instantrelease

[instantrelease]

death in absentia

prophetic misgivings wake me

in a cold sweat pre-dawn—

atrophied branches shedding,

floating debris swims in the abysmal pit below.

Swim.

your orgastic mouth no longer

Swallows my dreams,

i was a dime a dozen

Now, you, Kneeling before him,

both proud and aloof,

offer up your latest trick

“I am going to drain you”

holding onto your breath to filter out the scent of organic peroxide,

Set to stun

Poised to corrupt the brass

balls that purse your lips at this very instant,

obscuring your seething nervous pain begotten by violence

you begin with

meteoric resentment

that flies over your prey’s head

& reverberates

thru the empty plains hidden by silence

[instantrelease]

bodega

'do you have an extra dollar? we have about four dollars... so if you had an extra dollar, you could run to the store for us and grab us all a pack of smokes,' I didn't smoke cigarettes, but i nodded silently, reaching into my pockets,"it is a possibility that I have a dollar or two in my pockets.." i fumbled through them without finesse, but rather the forensic precision of a narcotics officer turning them out, fingering each scrap of paper, each postmenstrual candy wrapper, each key and Baggie of pills, analyzing them until my fingertips caught something smooth yet firm, something definitive which had transacted thru the hands of 1000 bums, beggars, hustlers, swindlers, businessmen and ne'erdowells -- I retrieved a dollar from the flotsam hovering above my left thigh. "great!" exclaimed razhohe was nic'ing like a bitch. every square sigh indicated his longing for nicotine. razho was undisciplined, an ancient toddler swaddled in occult mysticism, but with piercing blue-grey eyes that cut into the chest like a hatchet. He spoke with definition, even when he was without form or intention. "awesome, dude! now we have almost five bucks... and a pack of Senecas costs five-somethin'!!" I lowered my brow in dismay, but, with quick pain, hid my countenance's natural display behind a fortress of gratitude. still, I asserted my dismay, "five something.. they cost five something? and... with my dollar, this makes almost five?" Razho nodded feverishly with excitement which, left not contained, might boil over his teeth and dribble down his lips. i wandered out the door, not sure of the exact direction of the bodega, but eager to feel the fresh, hot air, the sun's kisses and the quaking breeze of early June in New Orleans that year. i was approached by a large chicory-colored fellow, fingernails bruised blue, freckled by the sun in much the same way as i am, tho on adifferent palette, perhaps. he asked if i had cigarettes, and when i explained the situation, adding that i'd give him the few I would've smoked if i did out of the pack, he nodded graciously, but continued to trail me at a distance. I wandered up to the bodega counter, past a thick fog emitting from burning herbs laced with synthetic cannabinoids. I ponied up the few singles, a few too many nickles and my worn Driver's License (i looked young, perhaps seventeen with my ill-trimmed beard) which the Arab man scrutinized, brambling forth with some bizarre paradoxical monologue about how I do indeed look old enough to buy cigarettes (then why bother staring in analysis for 3 minutes? I really think any sort of linguistic lapse creates an impenetrable layer of callousness and belies honesty altogether. how can u know my truth when u don't speak my language?// coda: let's all be licked in tongues that no one understood that defied the bounds of intelligibility. that swept us toward an attack on our vanity-- there is little but a symbol of chaos on the western front.

her lungs quaked slowly ,,under-bearingthe fruit of her womb blemished in the sunlight, covered in scales from rolling astray in the grass why did his lungs burst with a shrewd wind that cut into the Earth like Moses,distant in time//anachronistic servitude will continue & perhaps grow in nuanced branches until We implode. we*we, we parasitesvulturesslaves to our own jittering-yet-static noisewe, tumbling down, arms aflail, mouthpiece twisted in sardonic agony there is a certain music,, waiting for Us in Hell.

