to only sixes.
I pray to a god. "Help please!" I beg him
"Within my heart I'm constructed of sevens!"


He laughs on his throne in a fairytale heaven
cutting me deep to the point that it itches
within my heart. I'm constructed of sevens
but my body is slave to only sixes.

Between a Ragnarök and a Hard Place II

On the wings of wicked wastelands
her words are real and watching me
driving me insane as I land
on the wings of wicked wastelands.


Tricking trickling blood to rain and
laughing at it mockingly
on the wings of wicked wastelands
her words are real and watching me.

Between a Ragnarök and a Hard Place I



I will tear this world apart
stepping on a thousand eyes.
Breaking suns to form the dark,
I will tear this world apart.

Maniacally inclined at heart
and sullen as the haggard skies,
I will tear this world apart
stepping on a thousand eyes.

Gold 100s



Poison me please
today and tomorrow I'll quit.
(I doubt it.)

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Veronika Kirsch: Basic Pleasures and Love

Hear me dearest darling
this silence is written for you.
This is not regarding
the nastier things that we do.
This feeling is deeper, its deeper
surely you're feeling it too.
Oh I know you do.

All the lights
can go out the same time.
Just know that I
will never leave your side.

See me dearest darling
I'm timelessly smitten with you.
My eyes are not enlarging
from the nastier things that we do
This feeling is stronger, its stronger
surely you're feeling it too
Oh I hope you do.

All the lights
will go out at the same time.
You'll know that I
will always be by your side.
Our hearts will burn with desire for days and days
setting this city aflame in brightly painted tidal waves.

Rediscovering The Monster

I have a sweet tooth
for women with venom,
fangs and no love
for the lovelier things
masochistic,
a classic sickness
with hydrochloric
acid hips that rain.
Not to mention,
lips that burn
with a touch

Veronika Kirsch: Permagasm

Her lips are lined with experiences we'll never forget
and wet like a snowflake dissolving on mine.
A kiss that felt like heaven and tasted like hell
she moved like the truth and felt like a lie.
Love was in arms reach time after time
but we'd never fail to simply
kick it away with curled toes,
scare it gone with sick screams
and smash it to pieces on top of one another.
Her taste will never leave my mouth
her scent remains in my nose
her eyes remain in mine
and our hearts always beat at the same instance
130 times per minute.

Veronika Kirsch: Delinquent Desires

Desiring a touch from her
my eyes move forward and backwards
I should never want her
though I do
Her smile is wide
and bright as her eyes
that take me to a simple time
of disinfected memories

I'm singing to the heart from the mouth of the soul
Erasing. 
Replacing. 
Chasing a story untold

Dying for a touch from her 
my eyes close rolling backwards
I could never love her
though I do
Her scent and her taste;
her lips and her waist
take me to a simple place
of recollected reveries

I'm singing to her heart from the mouth of my soul
Effacing.
Still Chasing 
the end to a story untold.

This love, is a crime 
and thats why 
she brought the handcuffs.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Propaganda's History





Silence insisted upon this land of hope
silencing dreams with asylum screams
the hole is your home but you aren't alone
You'll never be just as free as all of us read
in propaganda history
and his story is written by the winning kings.

Pyros are pissing upon this land of gold
High, lows and means, are not what they seem
the soul is your home but you aren't alone
You'll never pull from the seams, our hopes and our dreams
in propaganda misery
and misery is never felt by the winning kings

The youth here are rising upon this land so old
Trying to clean the blight of obscene
this road is our home but we aren't alone
We'll always brighten our gleams, heighten our screams
when propaganda's history
and heres where we behead those winning kings and fuck their queens




Thanks to Glenn Phoenix for the inspiration on this one, wouldn't have wrote it otherwise.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Veronika Kirsch: The Lovers Karamazov

In and Out of love
sharing these sinful nights
As we sway like doves
everything wrong becomes right.
These thoughts are racing like a torrent to a waterfall
We've lost our pacing so by now we've probably done it all.

And we were stuck in the muck of the rut that we made as we fell
down on our luck as we fuck like we cant get enough, hell.

I'll make things simple again
so simple my friend
easy to comprehend.
Find your way back to me please.

I'll be a serial suicide
that never fails to fall closer from behind
Filling the tomb with these wounds
self inflicted inside
self inflicted tonight
Bang the fucking drum and sweat to death
As I dive into this rum and lose every breath
For ev er.

