Time is a Postage Stamp

when the twang in someone's voice reminds you of other voices you've heard, and the light soon changes and you're searching for faces that could link to those voices but you know you'll never see them because they're long and gone. then those voices, in the seemingly quickened darkness become angry and you remember why you won't see the faces, and then you remember things have happened. things have come and things have gone. and you ask yourself why you didnt go either, why you chose to stay, and you don't recognize your own voice because you have know idea who you are for the time being.

Everything Looks Better On Fire

Landscapes burning and the buildings crumble to the ground. The fire rises into the sky with a force that swallows the sun. People fleeing with no where to go. No where suddenly becoming this landscape. Ash sprinkles the ground like a twist kind of a rain, the kind you cannot drink slowly but the kind that chokes you as it clings in between your teeth. And even from this far away, atop a soon to be dissolving mountain you can see the play dough mush of once certain things washing away into what you always feared and you will not hesitate with it's pieces but rebuild.

Rocky Coast of My Heart

jaded by the absent state of my mind I am no longer in charge of what I do. there is a face that appears in the smear of blood on the rocky coast of my heart and that face is mean, and that face is tired. I wear my pale eyes with darkness behind as if the sunglasses were created in the womb and coated with cells, the cells that puff up and down whenever my lungs decide to give my entire body a break from suffocation. the face in the roughness of my heart is much older than I appear because of it's butcher mentality - it is taken a beaten but does not render tender as you may think. the swells do not gain pleasure, do not give off passion. the pressures of this face, etched to my heart, is hardened with the experiences of the outside world. the barnacles of reality surviving off pain, there is no releasing such mutiny.

A Bulimic Idea of Keeping You Close

In a state of memorabilia I have a bulimic idea of keeping you close and purging every ounce of our togetherness. But may I state and for the record because if you don't record it there is no proof; you should keep all I've given you because it'll be cashable soon and I want to see you rise and fall. The bankruptcy of your truancy to me would be profoundly new but ultimately revolutionary. There is a different kind of treasure in a sea of dislocated feelings where telephones never ring for the lack of connection is evident. There is a deprivation of dialect that swells within the sheets of unmade beds and stained walls with all the odd shaped thoughts that keep reflecting wonderfully in my nightmares. Red lights flashing for me to stop but I'm coasting on a yellow looking to drown.

Full of It

Eyes full of secrets.
Hips full of magic tricks.
Heart full of sorrows.
House full of demons.
Bushes full of spies.

Closets full of skeletons.
Wallet full of credit.
Arms full of uppers.
Legs full of downers.
Radio full of messages.

Telephone full of bugs.
Phonebook full of old school tricks.
Ribs full of butterflies.
Stomach full of vodka.
Shoes full of rocks

Socks full of water.
Pockets full of change.
Mouth full of weapons.
Teeth full of stains.
Car full of misbehavior.

Trunk full of misdemeanors.
Wrist full of demerits.
Shoulder full of weight.
Knees full of shakes.
Hands full of tools to take away the pain.

Espresso Lips

the love brewed in cafes are fast and caffeinated and warmed by words and steam and there is always a frothy kind of idealistic to the kisses. there is also a delectable kind of whipped topping that goes with every blink and you can't help but want to roast in the admiration. it is fruitful and sensuous and the chattering is quiet at times and loud at others and there is always leaning, the leaning over tables and trying to speak directly into the lover's mouth as if their mocha words will respond better with the closeness of your espresso lips.

My Church is a Place Inside of You

My church was a place inside of you. I felt safe and willing to confess my stories. For they aren't sins when I am close to you but experiences. I feel you embrace my mistakes and take me in wholly and holy. You make me feel clean, even in my dirtiest moments. You rise me up. My church is a place inside of you. You have faith I can consume and I've become a believer in you as you have found strength in me. I attend your parish with intense remorse, I plead your pupils to sink my hardships and I  seek a different kind of fellowship. My church was a place inside of you. A kind of mentality I could conjure up while with you, a piece of peace that was good for me. I pray to you, to keep breathing, because without your breath I am at a loss, and I can no longer be lost because I am found within you, the church that resides within your body. I pray to keep you, I pray for residency in your temple, my intimacy. I crave your words. I crave your eternal light. I crave your touch and a place to gain strength. I pray for you to always be with me, and for me to always have the opportunity to be with you. My church is a place inside of you. I seek relief, for I am castaway searching for reverence in your speech.

