Premature Mental Mercy

August 5, 2009

You’re a skilled gangster.

Playing mind tricks;
your hands are so dexterous,
lingering over this hollow, souless shell.
I’m faking enlightenment,
that trance was only sleep.

Waking up bored,
like a restless nights sleep
with dreams of being chased by your physical charm.

It’s no chase, just being followed
because you’re,
complacent with the plot
and it’s unspectacular shifts.

Like fuck if you knew where this was heading.

Crashing and begging for mercy:
Likewise I want some forgiveness;
but you’ve eaten alive the last chance of hope
that I spat back.
Empty words, like empty calories.
I can’t forgive you for your unsurity.
You can’t even forgive me for my own hell.

And screaming bloody murder
you yell at your reflection, fog up your mirror.
I plagarize your dedication
and give it up much too late.

And though you’ve butchered
the last piece of soul I promised to leave you,
I threaten you with the last shards of mirror you left in me.
You’re fogged.
Sharp as glass.
And a pain I’ll never let die in me.


The X-anists

August 4, 2009

An existancialist once said
That the significance of events is only relevant
during the time in which the notion exists.

So we burnt our old journals,
Our old newspapers,
Our old stories.
And in doing so,  might have lost touch with our mistakes.

The concept of moving so steadily to one place
moves steadily towards fear
and steadily towards death
and the move is so steady, so gradual
One would think we knew where we were heading to.

It’s our pre-imposed future;
so destined, so stable, so unnegotiable.

And where there’s a line that may or may not choose it’s path
No matter what, never proves it’s destination.
And no matter how long the agoraphobes lock themselves away
They are no different then us
for ending the same as us.

The Sky’s the Cure

May 2, 2009

You sigh a lot
Asking for grace,
asking for a little bit of forgiveness and maybe
-if you’re willing-
for a sign.

It feels like it was longer ago…
Those are branches, the young trendsetters smoking,
and gawking and crooning and laughing and speaking to each other
all in the best of taste and at the height of fashion.

Purity, at best, is non-existant.

And there were beautiful things to discover
and there are so many more still
But everything feels redundant
Like everything reiterates something else.
Meerly by existing, it’s originality factor is low.

In fear, you’re not alone.
In sadness, you’re not alone.
In lonesomeness, you’re not alone.

But with everyone so close together,
it’s hard to see far enough ahead to get the bigger picture.
It’s a blurry snapshot
because the lights are dim.
No one has any ideas to brighten the room.

And anything we do think of is oh-so-cliché
so we form our own group dedicated to stopping
and proselytize everyone who even begins to brake.

Unless you can hold young skeletal hands
before they return to the fluid of sunken eyes and burning mouths.
Hold those hands, palms together;
we’re looking up and begging for help.

Family Tree Forest Fires

April 28, 2009


                   These streets
Are getting a little too close for comfort.
As you drove into the curb, headfirst.

Could’ya slow down just a little?

I know you’re all hinting what I already know.
I agree.
This new approach is realistic, and refreshing,
but just as redundant.
So you have the grace and glory of familiarity.

             and further still.
The rock bottom is cold, ragged, and digging holes in your cheekbones.
That lovely face with structure, a cute little jawline
that was so elegantly framed with fire, love, and dirt.

A little bit of enthousiasm please! The lights are on now!

                      Could you please write me a letter? 
I’d love to have a bit of material to handle with care…
I’m missing that little bit of love we loved so much before.

But you’re so wreckless and I’m your scapegoat.
Scapegrace. I know what you are.
            Put that out out out!
Nodding your head all right, crying a little for show.
Grow a little sympathy on that family tree
that you continuously kick out of spite.

Jesus Christ! Play careful!

And All And All

April 27, 2009

Goddamn the lack of you
And I hope that this selfish state of mine
reincarnates itself somewhere else
so that I’ll only have to feel guilty and over come
by all your selflessness.

And so one it remains one, and as a number so.

Sneaking out with palindromes and all and all,
Just a bad situation.
Because really this could be tiring for those of you who aren’t ready to be here.

So lets skip out on the verses and rant a little to the sunless day
where the weather was warm and the humidity was overpowering.
Similar phrasing you used to describe the way I left you
and sweat could very easily be tears if you let it stay that way.

And can you blame me for speaking in the first person?
For admitting to feeling repressed?
When all you did before was crave for me to speak up?

You’re all imposing on me these things I don’t want!
And if I could turn it around I’d make a metaphor out of it
possibly even aliterate it,
Then make it humourous, as to help me remember when I’m the only one left
who has nothing to my name
other than two fingers,
some bad liquor, a burning sensation,
two more fingers and a baskets worth of regret,
all pinned to the front door for him when he got home.

I just wish he could have run me over in the driveway.

Opposing styles, and just a whole lot of standing still
and upsetting theatrics that really weren’t helping anyone out.
And half-assed chords;
the remainder of half-assed ashes,
really did speak a little bit of truth.
Truth you could hear (you never read it).

And God was I happy when all of you ended
what I knew was making you more miserable then I possibly could.
(Or maybe I’m just flattering myself.)
But regardless, my epiphany and resurection
was a little less effortless than maybe is healthy.
But you all noticed it, talked about it, then shoved it back where it came from.
A little mouth that you’ve all had the grace to explore
and had very little intention on meeting again.