#flashfiction #wordexperiments #30mg oxy #tales from the void

[instantrelease]

prismic pri$on

Clawing in vain at precious Earth metals for some crooked sense of salvation, You begin to dig until Your hands are buried in dense stone— frantic, you try your hardest to bide your time, until, brimming with quiet desperation, You summon enough desperate crocodile tears and conjure up a bit of daemonic charisma to recruit a lone passerby— a strange but unimposing figure, gentle even— who seems somehow to appear from nowhere to lend a hand.

He starts to dig Yours out, but as his own attempts grow frantic and You bark at him to hurry, he only manages to dig his hand into the narrow, jagged void created by both of you, and to make matters worse, you now find yourself lodged even deeper below than before, and, to make matters worse, both of your hands are now completely embedded in the stone.

Enraged and frenetic, you lunge toward him on pure impulse and bite at his remaining hand, gnashing at his wrist, gnawing off the knuckles: you tear into his tendons and muscle, your jaws a raw, ravening portrait of teeming rage, until his free hand rips off of the limb at his wrist.

Amidst his howls of agony, you grip his hand with your mouth, attempting in vain to widen the breadth of the hole into which both of your hands and one of his have been made prisoner.

It is limp, and it flops from your crooked teeth like a dead rodent— his knuckles, even if you could somehow puppeteer them, are mostly skinned to the pale white bone beneath— tattered rags that once held a grip, that once perhaps stroked a lover, that once resembled the humanity from which it sprung…the dismembered hand now bore more likeness to a sordid, filthy rag doll, but You don’t care.

Still clutching Your sordid, makeshift tool—no doubt a well-won trophy, not to mention amonument to the triumph of man—

Your face oscillates left to right with an alarming fury, and, just as it feels as tho your neck is beginning to snap, you feel a give in the surface— the crevice widens just enough for you to sigh in relief… and drop the man’s other, still in-tact hand which you’d been gripping without mercy, such that it was cold from the constricted blood flow, into the blessed chasm— God’s Chinese finger trap. Selah.

Realizing that all of Your work has been for naught— that the slight width added by your furious thrashing and scraping was now occupied by the very instrument that You used—the ragged, alien hand of the man who stopped only to help, but when his assistance proved insufficient, You lashed out and destroyed any possibility he had for redemption.

The stranger, groaning with anguish, slides his gushing stump of sinew and bone into the hole as well, and as he does, your foreheads touch. You can feel without looking that he isn’t angry— his forehead is smooth… serene, even.

As the initial shock subsides and the reality of the situation sets in, Your breathing grows heavier and a dense lump forms in your throat, but a certain peace comes upon your disfigured Messiah which resembles, if anything, the eye of a storm, and that piques your curiosity,

“Why the FUCK… are you so… damn…. jolly all of a sudden? Aren’t you.. aren’t you angry at me? I just chewed your fucking hand off! What is WRONG with you? Are you insane or just delirious?  Is this a joke to you?” the harshness of his words, though spoken between adrenaline-driven gulps of atmosphere, clearly a reflection of his own self resentment, do sting the passerby at first, but his face remains vaguely jovial— triumphant, even.

“You must see by now that no amount of animosity toward you will reattach my hand, just as not even the most craven act of trespass against me on your end could have freed both of your hands. Perhaps if you had let me take a stab at using my other hand rather than taking it upon yourself, we would both be on our way by now, but, lo and behold, here we sit. And yet, we ARE still on our way— in some sense at least!” He let out a chuckle—not so much hysterical as hearty… not self-assured, but convicted.

“Listen buddy, i don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about but you’re bleeding all over me… my hands are drenched. Can’t you pull that stub of yours out at least?!  Why did you slide it in there in the first fuckin place, you tryna hold hands while we die or something?”

The man’s grin cracks itself even wider, as if pulled by some invisible thread of delighted Truth,

“Oh well sure i could take this arm back out, but I must warn you that if i do, my blood will continue to geyser out in a sort of monsoon of plasma and... well,

The sun is setting and i fear the scent of so much sanguinary fluid could attract predators… i don’t want my final moments to be spent kicking and thrashing as i’m picked apart by an avian predator, my hands…. rather tied.  But that’s what i was getting at Mr….”