And we're stuck in the muck of the rut that we made as we fell
down on our luck as we fuck like we cant get enough. Help.

I'll make things simple again
so simple my friend
Harder for you to pretend.
Find your way away from me
PLEASE!

Thursday, October 14, 2010

A Truth Insincere



Success is unattainable, 
         Happiness is unsustainable


but life and love will always be
    something unrestrainable.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Candy From A Stranger



The truth will set you free, but only at a fee as it
knocks on the door making you weak at the knees.
And you say, "Not today. Can you please just
Go away? I'm nailing my hands shut to permanently pray.
I'm looking for the light that is missing from my life and
the truth is never right if it can be seen with plain sight."
and so it grieves and starts to leave but just before
it goes away, it screams "You don't believe in me anymore!"

Silent Hill





Sirens roar in violent waves
Intimidating even the most fearless travelers.
Look at the buildings as they crumble but stand before you
Excited within the falling fury of a flurry of ashes.
Now you run desperately into one of them
To live at most a minute more.

Here he comes, Pyramid Head. Not speaking, for silence
Is one of the great arts of conversation and death.
Listening to your breath and weilding the Great Knife.
Lusting for your skin stalkingly as you run for your life.

The Last Horror Movie


To follow the shadows of a serial killer
Hawking him stalking his victims with ease
Evenly needs isanity and intelligence.

Love is his motive, but for art, not his victims.
Art made of blood, duct tape and stab wounds
Sane are his reasons, he's genuinely nice having
Tea with his friends as you watch like a voyeur.

Hammers and pipes and mirror like knives
Offer his prey spicey events for their deaths.
Returning to view is his personal life
Recording weddings and visiting his grandmother.
Over the course of this month that it spans, he starts to
Reveal his more sinister plots.

Maybe this movie you've rented is real, a warning
Or maybe its faux or just a mistake. As it ends you hear
Vexatious delays in speech converse, for silence
Is one of the great arts of conversation,
Especially when he returns the tape for you.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Tears Into Diamonds


A voice of breath and tongue ignite her eyes
like matches chain reacting to a spark.
A flash of floods and creeping torrent cries
come pouring out the cracks within her heart.

Her lips then quiver quick with subtle rain
as tears come racing off her blocks of blue.
Her face is flushed with shades of red and pain;
Her piercing shrieks are hard and far and few.

She's tired, worn; her hair sticks to her throat
while makeup crawls from cheek to chin to shirt.
The wires of her speech conduct the notes
that only care to show me that she's hurt.

But with my words she'll rise from her demise
and smile, like the dawn of morning skies.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

What She's Made Of



What makes her breathe are dark ingredients
Held close with ties of bondage mixed with pain.
And with her words she'd bite so deviant
Transporting venom swift within your veins.

She struts her hips of sharpened needle points
Held down by legs that could sink battleships
Erecting flames to warm her quivered joints
Subduing men as her tongue cracks its whip.

Medallion eyes, seductive tears of gold
And fingernails of steel for stabbing hearts,
Deceitful lips and demons in her soul
Effacing these facades just needs a spark.

One knee, two words, a gasp of shock inhaled.
Forsaken angels glow when love's unveiled.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

I Call Her "Real"

Because her heart was far too bleak
And holy for a soul to sink
Across the lake where torrents died
To freeze within her glacial cries
Because the girl whose lips could run
A trembling love through burning suns
Would quiver like a blade of steel
Because of this I called her "Real."

Because the fires growing blue
About her skin of silent ruse 
Were ever charmed with meatless bones
That warned the weak to leave her 'lone
Because her face might break a heart
That, falling as it fails to start
Would never be of ease to steal.
Because of this I called her "Real."

Because I'd never met a girl
As darklit as galactic swirls
And sexy as a river bend
That creeps around in hopeless sin.
To some green men she's just a wish,
That shooting star their lids did miss.
And though I woke without her feel,
Inside my mind I call her "Real." 






This poem was inspired by one of my favorite poems, "Dream" by James Whitcomb Riley.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

S T R A N G E



Rare tan trees,
arrange earnest ranges.
Sergeants stagger,
engage gates
teenagers repent
a teargas taste.
Ragtag streets
rare near terrae
Angst erases
an Easter garage.
Satan's senate seat
stares east,
stern, sane, strange
gnars enraged.
Strange stages,
stranger states.






