Friday, August 31, 2012

Our Pleasure Raft

A midnight snack of the heart. 
Everything makes sense in the dark. 
Follow my passion with your mouth. 
Don't stray from my canvas. 
Touch my heart. 
Absorb the heat and feel cool. 
Explore my thoughts with your hands. 
Let my whispers wash over your skin. 
Allow the whites of my eyes, to guide you. 
Sharp motions to steer you in the right direction. 
Allow our heartbeats to match one another. 
This is the soundtrack to our bedroom. 
Think of this bed as the raft. 
A pleasure raft we both must cling too. 
We are not a sinking ship.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

A Party Dress Called Crescendo

You're sinking in a crowd. 
A crowd of your best company. 
They don't even notice you're gasping for air. 
Exposed and left alone, all at the same time. 
You're choking for eye contact. 
Struggling to make things matter. 
You start to recoil, plotting things to keep your mind at bay. 
Your mind doesn't matter, because what you mind matters. 
You don't know how to bring it up, without looking weak. 
You are the strongest of them all. 
Your armor is cracking and you don't know what to do. 
Feeling full like a hot air balloon, but you are grounded and they are adrift. 
They don't notice you from up in the sky, floating along cloud nine. 
When their resources have run their course, or when they've settled, no divorce. 
They might mention you at a party, and your head will coax sideways. 
You'll be within ear shot, but all you will catch is the crescendo of the past. 
You'll become a living memory. 
Slowly deflating within a crowd of your best company, in your best party dress. 
Trying not to cave in on yourself.

I Don't Play Golf with Porn Stars, I'm Feeling Broken Down

Screw driver, straight to my veins, leaving citrus taste across my tongue. Swimming in the drink of hardware, breaking up my software, I am short circuiting. Feasting on the fuzzy naval, there is nothing sexual about this experience. Some may say, this is an aquatic action, and I am merely floating down a lazy river. The stars have told me nothing, led me to believe the future is pink. This Cosmo is a liar. I am not in Mexico, but this sunrise surely has my doused in tequila. I don't play golf with porn stars, but tonight I am feeling broken down. The only tea party I will be attending is that of the long island variety. I'm having an Russian affair, with a man named Tonic, his eyes are as clear as water. I'm writing letters enclosed with gin, bloody Mary trying to pardon all of my sins. Johnnie Walker and my friend Rye are all into coke, I hope lemon drops will help them cope. My friend Margarita had sex on the beach with our good friend Mojito. They're the type to do it all; blow jobs, orgasms, and slippery nipples. They both were on liquid cocaine, but it didn't make a difference. I'm taking a mental vacation where all they speak is Pina Colada and Rum Punch. 
Not looking for dates just liquidation, Bartender, may I have another - no questions.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Become the Pop Within My Culture

Bashful indecisions, there was a slurred uncertainty to her sobriety. She said I was a ringer for Marla Singer. I fell in live with her before I had even met her. Evaporating hope, I left the space for a different pace, thought it would last, but the sun always sets wether you're home or not. I caught a glimpse of her on the subway, she didn't look in my direction but the way she peered into her books - I was convinced she was looking for me in those pages. Absent minded monogamy, faithful to a stranger. Thirsty for passion I want to ravish you. Become the pop within my culture, things aren't making sense on the tube.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

My Topography / The Equator of My Bed

I lay on the equator of my bed. 
The vertical line of my rectangular canvas. 
I am divided into continents. 
My topography from the ceiling appears to be that of a lightening bolt. 
The tip of my toes, create the south, pointing to the edge of the sheets. 
Following upward, to the knee, appearing in the fourth quadrant a country of sturdiness. 
Sweeping up the coast, to my naval, a region that rest perfectly against the line of symmetry. 
The jut of my breast appears as an island in the second quadrant, an island you'd like to visit. 
Along the coast of my elbows, you can follow the length of my arms to the tip of my clasped hands. 
They rest high in the second quadrant and you could easily travel to and form both hand and breast. 
A quick jaunt of togetherness through a wave of comforter and heat. 
Down the valley of my arms, tracing up the length of my neck, don't hesitate to plan a rest on the canvas of my face.
Explore my eyes, my lips, and my mouth, the ridge of my hair line. 
The north will provide you with warmth, burrow in my hair. allow the fullness to protect you. 
Take the trail, down my neck, and enjoy the view from the first quadrant as you appraoch the ladder of my vertabrea. 
Take the steps down the curve of my back, towards the bottom of the first quadrant. 
Tired? Stop and sit on my hips, rest. 
Along the smooth curve of my rear, follow the length of my leg and explore the backs of my knees. 
Slide down my calf and into the third quadrant preech yourself within the structure of my ankles. 
If ambitious, cross my topography to my core. 
Follow the beating and the rise and fall of my chest. 
Explore the land and settle there, with the warmth of me. 
Warming you.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Like a Senior Would Tell the Weather

