rapture in ever after

You never knew what it was like in limbo, nor would you come to

appreciate its symbols. There was no purgatorial fairy tale, 

dragons in the darkess pushing ramparts down.

There was no story in the Holy Grail of hopeless endeavours, no knighthoods of nothing. 

Ever afters so bloody, her white dress in shreds; a crown hits the ground and last words race death to the lips. 

You never touched this stiff a skin, or kissed a forehead so fucking cold, but its deep freeze taken hold of me,

you look so lovely tonight.

fistful of f*cks

fistfuls of
the miserable me, too visceral for weed,
maybe crystal or
benzies will

white lines off a kitchen knife,
reflections of vice
on serrated edge, head over the
blue bucket I baptized

catching fluids I can’t
sneeze the fuck out.

influenza of
impotency in paradise,
gender re-assignment of
inner rhyme,
emasculated swine
pushing the avian
9 to 5.

my moral
decline starts where
spine meets invertebrate,
playing beats between the
ribs my heart used
cradle the softer songs,

but got busted up in gondolas
and blazed,
forms of arson that come
with age but
rarely wisdom.

Comic Sans villains writing in
hemp chalk are on
chopping block now,
as all
my heroes are considered

Pandora’s boxes
talking shit
and you wonder why they look at
these days and block out this
shit they swore to

some things burrow
themselves too deep to change,
and we live out a Groundhog Day of vain ambition.

whole fistfuls of fucks that
slipped through my hands
caught between the cushions,
and I got the drips
trying to give
a shit about
losing track of sand,

now I’m one
bad trip away from running out of
reasons to eclipse beachfront stances
on drowning.

the architect

I’m tired of
building empires that don’t stand on
anything but chance;

yeah, there’s fancy
but they only house the rich,
taxpayer-subsidised cliques,
old dogs up to old fucking tricks,
walking contradictions all

yeah, those stone
paved fictions we brown nosed instead
of opposed,
addicted to
getting blown on the third date; it’s a
sickness, sticking dicks in a lawnmower for
material gain.

There ain’t nothing but pain
chasing your fifteen
and god
forbid you
finish prematurely,

virtually a minute man in the eyes of other kings,
one step above the eunuchs.

now I’m feeling
like Cupid firing poison darts in the space between
arrested hearts,
because I built up
an empire
others solely wanted ripped apart.

My army’s in the streets now
watching riots pull the windows down,
glass shattered outward and from
a bird’s eye view
I focus
on you,

whom I built this city up for,
who leads its wards
to all night looting like
some suicide bomber stumbling
in the dark.

watch the world burn

few things more beautiful than a crucible
after flame,

dry plains after the
days in the
eye of
a hurricane;

fresh air after

seeing the one I love after everything
me’s changed.

Peaceful sighs after pain,
truth following
outrageous claims.

yes, there are so few
gorgeous things that

I’ll take a little less worse and
settle for
cleansing rain.

six minutes sober

i’m done, said her short-lived mirror image;
done existing in this prism
of craving and high,
anxiety always nigh;

let the darkness envelop us, dear.

i get the trauma of splitting multiple
endgames between limited commas, stops
and starts but the
dramatic arcs between
have the
opposite effect,
bastard dialects settling for a
life as bards.

six minutes sober,
she said we need a do-over and four
leaf clover could
bring me
so pack your bags because
you drove this train off a cliff, you
might as well take your

think to myself,
this is either a trick or i’m living
science fiction,
since this
dereliction of logic didn’t exist eight
minutes prior.

twelve minutes in,
my empire’s in shambles, torn down brick by
brick with tire irons, and
dare I inquire my
place in the

quarter of an hour,
the mirage loses power, my city’s rebuilt and
her eyes are filled with clouds again,

and us is
a postcard democracy of dead-end dreams.

pretty, savage little thing

blood on the counter
of long-held dreams;

butchered like pieces of sirloin.

now I’m not the sharpest point in
the drawer,
meek middle
class of the rank and file
working poor, but I’ve performed a
chore or two in
service of
minimum wage,

like wondering how to still
win that girl over

(fuck her, she’s overkill as ever was).

beige hair in a bun mistakenly assembled at
3 am,
between hours of us
versus them
and outright self-mutiny driving a
Mercedes Benz into
brick walls,

only for her to nearly die
choking on
cherry Halls
waiting for someone who
to think to call.

someone like me,
had I ever planned to
give her a ring,
seven digits that
scream she’s suicide,

a pretty,
savage little thing;

keeping knives in bedside stands,
a political stance on fire
and equal hard-on for
emotional arson in a

savage little calamity;
trying to part amicably
with her
inner psycho.

Try as I might though, it wouldn’t be a stretch
to fall for.

Hivemind of Love

When I was human, potential full bloom; only lacking in acumen what I made of empty rooms;

when I was sentient, prior to impediments embraced
decades too soon,
before we learned to love
a tracks of blues at our feet
and rock records that
skipped too
many times per song
although we sang along to each
perfect one;

when I was corporeal, boy with a quarreled form,
I watched something terrible
borne between us,
happening too fast to warn you
and it swarmed you,

a hivemind of love.

When we were one, I knew it could become only a victim
of systemic cuts,

as the metaphorical rug gave way
to spike cellar.

when I was human, philosophical truant,
life without you was art I
didn’t dare paint,
but now, my patron
I’ve lost that little humility,
inherited a villainy of
violet wastes.

punk rock in the PC age

Cigarette smell on skulking clothes, low cut tops and poor blood flow. crazy kids, leather jackets. you can’t burn the whole world down if you don’t start with your own house.

you can’t hope to spark the kindling of
your own guilt
if you won’t kill
after you claim to be killer,

new world
order filler the GD
Internet was built for,
I guess.

Am I supposed to feel blessed for your checks and balances and online mobs, PC gods, slobs of conviction protecting one sect just to rob his neighbour?

Do me a favour?

Keep your fucking day job.

goodbye valentine (2015)

Once I was crumpled, origami shortened into
twisted shapes.

snapped wingspans, handwritten
plans to run away
together were
a rhetoric I don’t remember
how to replicate.

They required folds that would never be consoled going back to mediocrity, a passive animosity for odds. I didn’t connect the dots then, that one crease could be so thoughtlessly compared to another as we crossed each other crooked as paper bookends.

Without a cushion between our falls
(of you into madness and
me into
dissent), there’s no
parachute in its painless

So if these words go unread as
your decades unravel;
if those paper birds
are butchered in battles of
the elements;

if the ink they
kept shackled to
undisturbed love notes grows
too old to outlive
the sentence,

then know it
likely spent
the years between
tear-letting to
symptoms of

That faded and bent,
there’ll always be a skeleton of
what we were; outstretched
arms of archaic
adverbs no
stranger could

Goodbye, my sweet
until next we meet

at last.

the new clear

The words, lately, are more reactive, that my saddest nouns belong to her. Chapter screwing verse, like a personal Satan, leaves self-styled churches so vacant, religions so flagrantly


of a choice to worship.

I looked and found no gods fuelling my purpose, and people said it would be empty; yet I stood as a sentry to my own moral codes, watching them erode, predisposed to hypothermia, standing outdoors in the cold.

Bottlenecks right out of Revelation, as all the fucking locusts collect at choke points, the apocalyptic deployment has launched,

and alone I stand, adjacent, to falling bombs.