Shed This Skin

how do i shed this skin, find 
a better one to live in.. i'm not 
talking death, but i've been 
changing my clothes and 
absolutely nothing is happening. 
i lay naked, buy my coffee from 
another place, tied my shoes the 
opposite way, and still i feel 
the heaviness. it must be inside 
of me, somewhere i can't see. 
because everything i could 
change i've changed and i still 
don't feel any closer to being me.

Smoking Water

smokin' cigarettes in the 
bath tub, hoping the water
and smoke will fill the cracks.
fragements of myself are
scattered around this town.
slowly everything is chipping
away at me. the cracks
in the sidewalks reflect
pieces of me, i try to connect
the dots and end up scattered
like ashes, somewhere else.
i can't get close to the ocean
because it will swallow me up
and i will let it, even though
i can swim, i will sink. i step
back from you because you
want to fill the cracks, but the 
preassure will break me all
over again.

Kids No Longer Fearing Monsters Under Beds

I had a dream about all those kids on TV. The crying kids ripped from society and their alphabets with the ripples of gun powder. Their noses were dusted with the thin lining of dust that lays upon gym floors and some had the tops of their heads dusted, I could imagine from clinging to necks of brooms. I saw all these little people rising and falling like popsicle sticks, still colourful and sticky, they smelt of fear and paste and I was suddenly saddened. A wasteland of youth, so far from knowing evil. For evil no longer being a bad dream, a boogie man, the enemy in a video game, or what Scooby and Shaggy so fearful sought out. I dreamed of these children and wanted to take away their pain. For they shouldn't know insomnia yet and I would harbor that so they could move forward and shake hands with the devil later. For meeting him in all his forms is inevitable but if I could postpone that, to unquiver their lips and unwet their pants, I would've. I woke up to another batch of kids being terrorized on the news and wish I could've dreamt away their experience.

Fluff and Skye

the sky made me nervous. 
with it always looking down on me. 
waiting to swallow me. i prayed for 
rain because then it would always 
be busy, busy with something else. 
paying no attention to me. 
while i paid all my attention to it. 
the sky. 
so vast and high above me. 
once i stopped fearing it, 
i wanted to be apart of it. 
high, up there, among fluff. 
i get tired of the overwhelming 
state of earth i am in, 
this ground, has me grounded, 
and i hated when my parents would 
try, try to ground me, that's why 
i ran away. 
and feared the sky. 
than got high. 
embraced the sky. 
met a guy name Skye. 
he wanted to take me higher. 
i'd soon give in to his fluff. 
he'd crack it. 
burn it. 
shoot it. 
pass it. 
help me. 
we'd go there. 
up, way, way way, up. 
he looked beautiful, 
my own piece of the Skye. 
grounded and high, 
floating with me. 
my parents would call, 
random payphones, 
payphones i had pleaded to them on. 
pleaded to let me come home, 
for the fear of my Skye. 
blue eyes, fluff, i'd confuse the two. 
for my Skye and sky were intertwined. 
calling me into a deeper blue, 
one both sad, and high, and lovely. 
Skye came crashing down, 
broke into a million tiny pieces, 
all shaped like stars. 
i took it as a sign. 
laid in my parents empty pool. 
the blue was always something i 
wanted to be close too. 
they found me, 
took me in, 
got me to a different place in my life. 
the only time i get close to the sky 
and a high now is when i am traveling. 
on a silver bird, filled with jet fuel. 
gets me to a happy place, 
i am better now than i have ever been.

A Towel Named Sid Vicious

I'm sitting on the toilet lid staring at the towels. I don't know how this happened but they were breathing. Short little contractions, wavy like gravy. I put my hand up, tested the atmosphere, nothing. My own breathing is so minimalistic I can't be causing this. I step into the tub, stare at the towels, they continued to breathe. I think as I stand there close to the curtain, that I might be able to feel it. I pause. Focus. I really focus on myself and get a tiny sensation, a cross between spiders and cocaine. Did the spiders take the cocaine? Or the towels? Did someone use the towel to clean up a cocaine spill? How much could I sell that towel for, would it stop breathing if I sold it? Maybe I could just ring the cocaine out.. I stepped out of the tub. Didn't bother washing my hands. Flicked the water on and off to create a sense of cleanliness. Stuffed the towel in my back pocket let it flip out as to not suffocate it. Went back into the party. Everyone glazed and dusted, a room full of after hour donuts. I named the towel Sid after Sid Vicious and walked out, leaving the door open, searching for a place to crash.

Let's Not Offend the Catfish

you lack a moral code, and although i am entirely unsure if i even have one of those, i know for fact that you do not because of the way your face sits there on your head and your head is situated upon this tree stump of a neck and your shoulders look soggy. soggy shoulders are a good clue that any sort of moral code is missing because shoulders like that couldn't carry the weight of anything. their stale, you're stale and i know the risky business you would get into and the shadowed paths you would take to get there. this doesn't make you tough and it doesn't make you hardcore, your shoulders are a dead giveaway that you would never be those two things. you've got no substance, and the moral code well it gives you some stuffing, defines the contours of your body and protrudes like a self declaration of personality. you lack a moral code and i believe you to be a bottom feeder being, not even a catfish because i believe a catfish would have some sort of code.. and well that and catfish don't have shoulders so i can't see the definition of themselves. but you. i feel absolute pity for your shoulders, and the weight of that worthless head they have to carry around filled with nothing, a drought of disgust. i mean just look in the mirror, your pores are oozing with lack of moral code and pure self hate.