Lonesome and tired,
Having tried very hard to appease you all
this situation has remained difficult
and refuses to unravel.
Maybe it just has to wait it’s turn.
Hurt, burnt and mortified,
I’ve unraveled first.

My two dear greatest souls,

It’s been awhile since I’ve even admitted your existance
And I hope it’s alright, that I look into my sides and see you still
One left, one right, one X, one Y.

That old toothless woman with my hands in her hands
The warmth of her weathered leather-like appendages gives me some hope
as the feeling doesn’t subside even still
that your existance will give me the best of days.

All apologies I am, for having given you nothing to look forward to
and no stories to graze your infantile names to
With family stories, as dysfunctional as I promise yours will be
assuming it ever exists at all.

Exhausted in this green grass/glass town
where we can look up high and see the greying dawn
because you’re still so unsure of where you’re heading
and I promise you I will not condescend you.

And on these buses, headed no where
turning around and heading straight home again
I already feel the chapped and scaling skin
losing itself to too many years of living in shadow
of a pretty girls limelight.

With nighttime harlots gracing my streets with their hands and mouths
the softest and most realistic of them are the ones who I can’t put faces too.

And I’m afraid that’s who your other half will be.

The Excommunication

April 7, 2009

A pretty collage of quotes you say! Sitting on your dresser still
Teaching me the wonders of being, and I thank you
I think my morality is up to par with yours
which is up to par with your sister’s I hope
and her all high-and-mighty husband

Will he be forgiven for descending from his calling?
All for the sake of the cha-ching
he heard in your sisters drawer?
Thank goodness her privacy respected,
because that clank of metal was nothing but a rosary.

But your mother’s house is gone now,
she spoke to you, even when your sister wouldn’t.

You ignore it all till you grow up
And the closer you get to judgement, the closer you get to God
and disrespect you will the opinions you held as a younger soul
except this time you will in your own grail.

And morality seems to be a more complicated issue
since your other half uses it as disinfectant
and your half of you uses it as an excuse to run riots.

But uneducated you are, and admit to still.
So while they bless the fruit of your tomb,
in carcinated ashes that sit freely on my wall
I’ll ask you for a sign;
Only then will we know what happens at all.

It’s a perplexity:
living amongst the diets made for the unfit
and light beer made for recovering alcoholics.

Like all other things antagonizing,
This strange situation that has become
a tell-tale metaphor of the nostalgia
you come across in the strangest of places

And you too remember eyes on your face
adorned and shining, never welcomed
seldomly returned.
With irises concealed behind thining layers of cellophane
storing memories that culminate and crumble under crushing weight.

The way back from this state will be more than expeditionary
A living death that brings back the faces you repress
That repression will turn into regression
And you regress until point A
where time stands still, again.
A vicious circle where you’re ostracized once again
from those  you loved most.

When it’s over, it starts again
And your friends will read about it on a tabloid screen
and a tempestuous scenerio will fall on it again.

But we’re all assuming you’re already  ahead of yourself.
I’d ask you not to make assumption
But I know you’re still likely to.

Lately I’ve been reading the dictionary
(The Bible ain’t helpin’ me much)
To serve criminals with poetic justice
But all I could come up with were weather metaphors
And the good old fashioned rainy arc-en-ciel clichés

So instead I went to bite the bullet
But all I got
Was a mouth full of gun powder
And suddenly this cause seemed too bitter to fight

White the spawn of the 21st century diet cola Aphrodites
and their oh-so-lanky-oh-s0-beautiful picture framed corpses
Lying around like stones on a stairwell
I ask why torture pays more than anything else
And seemingly in higher numbers

Oh buck up

When those homophobic patriarchs
get their stories garbled
We’ll ask why these issues weren’t on their minds before.
The sun set the seasons before it set the day.

Considering equality was supposely first place
the story was far more garish behind the scenes
So I let the scantily clad story be.

So we sit, put life on hiatus
While the high-sounding praise of the 20th century radioman
reminds us that our forefathers faught for us.
He said:
Where they shot high and mighty,
We bite the bullet and miss.


February 18, 2009

Oh baby, you’re so faultless in your grace
I feel your push against every pull in this town…
these shadowed streets and hills of brown.

Baby, I see you howlin’ your eyes in these dangered streets
And I worry you might catch a chill in those clothes.
Oh the moody Street-Walker you’ve become…

Oh baby…
With these eyes I see so much more than just your clothes
and whole soul, left naked and exposed.

So why are you sleepin’ so?

Baby, you got enough beat to hold a number
So sway, sway, sway
Hold it til you’re bored to slumber.

My baby, you’re my ange
My sweet lil’ Grace
With her powdered bliss…
I hate to see you yearn for this

You ache for flesh
Which you gave away too soon.
And I see tumours sprouting gold
in that threshold you call a womb.

Take your goddamn hands out from your pockets
And breathe this goddamn air!

Oh baby, I know you’re sore.
You’re nothing but a whore ignored!
Because, baby, you ain’t sleepin’ sideways no more.

Oh no.
Baby, you be sleepin’  with one eye open
Lyin’ restless and hopin’