“Samael”

“Samuel? Yes, well, i suffer from a condition known as hemophilia— meaning, essentially, that my blood does not coagulate nor clot.  You would be wise to notice that in this short exchange of dialogue, you are now up to BOTH wrists in the blood that’s been pouring from only one of mine… and it isn’t going to stop anytime soon, Mr. Samuel, so now you see…” His chuckle became rather dazed and devolved into a staccato cackle.

“What the.. wha- fuck, are you crazy?! So you’re just gonna bleed out of one arm..? And somehow you think that’s fuckin FUNNY?!” A look of confusion hung heavy on Mr. Samael’s piggish countenance. Your brow furrows involuntarily as You struggle like mad to make sense of Your newly-acquired traveling companion’s amusement.

“Not exactly, Mr. Samuel— no, what bemuses me is that though death is not exactly thrilling or desirable to me, it is, nonetheless, inevitable.  I hve accepted my fate. I will likely cease to be within the hour. You, Sammy, however,” his voice twists into a tone of morbid bemusement,

“You have yet even to accept the long, agonizing hours you will spend before the process of your passing even commences in the slightest.  Of course, your whole life has lead up to this point, but in the next few moments, hours, perhaps  even days, you will watch what remains of me rot in oblivious quietude as you try to stave off the same eventual conclusion.  Unfortunately, you won’t have the luxury of bleeding out so soon. You will wait, and you will stare into my dead eyes wondering ‘who is really rotting here? him or me?’ and when the carrion swoop down, they will inquire the same to themselves, before ultimately giving way to atavistic instinct and pecking at Us both.  

I will not have to feel that pain…

you, though, Sam, will know what it is like to live among the dead, no longer afraid of them, but now eager to join them— to live tethered to a man whose death is YOUR doing while your hands marinate in my blood as it slowly seeps into the ground below.  

You will have to face that you are your own executioner— guilty of succumbing to the blinding rage of cowardly self-interest enough to destroy your only chance of escape.  

So here we lie, and together shall we rot.  I really hope it isn’t so bad… although i suppose it doesn’t much matter to me either way. My vision is getting a bit blurry… i can feel my arm emptying like a rainy streetside into a storm drain.  

Thank you, Sam, for teaching me such a curious lesson before murdering me.  Goodnight,”  the stranger’s eyes grew blank as they stiffened until they became cocked and empty.

There were no more words… For a second, You think there might be more, but, to Your harrowing dismay, it is only the gruesome croak of death rattle.

“No!” Your face twists again into incalculable rage, “I did NOT murder you! I was.. i was— i wa-“ The smell of freshly letted blood, as it were, does not arouse the attention of a bobcat or vulture before meeting the nose of the predator nearest it— the one now tethered to it in some horrible bout of cosmic justice— the sun is fast setting as the desert wind blows chills through your skin bones, still buried safely beneath your skin, at least.  

You waste no time pulling the now-corpse upon Your rotund gut and begin again to gnawing at the viscera hanging like Spanish Moss from the stranger’s wrist.

The gnawing slowly graduates to more vicious, demanding chewing, slicing through flesh with his teeth until they begin to sharpen themselves on the bones they scrape against until they snap and fracture, lacerating Your face, Your lips, Your gums—but your are numb to it. Doesn’t register.

Your furious mouth crawls up the limp arm of what was, less than an hour ago, a passing-if-naive stranger willing to lend a helping hand, until the bone shines clean and bare as fresh ivory.

You then lean forward, reaching into the solar plexus with your aching, bloodstained jaw and crack open the ribcage that houses the generous heart of the man who had, after all, only stopped to assist.  

Though disoriented with shock and adrenaline, You find yourself bursting into tears— genuine tears of remorse— as You gaze into the chest cavity only to find that same heart which had once kept a steady rhythm lying motionless.