This is an anagrammatic poem. This is more constrained than my semi anagrammatic form. The semi constrained the words in the poem to start with letters from the title word. The fully anagrammatic constrains every letter of every word of the poem. Whatever the title word is determines what letters can be used in the entire poem. This particular poem only contains the letters: s, t, r, a, n, g, and e. Of course some words use the same letters twice which is allowed the only rule is that you must only use letters found in the title word.

Friday, October 1, 2010

Teaching Flies And Birds



I tried to teach the flies to sing
and birds to walk like human beings.
To hit the notes of do re mi
upright uptight on both their feet.

I tried to teach the flies to sting
and birds to work like honey bees
pursuing checks to turn to green
to fight in flight and die trying.

I tried to teach the flies to scream
and birds to shine like sunny gleams;
yelling and letting off some steam,
catching the eyes of you and me.

But all these things I tried to teach
to flies and birds were out of reach
and too unnatural of a feat
for they live short, but they live free.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Six Decades of Self Conversation




You and I are like the match and flint.
Destined to evolve with each invent.
Forgetting love like distant toil.
We both burn the fuel to boil.
Mine of course is midnight oil
and yours drips black, brown and royal.

Our bodies so differ
with yours strong and bitter
and mine longs to wither,
Was it so hard to picture?
For me to look back
the facts seem abstract


and all the times we should have died
but didn't makes you wonder why.
Its because you always held the will
and I was keeper of our thrills.
But looking back you'd keep it all?
The drugs, the angst, the weakness bald?

I promise I would, don't change your ways
'cause soon you and God will be a sunset away.

Monday, September 27, 2010

The Dry Flask Rant




Fast shit drips from the fat lips of fascists and that's it,
tossed like pigskins and pork rinds in the rinds of the mind
we're blind never to find the real answers in time.
Decide now or find out that love has died down
and been double buried in the same plot on top of peace
which has been deceased for some time now
due to deadly disease and radiation.
The radiation that patient patients patiently wait in.
Yet from all this we've taken nothing but hate in
along with the vagueness of eight sins 
since they're all really makeshift.
Do I say shit that bakes in 
and makes the blood in your veins itch?
Well that's proof that the truth is more than you can chew.
And if you get mad when I say there's no god,
then your just as fucked as the ones with the bombs.




This is a spoken word poem. I just kind of freestyled this and said everything off the top of my head. I recorded myself then later typed it to display here.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

A Midnight Scene with Qetesh, Taken from the Diary of Asmodeus


Give me all
you have to give
and show me what
it is to live
to free me of
these wet dreams
mixed and boiling
through my seams.

Rub me down
and rub me out
on the floor
and on the couch;
trade me seats
and let me
tickle you pink
until you sing.

Grip my skull
and quiver quick
and let the air
get thin and thick
sway your hips,
curl your toes
and moan so loud
the whole world knows.

I stop and stand
bare exposed
panting as our
passion grows
hard and sweaty
like a glacier
I enter as I
kiss your nose.

Scratching clawing
loving hurt
you climb up me
and start to jerk
you've reached heaven,
climbed the steps
then vengefully speak
"Baby you're next. "

You wiggle so soft
and swiftly then
you whisper to me
"Leave it in."
My name is screamed
as I release
and we both fell
in love and peace.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Stabbed In The Heart With An Empty Pen


If I could write away pain
I'd write it all in the sky
with a little green marker
to make the ground seem high.

If I could write away pain
I'd write it all on my chest
with a quill and blue ink
to help my heart get some rest.

If I could write away pain
I'd write it all about you
with the flesh of my flesh
about why I loved you.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Veronika Kirsch In Fishnets On The Curb


On Russia Road and fifty eight I did a double take

     and saw a woman who's body was made of fluent shapes.
A figure eight of perfect weight and fair in face; 

     My urge to wait was muffled by my virgin shakes.
 

I picked her up in search of luck that's worth its lust.
     She wiggled in, said "100 bucks for an hour fuck,
or give me 68 and I'll toss in the other one
     or just 30 if my head in your lap is what you want."
 

She smelled concocted of cheap reefer and nicotine
     the sweetest thing I'd ever seen, she was like a dream.
Her lips were heated red and morning grass glossy.
     Her legs were smooth as they went around and crossed me.
 

Her hands were light and tiny on my chin and cheek
     and her hips were wide and grinding me in the driver seat.
We kissed forever or minutes until she wound me up
     then made my old F150 look like a bouncing truck.
 