There is a sliver of marrow inside my bones that can feel when you are near. 
It aches when you go, not my bones, but that marrow that lays there within. 
There is a weight that seems to grow within all my bones when I am deep in thought. 
I feel this weight slowly set sail within my entire being. I feel myself, get heavier. 
My heart begins to sink and there within the roads of my mind, I try to escape. 
There are holes, I have punched, in my atmosphere, feeling caged. I am trapped. 
There is no escape route outside of my skin, I cannot unzip it, I cannot let you in. 
However, you found a way, through my pupils or ears or chapstick perhaps. 
You've gotten to the very depths of my bones. 
That is where all my thoughts of you reside. 
Within the sliver of marrow, within the bones that hold me together. 
You've become a deeper part of my way of thinking. 
I can feel you in my bones, like a senior would tell the weather. 
You are apporaching with great passions, and this couldn't be better.

Dispatch Lady, Not a God

I called the dispatcher. 
She hung up on me. 
She knew I didn’t want to be saved. 
Figured I was lost, just looking for a voice. 
I called a couple more times she told me not to each time. 
I begged her to stay on the line, she said she had to go. 
I cut myself open wide, with a black ink pen. 
Told her I needed help, and I begun to cry. 
She said I would be just fine, and that she wasn't a god. 
That I needed to use that pen to write it down, not to get along. 
She told me her job was to help the wounded, get them help. 
I told her I was wounded, could she make me melt? 
She promised that I would be just fine. 
Cut the conversation, drew the line. 
I write to my dear dispatch lady, never taking up her time, 
for the line is mean't for those in need. 
And my pen does us both just fine.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Surrender Sweatshirt Weather

Waiting for the coolness to envelope me. 
The leaves to change and to leave me. 
I want the sweet surrender of sweatshirt weather. 
The cozy nook of reading in tiny spaces with the steam of tea warming me. 
I want the sun to set real low, making everything appear yellow. 
I want jeans and jackets, your jeans and jackets. 
The closeness in a crowd. 
The silent company of getting together and just being. 
I want the change in time, the change in mind. 
Craving the falling fall to fall right into us all.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Liquid Lava Lamp Heart

I traced that smiley mouth on that Tiki cup filled with vodka, budding with condensation, but the smile wasn't helping. The vodka was. I wasn't tapping my feet to the music, I was acting like a deranged Dorothy and wanted to click myself anywhere but home. I wanted to ride the high to Candyland and splash into your lava lamp heart, so I could float with the glow that highlighted my stupor which was fueled by the touch of that condensation.

Monday, August 20, 2012

Quit Mentally Stalking Me

Perspective becoming a sinking ship because the flags have dropped way below the eye line of understanding. The idealistic visions of future and past getting together and tumbling into a gift wrapped existence called present. The ship taking off into a direction of such certainty, picking up different types of strangers along the way. These strangers adapt to their surroundings, and bloom into characters within the everyday ship life. These ships create other ships within the ship of perspective. Relations and friends begin to ration off the perspective within the ship and everyone bands together to mentally stalk you. Opening blurred eyes to help feed an appetite for life and for travel, for distance and for senses.

A Thought to Think Of

I found it hard to believe you weren't thinking. 
I found it hard to believe because I couldn't stop thinking. 
You were always there in the forefront of my mind. 
Doing your little hula hoop dance, it was hard to try and stop thinking 
of you, and every counter thought brought me right back to you. 
I found your excuse invalid, not because I thought you loved me. 
In that moment I think you thought not to love me, to find my flaws and act on them. 
I think I was there, all along, and you made moves. 
The wheel just above your eyes was turning in fact. 
Unless that is your superpower I never knew about. 
So perhaps you can now stop thinking, like before, and stop trying to get me to think of you. 
You've left and I still can't stop. 
I was here and you could've stop. 
But I'm not going to stop, just going to stop thinking about your goodness.

I'm going to give these thoughts a thought and align them with all my other thinking.
self destruction.
the power of the mind, taking it's time to think out the exact revelation of meaning. 