My Teeth Don't Deceive Me

Grab me by my teeth because my eyes deceive me.
I cannot conjure up the actuality of you and therefore
I want the solidness of your togetherness against my lips.
Hover there, against my teeth and let the porous parts of me see.
A different kind of pupil within the lining of my gums.
A pale pink inside of a lying crystal blue, an envious green or even dirty brow.
My eyes have clouded over and are no longer windows to inside of me.
Unless I have become to empty that there is just nothing to see.
Grab me by my teeth and shake some sense inside me.
Just a case for all the thoughts that want to leak from my eyes.
Looking at people, all I see is reflections from the sky.
I fear the monsters might not be real and the people
I'm pushing away might want to be there.
I am here with lying eyes and teeth that want to bite something real.
My eyes have deceived me and now all I've got is my teeth.

Limp Ciggs, Corporate Life

Dislocated air.
Suspended in space.
Gaps between seconds,
not sure what to call them.
Butterflies in my face,
once caterpillars in my lungs.
I've lost my keys to my diary.
I am afraid of the thoughts I've placed there.
I pry it open with a kitchen knife-
cut my finger and watch it drip.
Throw the book of secrets into the trash.
Put the can on the curb.
Secrets better out than in. 
Saw the homeless man reading it intently.
Asked him what it was all about.
He told me if was about him.
Using the "I's" for himself.
Told me these feelings were from his 
corporate life- said he wouldn't go back.
I lit his limp cigarette and sat with him on
the curb for the rest of the night, listening to him quiver at our secretly shared experiences.

Adapting to the Resetting Clock

Your clock almost resetting.
A new landscape to tackle.
Same trees, same lovers.
New leaves, new weather.
You don't feel as if they tell you because you're only a couple of days, a few hours into this new place.
Enjoying the repetition of the new age. It seems to sit well in the new mildly coy introductions you are conjuring up over the drinks you surely will clink. Mutual toasts.
The fresh air isn't new but you adapt the "new car smell" to everything.
Because you can.
It's a day of life.
A day of retelling.
A day to remember and to experience.
 You recognize the change but don't feel it's affects.
You crave cold booze.
You crave good company.
You welcome in and wave goodbye,
as if a brand new you has arrived- rather bushy tailed and wild eyed.

Hands Dirty / Shoes Taken / VCRs Running / Tongues Tied

Sometimes I get this urge to call you, but I don't know your number, but maybe I do, if you didn't change it. But what if you did, or you just don't pick up. So I never bother trying when I really feel like talking to you on the telephone. I get the spark to write out pages of lyrics to songs that remind me of you, that make me think of you. Some of these songs, you wouldn't think or image I could link to you, but I have and I want to write them out and let you know. I guess it would be easier to make you a mix tape thing. I wish I saw you more, but I then again I wish you actually saw me, that'd be nice. If you really did see. Me. I see a gap tooth or a good crack in the sidewalk and want to tell you all the wonderful things about them, the things I instantly love, but you're never there and I am always here and I can never tell you and by the time I may happen to bump into you in a crowd cafe - I won't remember and you won't really care. The change in season makes me breath fragments of you in the changing winds, hoping with each inhale I consume a tiny bit of your beauty. I miss you but I can't tell you because we say it like sorries, too often and never fulfilling and we say it as a thankyou, polite and acceptable, but never very meaningful. As if my missing you is like passing a fork. God, you're actually so beautiful but we are so toxic. The left over stardust that has made a concotion of madness and it works so well but is too stubborn to recognize it. To enjoy it, we pass like ships but never give it a go. Truthfully, I'd like to give it ago with you sometimes, with our clothes on and our minds naked. With our hands dirty and our shoes taken, with our VCRs running and our tongues tied. 

The Icing to Sink You

A concern for something much more solid and concrete. That concrete will be the icing on your cake, the icing to sink you. A cinderblock suicide, a house built around your troubles. You can shut the doors and lock the locks but you are always entrapped with the demons. They are attached to you with your prized possessions. I see their teeth glimmer in your earrings and their eyes are alive in your cherry red fingernail polish. You are never alone. Never from those that haunt you. Pretty glamor in the big box mansion. The rich do cry aloud with their pains and gluttony. Their surprised faces are of the cursed admiration they do gain from innocent bystanders.

The Era of Bad Boys

The taste of disgust that gathers on my tongue as you spew your melodrama over your rather once kissable lips. The irony of your existence, if laced with actual iron would do me some good. I am lacking the vitamin but you're just a virus. You want to corrupt me. It's flattering in a poisonous way that you even try. You are intriguing, I admit, but now the palpable dirt is just a grime on a window I would rather not look out of. The chaos you perspire is undesirable even in the era of bad boys when everything bad is tempting and everything tempting gets tempted with just much admiration and filth as crime.