The reality of what You’ve done begins to sink in, but it’s too much for Sam to bear. You bury Your face into the chest, gripping the limp heart in Your frantic mouth.

—

The muscle that once supplied vitality to the grotesque remainder of flesh that now sits beside You is lukewarm, but growing colder as the sun sets upon the vast, nameless desert. There is no one else.

“You’re not gonna die!” You shriek in between biting down upon the empty heart in a last ditch effort to resurrect the man who had tried to rescue him, “You’re not.. you’re gonna be okay, you’re not gonna die!”

A joy that mirrors the mirth of the now-mangled stranger immediately prior to his passing suddenly overtakes Samael’s countenance as blood and tissue from the inner recesses of his tattered heart dribbles down your chin— Your frantic pleading is coupled with rhythmic chomping, pure atavistic abandon.

You’re pretty sure you can feel the heart’s valves open up and pump the last of the blood within— it spurts into Sam’s eyes as You began to giggle like a school girl “You’re not dead. Death isn’t real. You only died because you ACCEPTED that you’re dead, but you know the truth? You aren’t!”

You chuckle again, this time with a more firm resolve. Your back, previously hunched over the man’s mutilated ribcage, straightens with a nervous jolt,  made rigid by some endogenous electric shock. You slump down in a sort of lounging position with a look of complete contentment upon Your countenance, face now drenched in scarlet and orange stains.

“I don’t have to die. It’s not real! None of this is real!” You laugh with a crooked bliss that makes his would-be savior’s affect upon departure seem mute by comparison.  

The laughter crescendoed with raw hubris and empty mirth as You collapsed into Yourself, never defeated:

Alive in spite of yourself, in spite of anyone trying to assist.

Dovening in a primer coat of the blood of another, tearing apart the stranger’s once-generous pulmonary muscle with freshly sharpened teeth while waiting for Your own to stop its own incessant rhythm.

#fucked #up

[instantrelease]

Nature is a Frigid Mistress

i believe it was around the age of 9 when i first saw the more lurid side of the natural world in which we dwell, tightly wound into stolid routines— walled in by the collapsing structure of civilization as we know it, all the while shunning any acknowledgement of our own vulnerability.

i was awoken, rather eagerly, from a weekend night’s sleep on our living room couch, by my mother, who beckoned me into her car with haste after pulling my bleary eyes from slumber back into the world of the living. We pulled out of our quiet suburban neighborhood that sat on the edge of a drainage canal. On the other side of said canal was a simple, newly created walking trail that had been carved out of a clearing of woods invaded by rural-but-paved streets.

The trail, though humble, was one of the crowning achievements of the town’s recent past, and its citizens were rather proud that the sleepy little municipality had done anything at all to prolong its inevitable collapse as the southeastern Louisiana oil boomtown that had been remolded and expanded through the works of pure speculation and greed.

It was, though cursed, nevertheless unique, in that its once meteoric rise to prestige and affluence in the mid80s—when offshore drilling was at its most lucrative—had created a new generation of wealth and power that quickly took its business elsewhere once resources had been exhausted.

Of course, this sudden desertion did not occur without the industry leaving behind the rubble of its vestiges: fossils of empty promises— the ghosts of once-vibrant collective delusions of grandeur…

 For one, there was a now-abandoned Mall that was empty, save for a few office spaces that decided to lease from a drab building originally conceived as a retail establishment during the early ‘90s, when malls served not only as a hub of senseless consumerism, but also an incubator to a sort of post-modern Roman bathhouse, where teenagers colluded to skateboard, smoke cigarettes, and bitch about (or leer at, as it were) the soccer moms who trounced in and out of the stores outside of which they loitered. In addition to that mall, which never panned out, the town was left with a rather peculiar tradition from the budding Gentry of the nascent city, who likely never foresaw the connotations that the name of this particular celebration would bring to mind: The Shrimp & Petroleum Festival (named long before the now-infamous BP oil spill(s) in the Gulf of Mexico). This was a parade of pageantry not unlike Mardi Gras, save for the fact that the bacchanalian pursuits typical of a New Orleans carnival were a bit watered down— the town had a crafts fair, beer a-plenty, and all the pomp and circumstance of a high school prom packed into their special little ball. Incidentally, the twisted tradition still continues today, as it seems that those keeping it alive fail to see the irony in the combination of marine life with petrochemicals, but i believe im beginning to get a bit ahead of myself here… So…