Dreamland, Aisle 2

Broken down TVs and excuse me Ms. Squeeze Me but this is not a petting zoo and I cannot be touching you incase.. 
I am infested with distorted images of my once muse, who is just a pin cushion of bad news, trippin' off a bad cruise and keeps squealin,
"I don't know what to dooo."
 Triple "oh" confusion, downed with triple stiff liquid and there is some sort of triple dissection going on in this election of best selections... and you're just a lipstick smear on a politician's napkin, but these politics are kind of wet and out of time and you better get back to your nine to five, 
destination Dreamland, aisle two, coming up on the right side of wrong on you. Stay wide or crash and burn into the Hollywood sign, the blindside.

Psychotic Carpet

there is a distant sort of love that must stay platonic because if it were to ever slip up, we'll that's surely be moronic. and for all the things i've thought to say and think them still, i'm on it.. trying to sweep the pieces of my messed up heart under someone else's carpet. i'm telling myself to stop it.. but masochistic tendencies are hard to kick - ironic? running outside of my skin, trying to flee the scene. i need a change of pace; a different eye shadow.. a different gleam.. this distant present feeling has me flat lining. i realize i am coming off psychotic.

Tacky On Your Existence

Your heart is black like a cavity. I never understood why sugar, something so kind would become demented and black and tacky on the caps of teeth. But then I never really knew why people did the same thing, brought so much sweetness into your days to go and turn black and cold and tacky on your existence. I never understood how they could be the same. Are people made of sugar? Sugar with it's grainy tentacles looking for a life source to drain, so it can become a stain on a once preciously gleaming surface. That's what people do, they attach themselves to you, they link themselves and match your stride in the park and hold your hands in the company of your friends and kiss you behind the ear when bringing you a cup of coffee from behind, no sugar in that coffee it's always been better that way, but that doesn't change this person, the way you drink your coffee won't change a person - so keep drinking it with or without sugar, it doesn't make a difference to the person - just your teeth.

Some Kind of Anger

There is this anger. Welling up and ebbing out and crumbling. It's white hot with some sort of glow I can feel and it's beginning to give me these freak outs, feel it rise up from the pit of my stomach and suddenly on the back of my neck. I can feel it in my eyes. This uncertain heat, steam rising. There is this anger. I feel it sometimes lingering. It's swelling and making these little sounds. It's happening. A certain kind of anger, stabbing, rain pellets all over me. I've got this anger following me and I don't know what to say, if only i could say what i know i can't say.....

Indecent Existence

Scuff on my cuff.
Dirt on my boot.
Frizzing hair.
I'm late.
Bottom of the bottle.
Just missed the bus.
No more ink.
Puddles knee deep.
Shit on the sidewalk.
Brewing storm.
Over cooked eggs.
Sausage instead of bacon.
Lost library card.
End of the lipstick tube.
Cracked screen.
Low battery.
Up a size.
Down a heel.
I'd take all of these things
in exchange for someone
like you.

Pebbling Rock Foundation

His world seemed to waiver and it was a strange sensation considering nothing had ever buoyed in his life. He was a rock, from a family of rocks. Their specialties were foundations and he had lost his own footing. He embraced this feeling as a new beginning. He became a pebble, with no foundation, free to roam wherever he pleased. He tumbled through life and was unease and unnerved but entirely moved. He traveled and saw things he wouldn't of seen confined to his foundation. As he pebbled up and over he saw things and learned things and even embraced things. As he went along he created his very own foundation. A traveling foundation of strengths and flaws and he became a better man. A better man from losing his footing and feeling a heavy loss of himself and suddenly growing and expanding his shield but opening it as well to not only see but to be seen.

The Cusp of Two Cigarettes

She drew him in like a cigarette, a quick pull of the babe. 

He engulfed her, inside and out, clinging to her clothes. 

She was aloof to all he desired, stuck in her own head. 

He was adapting to everything she surrounded, couldn't get away. 

She was on the cusp of the universe, waiting to crash. 

He had crashed into her, creating entirely a new world. 

She was an addict and he was not her fix. 

He was addicted and couldn't fix her. 

She spoke loudly, made quick decisions and left. 

He stayed silent, slowly processing where she could've gone. 

She was found in her dark place, just above her temples, contemplating. 

He swam through her mind trying to pull her back in. 

She lit him up, like her favourite cigarettes. 

He stayed lit to fit into her, and held on for his dear life.