Sunday, August 19, 2012

I Could Be Your Pain Killer

There's a place in the woods where these wild daisies grow 
and I always had a feeling it had something to do with you
They're centers are the same colour as your hair use to be, 
and the way they move in the breeze is the same way 
you use to fall when you were half drunk and wanted me.
You left our town in the winter months, and I was instantly colder.
I heard many things had happened to you, and that you had 
traveled a lot further than you had ever mentioned..
They told me you weren't coming back and I didn't know what to do.
I heard about the accident, they say the pills just fell right into your grasp.
I thought the same thing about me, I could've been your pain killer.
Someone told me you had been out here where the mountains are high and the clouds low.
I didn't know it had happened here until I saw those daisies and missed you instantly.
You had layed your head down in the rush of the wood, escaping the world
in a secret paradise, where we use to go.
I wish you would've told me you had been around the world and back.
So we could both lay in the rush of everything.
Silently killing ourselves.
Silently killing each other.

Drunk Off the Ink Inside the Pen

there is a pen. 
my pen.
it has a sense of power.
the pen which guides my cursive into print.
it brings much truth and enlightenment to the words splashing in my mind.
this pen is the key, the key to the cellar door deep within me.
take the stairs, keep the lights low, don't switch it on or the bats will scatter.
things are out of place, but the pen allows them to settle and unite.
there is a pen.
my pen.
it is filled with a fluid that could get you drunk.
drink the words which my pens spill out in front of you and don't forget.
there is little specks of my in that fluid and you will ingest them.
all the while i am slowly investing in your eyes, and minds.. to play
a soften game of connect the dots.
don't try to figure it out, but allow it to bring some truth and certainty, 
to whatever it is you are going through.
i write to you and sign these words with such faith,
because as much as someone wants to love, it is much nicer to just be.
to just be loved.
my pen promotes the good and the bad,
it has to get out from under my skin.
the slowly crawling, of long lost pen pals within. 

Wednesday, August 15, 2012


Loudness; neither drowning you out or hurting my head.                      Shades; neither keeping me cool or complimenting my emotions.      Darkness; neither protecting or exposing me.                                  Lightness; neither withdrawing my weight nor making it any easier to see. Silence; neither present or obtainable.                                                   Depth; stuck within and trying to climb out.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Doctor Horoscope

Someone decided the stars could all line up and make a meaning out of you. How, so far up in the sky, in a place so close to Heaven or something, can there be a definition for you.. And here on solid ground, where the gravity is deafening and the air thick we cannot seem to locate ourselves, lost among all the other lost souls. In the space, located next to the twinkling gases and unmarked planets and systems there seems to be your personality, floating. It lives without gravity, without air and yet here, and now, these things are of the most importance to us. We cannot survive without it, but up there - somewhere up there - we survive with everything, it seems to know us better than we will ever know ourselves.. I couldn't tell you if I am humorous and obsessive, but the stars seem to know exactly how I am in any given situation. Who are these Star Doctors? Where did they get their degree, and what is the latitude and longitude of my temperature today, right next to the sun, 
saying about me?

Monday, August 13, 2012

Optical Stained Glass

To sink within the shell,
the shell of my being, to hide
within the vast space of my
soul and stay there a while
collecting different shades
of glass that must have
chipped from my insides
and laid, scattered.
I'll put those piece together
slowly within me, within myself,
in the depths of my being.
And raise it high into my eyes
so that the sun can try and
shine through my new stain
glass eyes. And I'll remember.
I'll remember everything
of that moment while my
fingers are slowly sliced
by my own memories
within my being, fixing me.
Slowly, sort of, differently.
New eyes, I see myself.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

The Tubes that Connect You to the Trees

The raise of colour to triumph the blooming watermark on a heart shaped box. That box located next to the tubes that connect you to the trees. Those trees covering you during times of great sadness. The sadness becoming lighter than air. The immediate inhale of that air, with the tubes that connect you to the trees, located beside your heart shaped box, stays there now and moves you with each warped beat.