My mom drove me down the street about a mile to the walking trail on which my dad jogged every morning before heading off to work. Apparently he had seen an alligator and, seeing that he was alone on the trail, retrieved his .22 caliber ruger MKII pistol and dispatched it himself.

My father wasn’t always the shoot-first-inquire-later type, but he had his moments, and it seemed this was one of them. i don’t know if I’ll ever forget the awkward, nearly indecipherable ambivalent mixture of pride, confusion, fear and guilt (while what he did wasn’t criminal per se, it almost certainly violated some statute or other seeing as how alligators were or are either threatened or protected, or held some in such status, but, in that moment, the only status this alligator ‘held’ was DOA) that shone on my father’s face— these emotions, mind you, were not flickering, but seemed to spill across his gaze all at once.

It was a complex, pensive look that seemed to haunt his consciousness as well as his countenance. My eyes then shifted to the now-lifeless corpse of the alligator. I have been around alligators all my life… since i can remember, i was around trappers, handlers and other such bayou folk, and there are pictures of me as a toddler laid out on the measuring board used to measure such a creature’s length. I was no stranger to them…

But this was a little different: i was ten years old, and my dad had just killed him. I say him because as this thought began to cross my pre-adolescent mind, the once-proud creature began to lift off the ground at his mid-section, as his prehistoric penis engorged with blood in one final ‘hurrah’ and lifted his massive midsection at least five to seven inches off the ground like, well, some sort of organic hydraulic system. This came to a hilt when his reptilian penis burst into a shameful, post-Mortem puddle of primordial ejaculate that rivaled the pool of blood which had been slowly gushing from between his eyes. i laughed nervously. i don’t think it consciously registered with me at the time, but damn if it didn’t imprint and IMPART to me a very important life lesson: even in the throes of one’s DYING REFLEXES, nature will still likely find some way or another to fuck you.

[FL93]

#flashfiction #shortstory #south #louisiana #swamp #father #alligator #sex

[instantrelease]

Nature is a Frigid Mistress

i believe it was around the age of 9 when i first experienced the more lurid side of the natural world that we tend to take for granted, or maybe try to ignore, tightly wound into stolid routines— walled in by the collapsing structure of civilization as we know it, all the while shunning any acknowledgement of our own vulnerability as we limp along, self-assured as ever that we humans are indeed the annointed ones.

i was awoken, rather eagerly, from a weekend night’s sleep on our living room couch, by my mother, who beckoned me into her car with haste after pulling my bleary eyes from slumber back into the world of the living. We pulled out of our quiet suburban neighborhood that sat on the edge of a drainage canal. On the other side of said canal was a simple, newly created walking trail that had been carved out of a clearing of woods invaded by rural-but-paved streets.

The trail, though humble, was one of the crowning achievements of the town’s recent past, and its citizens were rather proud that the sleepy little municipality had done anything at all to prolong its inevitable collapse as the southeastern Louisiana oil boomtown that had been remolded and expanded through the works of pure speculation and greed.

It was, though cursed, nevertheless unique, in that its once meteoric rise to prestige and affluence in the mid80s—when offshore drilling was at its most lucrative—had created a new generation of wealth and power that quickly took its business elsewhere once resources had been exhausted.