Body Talk

Your bones are the structure of your statue. The way you move like a jellyfish so fluid. The flick of your legs that run for miles and I am extremely intrigued by where you have been. Your skin, the perfect cup of coffee with just the right amount of milk. Your lips are like sugar cookies. The hair on top of your head is this turf of excellent surf, like a wave of angel hair spaghetti mixed up by the ocean. A beautiful mess all half hazard and a strayed from bed by the most perfect of lazy days. Your teeth are delicate pieces of peppermint gum saving behind them a bubble gum tongue. Feet, sturdy and keep you grounded. I want to know if your knees buckle like any century women once described. I want to swim in your possibly deranged mind and weave a bed there. So that I can admire your canvas all the while thumbing through your private possessions and admiring your private possession. Talking with touches and vocabulary, heightening the indifference and ruling out all possibilities of small parts and small talk.

Chalk It Up to an Astrological Experience

All you want is answers. 
Answers without questions. 
I can't read your mind. 
If I could I wouldn’t wast my time. 
I am short on space, because your ego is in the room. 
There is an elephant with Gloria and no one will ask it's name. 
I went to a party once and someone said my stars were aligned. 
That was the night you hit me with your car, made me see stars. 
You didn't ask my name but I gave it to you anyway. 
It was an accident but I can't help blaming the stars. 
Your eyes were like furious cosmos as you helped me off the road. 
I blamed the universe for having us meet. 
I couldn't come to terms when you left. 
I went to all these parties searching for you, instead I found bottles. 
Some filled with liquid and some filled with little capsules that could make me float. 
You were never in any of those bottles, or those parties. 
I asked around, no one even knew who you were. 
(did I make you up inside my head) 
I chalked it up to a astrological experience. 
I don't believe in astronomy, 
But I did believe in you.

You Have a Self Sympathetic Rash

there is a demented transcript in the way you're wired. for all that seems one way, surely is another. and for all of the accusations made within electronic walls, there are black holes filled with descriptions.. those are the calls you won't answer. but the texts instead that you would publish. and when everything looks exactly as it seems there is a plea for something else, a nostalgic i'm not sure you want to pass, stuck in a standstill, you like the attention, you like the deception but more the lack of protection. misfired and rash you are looking forward to the bumps, gives your mind something to harbour and your body a self sympathetic rush. 

Gallivanting Pieces

The ocean ebbed for me to stay and there I was with my pockets filled with dreams and shells. I've heard of things deep in the sea, that live down there - that cannot breathe. Words tied loosely with imaginary string, gallivanting off my shield. Worlds are turning, I felt the shift inside my core, now there is a place I fear to explore, but ready for spelunking I go further down the bunny hole and inside myself - deep like the ocean, I watched a piece of me dissolve within and I stayed to rise up above the hallmark of it all, the ocean as my soundtrack to accepting love - my mind still bubbling at it all - but approvingly loosening the reigns on all the goods things, a different path myself is taking. 

LACK PLASTIC

a sordid girl wearing only absorbent. chasing the days away with an entirely different daze. a shot for a shot in whatever shop will let her tongue twist the key hole and allow entry. bumping into mix company, the cocktails flow quite meaningfully when the meaning is as demeaning as the shoes on her feet there is nothing to worry about when it comes to spilling a web of disastrous obstacles. the painted claws, that resemble little pebbles found in the bottom of fish tanks in dentist offices, gauge out whomever ears are in earshot. her mouth chews on the images of her surroundings and the fluff that is puffed from her self loathing depiction is an oasis for all whom they encounter, like Medusa and her head of serpents there is a siren's call to her life experience, because it lacks and the slack of it all is a result of the smoke stacks releasing all of the bluff into an atmosphere that is certainly staining the teeth of good company, the company indeed wanting to inspire and transcribe to all that lacks plastic and resembles something much more meatier, much more organic. but there is a lot of discombobulated communication teetering on the verge of direction and while she sways through the crowds we pray not to lose her, but then we realize we don't even know who she is, because her humanity has drained and it is straining to even try and decipher this human just being, being her surroundings and gassing out the rest. adapting to the adaptations of everyone else.

Suffering Needs Those Who Survive

When it all mashes together and seems like a stew, 
Your life is faltering on someone else's news. 
And you're going to make it, even if you don't try. 
You're going to make it because suffering needs those who survive. 
And the emotion that wells way deep inside, 
Is waiting for an outlet -a shock of surprise. 
For there is a force somewhere close to the surface, 
And it surely serves you a purpose.. 
With definitions undefined, you are searching for a disguise, 
Cringing from the light won't keep you in the dark, 
Playing for keeps can become quite stark. 
There seems to be an audience, out in that oasis.. 
They watch you, timely, counting faces. 
The amount of recollection that slips through your fingers, 
Is a dangerous thing to lose. 
For the monsters that surround you, harbor the things you choose. 
And with all the decisions on your shoulders, 
The mind does begin to wander. 
And with glimpses of a different kind. 
You really do lose your mind.

Heavy Notions in the Skull

A vibe of a different kind wallows into the soul and casts nets to catch all the scattered pieces of the mind. The flecks have speckled the inside of the body and reflections of happiness seem to scorch the vital organs that help keep life pumping into the canvas of such humanly causes. No words, no sounds, and not a lot of visuals. The imploding embellishments rocking waves inside the clothed behavior of a search for something larger than life. A lot bigger than the universe which this body drifts. And there the body tries to wander with heavy notions in the skull, pushing and pulling, but surely making impact.