Burst of Passion

In the distant distance that has collapsed on your past, 
You are feeling a little lighter in the sense of your belonging. 
The longing you thought you were deprived of has your 
tongue tied, unable to vocalize the tiny stabs of delight inside of you, inside of your mind, inside of your core. The centralized discovery has you, craving a voyage of self discovery. Quivering in a state of actuality, you are scared of yourself. But you dive deep into being, and you stay there, content, absorbing the fragments of you that you have left on the bank of your lungs, that is causing you heavy breathe. You’ll return with a burst of passion, and a gain of good rest, sweet slumber awaits your busy mind that so happily stretches your time. Again.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

A Perfect Pint of Happiness

Allow the experiences to fill me, real close to the brim. 
A perfect pint of happiness, this summer surely has been. 
Different kind of sunshine, has shown us all new things. 
Different kind of nights, pushing and pulling different kinds of wings. Fleeing the coup and basking in the adventure. 
Finding treasure in your eyes, we are pirates – wild and alive. 
Seeing new places and welcoming everyone, grabbing 
for the flutter of everything around us. Listening to the water capsize on the hearts of everyone in the flourishing scene. Mending the closeness and laughing while trying to keep it sand free. Burry me at the beach but don’t forget about me, allow the earth to cool my sun baked skin, let the clouds get me high and don’t let me forget. Autumn is coming and I can’t say I am sad, welcoming the change into the one helluva great summer we had.

Friday, August 10, 2012


People associating hope with light.
I’ve seen the lights in this club and there
Is no hope for the people below them.
Believing in their flashbulb heaven,
there is no redemption for their sins.
The siren of the ceiling begging them to dance.
Making their skin look so lucid, eerie, heavenly.
They believe they will do the right things, 
with all the wrong people. The wrong people
Believe they will find good in all the other people.
There is no hope in the lights of this club.
I’ve seen the gluey eyed people losing their
Clothing under these bulbs, believing in a power
That doesn’t believe in them. The electricity bill
Not paid to reverend the souls but to condemn them
Into overfilled black pockets which will call to them
In the night, like sirens of the sky, begging them
To take the plunge.
To take the snort.
To take the poke.
A divine revelation under the flash bulbs, in a club called Heaven.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

The Big However

There is a certain breaking point. 
And even though the point was never 
made, never fully grasped, it was 
definitely smudged, blurred right in 
the middle and worked it's way to 
each end, and now it is broken. 
The point has been slashed and is 
emendable now, it is a concrete stone 
but only in it's weight. it weighs heavy 
on the idealistic of everyone involved. 
Slowly, people start making up their minds. 
They make up little groups and clubs. 
They have meetings and rituals, they have 
a hit list, and that point, the 
mangled point, and everyone who revolted 
differently towards it, stood up for 
different entities of is.. are on that 
list. The calm, cool, and collective 
group, not eager enough to fall down 
anymore, not willing to get in trouble 
with a high sense of government because 
the other social class, does have the 
power to do so, when we could in fact 
erase you, cut your electronically 
enraged footprints off the face of 
the digital world, and black ball you. 
Wasted efforts, not in the sense of 
what would be accomplished, but for 
the mere fact that there is nothing to 
stand up for, for all the beings that 
once could work with creative differences 
have all become carbon copies, nothing 
creative,  it has all seeped out of their 
fingertips into a world of messages 
and punctuation used to express the 
feelings on faces, now results in empty 
friendships, empty hates, empty dislikes. 
Then there is an olive branch, 
A dissolve of conversation. 
A decision made based on others, the loving ones. 
There is a stand in the chaos. 
And we let the words, the bullets, settle. 
Not near the heart, but in the past. 
And we decide to come closer. 
To be careful and to be fun. 
We decide that things happen, 
And things cannot be undone, but 
They can be settled, with small 
Acts of indifference, so we no longer 
Damage, the other people in our lives. 
And friendships become fuller, hates resolved, 
And likes become greater. 

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Crashing in the Window Seat

where have all the window seats gone. 
i don't think i can carry on, without the
opportunity to take a peek, into what
exactly they all speak.. referring to this
great vast place as heaven or as space.
this could be the limbo state that only
offers guidance in the form of a passport.
do i have a pass, to get to and from the
next port? i'm feeling a little claustrophobic
please provide the window seat,
my eyes need to connect with all
the things that seem so faraway
from my feet, when i am on the pastures.
but up here it does seem so sweet, so please
before we crash this plane, just give me
the goddamn window seat.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Love is an Hallucinogen

machine gun legs, walking the line with only her nostrils. straight crunk, her love is your hallucinogen. passing time around, callin' it a bowl. no utensils, bring your face, let us help you expose. body climbing with no actual motion, fluids/toxins releasing your emotions. tripping but you're sitting down, causing a commotion. naked and burnt, just like a marshmallow, enjoying the smoke of nature and feeling real mellow. dancing to the music you've found in your head, no electricity but you've found some instead. all hands, all mouths, all ideas, all fumble. pawing for the occasion, who's birthday is it anyways? twisted off a different kind of potion, skin feeling so perfect, no lotion. the ides of everything colliding in a haze of crystal, rolling things up like party favours.