Of course, this sudden desertion did not occur without the industry leaving behind the rubble of its vestiges: fossils of empty promises— the ghosts of once-vibrant collective delusions of grandeur…

For one, there was a now-abandoned Mall that was empty, save for a few office spaces that decided to lease from a drab building originally conceived as a retail establishment during the early ‘90s, when malls served not only as a hub of senseless consumerism, but also an incubator to a sort of post-modern Roman bathhouse, where teenagers colluded to skateboard, smoke cigarettes, and bitch about (or leer at, as it were) the soccer moms who trounced in and out of the stores outside of which they loitered.

In addition to that mall, which never panned out, the town was left with a rather peculiar tradition from the budding Gentry of the nascent city, who likely never foresaw the connotations that the name of this particular celebration would bring to mind: The Shrimp & Petroleum Festival (named long before the now-infamous BP oil spill(s) in the Gulf of Mexico).

This was a parade of pageantry not unlike Mardi Gras, save for the fact that the bacchanalian pursuits typical of a New Orleans carnival were a bit watered down— the town had a crafts fair, beer a-plenty, and all the pomp and circumstance of a high school prom packed into their special little ball.

Incidentally, the twisted tradition still continues today, as it seems that those keeping it alive fail to see the irony in the combination of marine life with petrochemicals, but i believe im beginning to get a bit ahead of myself here… So…

My mom drove me down the street about a mile to the walking trail on which my dad jogged every morning before heading off to work. Apparently he had seen an alligator and, seeing that he was alone on the trail, retrieved his .22 caliber ruger MKII pistol and dispatched it himself.

My father wasn’t always the shoot-first-inquire-later type, but he had his moments, and it seemed this was one of them.

i don’t know if I’ll ever forget the awkward, nearly indecipherable ambivalent mixture of pride, confusion, fear and guilt (while what he did wasn’t criminal per se, it almost certainly violated some statute or other seeing as how alligators were or are either threatened or protected, or held some in such status, but, in that moment, the only status this alligator ‘held’ was DOA) that shone on my father’s face— these emotions, mind you, were not flickering, but seemed to spill across his gaze all at once.

It was a complex, pensive look that seemed to haunt his consciousness as well as his countenance.

My eyes then shifted to the now-lifeless corpse of the alligator.

I have been around alligators all my life… as long as i can remember i was around trappers, handlers and other such bayou folk. There are pictures of me as a toddler laid out on the board used to measure such a creature’s length. I was no stranger to them… But this was a little different: i was ten years old, and my dad had just killed him.

I say him because as this thought began to cross my pre-adolescent mind, the once-proud creature began to lift off the ground at his mid-section, as his prehistoric penis engorged with blood in one final ‘hurrah’ and lifted his massive midsection at least five to seven inches off the ground like, well, some sort of organic hydraulic system.

This came to a hilt when his reptilian penis burst into a shameful, post-Mortem puddle of primordial ejaculate that rivaled the pool of blood which had been slowly gushing from between his eyes. i laughed nervously.

i don’t think it consciously registered with me at the time, but damn if it didn’t imprint and IMPART to me a very important life lesson: even in the throes of one’s DYING REFLEXES, nature will still likely find some way or another to fuck you.

[FL]

#flashfiction #post-irony #realism #south #louisiana #swamp #father

[instantrelease]

fallout $heltr

Piercing my frame with salted slugs trickling out in a pour of hysteria all is not lost.. We've got to hold high the bloodstained banner, under the dense foglike glow of yesterdaze it was a warm dark mourning, all of us hunched closely under the grim gaze of black umbrellas , grieving for the bygone days of Norman Rockwell paintings indistinguishable from mirrors that we never really paid an honest glance into in the first place As dry earth rejects its roots, we have succumbed to amnesia in unison Falling off like lepers cursed in arcane movements of ancient mouths bleeding into darkness, more darkness ?