I came to love her inside her and even in her presence
       she killed my past and finally put me in the present.
We drove around conversing about our favorite things
       like how I love to write poetry and she used to sing.
 

As it turned out, this was her first trip on the scene
     and she was already out of the pain because of me.

The Murderer Who Met Himself




I'm back to my old alcohol ways

     as my eyes are in and out of hallways.
 

These old dirty palms are washed up
      boxing with thoughts of being boxed up
 

and buried scattered across hills
      where my brain was battered by lost pills.
 

As boggy dreams flood my nights
      I wake with shakes in hooker lights.
 

My buzz is blown as is my cover
      and now I'm a liar of a lover.
 

So much faith has gone down the drain
      only to be bought again and again.
 

I've ran out of mirrors to punch to pieces
      searching for hope and just what peace is.
 

But as inclined as I am to kiss the dirt
      I don't have the balls to risk the hurt.
 

So suffer I might and fight I will
      but one of these days I'll be the kill.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

The American Dreams: The Proletarian Nightmare




Its called a dream for a reason, you know.
The only way to see it takes a dose of Ambien.
And another. Hell, just make it a ménage à trois
because you'll be getting fucked every which way
for 8 hours day with a handful of nickels for your pay.
Those who wish to achieve it don't want to live,
but would rather sleep in a lucid dream where even
their minds cant depict the world that they're told of.
So they suck in the putrid lie polluted air
of corporate assholes who helped usher in
these capitalistic casualties and fauxy reveries.
Now the heavy cost of wishes won't shed
a single bead of sweat and we're the victims,
here, with broken nails. But the snake's
out of the Gucci bag so most of us know
that its a sham and a nightmare. So we keep our heads
down because looking up isn't free
unless of course you're J walking on wall street.
We rattle the pigs asses, of greater equality,
backwards and shake the unconscious to wake
them and tell them, whoever concocted
The American Dream was a poet
of catchy pop lyrics and heroic comic books.





Note about this poem: Its the revised version of an earlier poem.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Dreams Rest Under Green Stems



Welcome to the mom and pop
of unlawful remedies.
You can find it all from
sugar cubes and caramel rocks
to pills, powder and fuzzy buds.
In this country of rivers to the bottom
life is only worth anything illegal.
Our economy thrives
off of depression and impressions.
If you want to live
we'll show you how to fly
and charge your veins
because there's nothing left
to do in this wastedland of bore.
So turn us on, tune on in, drop right out
and see us through new goggles.
If you don't like it, you're free
to leave and live alone
because we're all high as fucking clouds
impregnating dreams to repopulate
our army in the war on drugs.

La Purification Finale



Seven trumpets sounding off
          we walk a road of myths.
Purifying souls of sin
          with orange and yellow wisps.
 
The ground is bare and jagged
          with teeth of glowing coal.
We're forced to march side by side
          reaping what we sow.
 
The sin of men is split in two
          and we've procured the softer.
So we are here to cleanse our hands
          in bowls of liquid sulfur.
 
We're here because we gave a shit
          but not enough to tell
and not too less to spend our time
          in the arid pan of hell.

Marching In Between



We're loved but face this pain
of singing the blues in hell
surrounded by reds and chocolate
yellows. Marching along
with little ones,
our father is waiting and
he doesn't like dirty paws.
The trumpets blaze
and burn our fingers, lips and palms.
While drummers stab and bash
our stomachs with
scorching orange blades.
The flutes repulse
and make us puke
up the lies we all have said.
While clarinets jab us
through the ears for hearing
dirty words. Our feet are
plastered to the horns
of satanic trombones
and our faces wrapped in
glowing metal strings
Our tongues are cut
and fed to wolves who
crackle like the sun.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Ahead In The Clouds II

A tidal wave of cotton balls
rests within an unsure wind
where a letter H morphed to a T
and fish bones flew
to a Renaissance mask in anguish.
As a giant ape shaped out his life
toting a totem pole smile
and double fisting toadstools,
an axe laid at his feet, while a
sickle sold cells to the hammer
for a measly chocolate boomerang.
The seagull printed blanket fell
underneath the blinking suns,
floating gently above
the head of a mammoth
snowy shaman mountain.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

On The Beach of Lake Erie [Pt.I] - 10:38pm


The lid of a nearby trash can
thrashed violently split in half
by the chilled lake winds
as if it was tapping out
to no longer be tortured
by the night's malevolent submission hold.
The whoosh of the breeze and crash
of the waves gave the
headlight drenched sand
a more than eerie feel.
Underneath the blueberry pie
dyed sky sprinkled with sugar,
the not too distant rocks
stared closely at my footprints
in amazement of the tracks
they could never leave.

Hand In Hand Combat

Our arms were at war;
      our hands were entangled.
Palms sweating heavily
   from the blood boiling within.
We were in love at one point
      but no longer now, due to
childish pride and sinister deeds.
   We did our share together
though she fired the first shot.
      And the second;
and the third.
   When I returned fire
I then became sanctioned
      by her embassy of jealousy.
So within my secret service
   I exacted my revenge
under the influence
      behind blacklit closed doors
letting her allies stroke my ego.
   Eventually we were
chest to chest
      palm to palm
lip to lip
   in a cold hearted war.
Shrouded behind password
         encrypted doors and
secular missile codes.

A Haiku For The Starving Poet

A poem a day
keeps the insanity of
my own mind at bay.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Larceny of a Deceased Jewel Thief

I was feeling high as ever
     lighter than a feather
in between the woods
     under cemetery weather

The fog was rolling west. 

     The grass was getting wet.
These were just a few
     of the scenes I won't forget.

I'm tired and I'm shaking;
     I'm wired but I'm breaking
six feet down
     staring at the ground that hates me.

Lifting my spade above
     I slammed it with a shove
right into the heart
     of my adversary love.

I scratched and clawed with force
     sifting through her corpse
hands beating on the wood
     like the running of a horse.

My torch caught the gleam
     of a lazy golden ring
which I swiftly hid away
     but it didn't make me sing.

I was searching for the fable
  of all jewelry ever labeled
a necklace born of 50 carats
     all from the month of April.

The second of my finding
     I snatched it off her high beams
and kissed her on the cheek
      and wished her sweet R.I.P

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Sold My Soul For Glitter & Gold



The Lord hath left me
broken in four
with two pieces lost
and two on the floor.
She left me to rot
in bushes of thorns
and cast down her fury.
I smiled in scorn.

The Lord hath left me
begging for better
and chewing my rope
to fall to the center.
My faults were her doing
my life was her chore
so worshiping her
I would do no more.

The Lord hath left me
cold and tired
so I traveled south
to sleep by the fire.
I spoke with Lucifer,
neck to his throne
and gave him my soul
for riches at home.

The Lord hath left me
crying so often
until I made deals with
the first of the fallen.
He gave me happiness,
my questions he answered
and even at one time
cured me of cancer.

The Lord hath left me
and I renounced her
a bittersweet break up
where we were both hurt.
Though happy for years
and rich I became
I slept with eternity
in a bedding of flames.

Veronika Kirsch: Geez Louise, She's A Tease


She's a cold hearted lyin' motherfucker
with a dead eye and rusted ring above her
head. I know I will never find another
like her, so I'll keep thinkin' I'm her only lover
As she walks with lust drippin' from both her legs
I get hard just wonderin' how she is in bed
I grabbed her ass and she looked back at me and said
"Nothin's free baby boy when all the lights are red."

A Haiku From The Edge

When you have nothing
left to live for, what's to do
but follow your dreams?

There Ain't No Love Like The Gold Rush Love


Above the face of tired snow
the wind and trees spoke soft and slow.
My lungs were drenched by darkened mold
from dying leaves and dreams of gold.
My youth was lost, my days were sold
in carts and shafts so far below.
I mined my heart until it broke
and mined some more on toxic smoke.
The day before my heart did stop
I dug and found a shiny rock.
I fell that night, and woke in bed
and told the wife I'll soon be dead.
I laid the rock inside her hand.
She cried and pulled mine to her head
I gasped and whispered "Dearest Friend,
this diamond's yours to live again."

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Veronika Kirsch: Corsets & Horror


Be my lady for the night
though I know you're just a soiled dove.
And take me as I am
a cold blooded lying little fucker.
Pretend you love me
or at least the things I do to you
and scream my name
every second that I'm inside of you.
I'm not lonely now
but in an hour I'll be back to Jack
and Jameson too.
But for now I'll just park my truck
on the side of this
filthy, sweaty, bourbon intersection
and let you work
and make me happy to be alive again.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Project 67 Intro Poem - Anghellical Eve

 Anghellical Eve

Whats happens when 
your insides tear you apart
like the sun falling 

into the horizon at dark.
It can burn and it can sting 

and bring red to your eyes
as if devoured by flames 

in the darkness of cries.
Or this fire may warm your bones 

and excite your blood
and show you a bad time 

but this bad is good.
Then again you might see 

clouds on a sunny day
and lay in the light to 

rejuvenate your soul and pray.
But this light may get too bright 

and hold from knowing
all of the sensations 

of life, love and growing
So what happens when 

you're insides tear you apart?
I'll show you every blissfully painful second 

but where do I start?





This is the intro poem in a book I'm working on. This book is currently untitled but its called Project 67 for organizational purposes. It will be a book of poems about the duality of man and my own personal duality. A few of my poems posted have already dealt with this but I will be taking things a little deeper now. Also, the most of the poems in the book will be named after different theological characters (angels, demons, saints etc.) some examples would be:
Belial
Jezebeth
Samael
Vetis
Uriel
Vassago
Taharial
Shateiel
Yrian
Nybbas
Gabriel
Ishmael
Manu


This book may take a while, but here's to the beginning.

The Loch Ness Ardor

High above I heard the 
cries of a dozen doves
and everything was tingling 

but I wasn't buzzed
In the corner I was 

shaking huddled up
I couldn't scream for help, 

my mouth was muzzled shut
In my head I was 

thinking what is what?
Were all their words true 

or merely scuttlebutt.
Either way 

I continued making progress
Frightening all hair to stand, 

even severed locks yes.
Infamous within weeks, 

I was now godless
and I became known 

as the monster of the locked nest.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Beelzebub & Shekinah: A Romance

Heaven hates me now.
Saint Peter has cast me out.
So follow me down.

My wings lack feathers.
Just burned skin like black leather.
We fall together.

Under my horns now,
you let me fly in and out
with your halo down.

I'll stroke your feathers
on this red bed of leather.
In love together.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

A Fever of Haste

I've got skeletons in my closet
monsters under my bed
ghosts within my dresser
and voices inside my head.
I'm crazy, but I'm living,
if you call this a life.
I'm conscious and still breathing
so why do I feel I died.
The stranger in me is screaming
and ripping apart my veins;
Stabbing me in the spine
and climbing up to my brain.
Resistance here is useless
I've learned this all before
He's been kept down too long
and won't sleep a minute more.
He's insane, he is rage
he's been locked down in a cage
as a slave and a knave
in the darkest dankest cave.
He just waits to be saved
but the heroes never came
so he bathes in his hate
and a fever fueled with haste.
He's so wicked and delusional
and when he gets free
there will only be remains
of the man I used to be.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

erametiN naciremA nA

Its called a dream for a reason, you know.
The only way to see it takes a dose of Ambien.
And another. Hell, just make it a ménage à trois
because you'll be getting fucked every which way
for 8 hours day with a handful of nickels for your pay.
Those who wish to achieve don't want to live,
but would rather sleep in a lucid dream where even
their minds cant depict the world that they're told of.
The heavy cost of wishes won't shed a single bead of sweat
and they're the victims, here, with broken nails.
They aren't sure but there are some us who know.
We know that its a sham and a nitemare.
So we keep our heads down because looking up isn't free
unless of course you're J walking on wall street.
We rattle the pigs asses, of greater equality, backwards
and shake the unconscious to wake them and tell them.
Whoever concocted The American Dream was a poet
of catchy pop lyrics and heroic comic books.





Note about this poem: Read the poem, then re-read the title and it should make sense.

Veronika Kirsch: The First Kiss Kills

Oh, that first kiss.
So fond in your veins.
It opened trails for later trials
to be flattened with mistakes.
All the while still, you'll never regret it.
Such an oral fixation, a weightless sensation.
You move a thumb to her cheek and 
a hand to her hip as she stops and softly farewells
Oh! That sweet cinnamon spark
the one that lit a fuse in your pants
dying for another brush with her lychee lips.
Once you're there you're fine and flushed
but days later without that cardiac bolt
you're sweating in the cold night
and shaking in the morning sun.
Far gone from your veins;
Oh, is that first kiss.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Riddles & War Pt.I

Scorched earth.
The apple and the knife
Bones nailed to dressers
and meat draped over
the furnishings of militants.
It is cannibalism.
Skulls within skulls within skulls.
Infinite death
and a fork to your head
carving the truth deep,
all the way to your paper soul.
Common men live,
heroes will die
but only cowards hide.