#poets of tumblr #poetry #spilled words #words #darkness #magic

[instantrelease]

the leftovers

Milky crevices Milky presence Milky hue Pallid glow Pale glow tall shadows Eyes glazed over with flickering static Your eyes sank back like two torrid oases bubbling overlooking some demonic cliff or canyon couldn't never manage to wipe the sand from my tear ducts I've smoked more cigarettes than I can count in anticipation of ur bleak memories, Suspended animation, lapsed in amber resin, Consigned to infinity, My psyche re-emerges blistered and beaten stripped of the snug cognitive JailHouse of language Collapsing confused and largely silent he crumbles under the weight of fractal ideals, Deep zooms into the Mandelbrot set Creating their own ironic spirals that coalesce into nothingness running a psychic train upon my menagerie of neuroses I'm a prisoner within, my eyes-- OR, if not within then behind.. In coalition with the dark patterned noises

#spilled words #poets of tumblr #poets on tumblr #poetsofinstagram #poem #poetry #love #scorn #beat

[instantrelease]

honest.

Sepia glow worms its way thru flat windows piercing your sighs with the steady cadence of rainwater There must be other folks like us out there, they just probably don't much like folks like us Police are like vampires-- They rarely go where not invited The thin blue line is flushed with red Euclidean haircuts slick with artificial grease Oakleys freshly wiped Lips flooded with self-assured, robotic jargon Crack the spine turn to the last page, and see that it only exists for the preceding ones The ink trails off into a vacuum, leaving you to be again haunted by loneliness creeping up your torso like an old vine. Lying in bed, baptized in a pool of your own sickly sweat Mouth moving steady Arms outstretched

[instantrelease]

the paregoric kid

Poppy fields flourishing into suburban decay Trailing up his mainline like some lurid lover’s lane

Eyes sallow and bleary, darting, craven Rarely did he even remember what it feels like to cum

Itching, peeling our skin back. so this is youthful rebellion. The plunger pulls back, almost as if on its own, and then launches the cloudy water on a trajectory straight for ur chest

then, The orgasmic bliss of senseless oblivion, Crooked fingers numb under The Weight of your own ass– perpetual somnolence coupled with an acute, looming restlessness

i guess we signed up for this. seemed worth it at the time.

sometimes i miss that initial wave of nausea.. at least then i knew id soon be out for a minute

now, it only potentiates my craving

[instantrelease]

relap$e

back to Alprazoland, collapsing into myself upon a warm cloud of oblivious hedonism carving arcane symbols deep deep into the palor of my youth there must be someone listening but perhaps enough don't care to maybe it's just the old forgotten egotist in me that even considers such a thing in the first place , no one was ever meant to be anything, echoing in the light of smooth disrepair consigned to rust in the wind, watching experiencing pleasure only vicariously ascendent toward unattainable ideals remnants of puritan insecurities and territorial pissings

[instantrelease]

collared little

blank sighs reverberate behind your teeth pulsing back into your spinal column twisted and bruised holding tight tear ducts dilated in puerile fervor gnashing teeth leering from the shadows under dead eyes veneered thin in cheap disguises constricting my airway with shallow vindication crooked letters spelling dreams upon your walls, torn to shreds loose tears

[instantrelease]

some mornings

i want to give up. Bite the cold steel barrel of a .357, and call it quits game ovr reset end scene warmth pouring steady from each nostril,, eyes stare straight ahead

[instantrelease]

why are u so sweet to me?

it isn’t what i’m accustomed to ..rolls off my back with the self- agonizing fervor of an aescetic's whip Why are our tongues bleeding? I feel like sooner or later, the rusty plasma will coagulate into thick brackish and spill out the sides coalescing into the water beneath Where our tears trailed down several cosmic moments ago.. i am a dog, I age in dog years Spent life in a cage, So i know how a dog feels try as i might, i cannot quiet my ramblings buzzing teeth grind each other into porcelain dust that falls to the turf creating a mountainous snowdrift crimson puddles undulate from somewhere in your mouth, near Your jaw, oozing a viral load

#poets of tumblr #poets on tumblr #poetry #words #wordart #word #art #blues

[instantrelease]

trailing off

Can i embrace your Milky quivering flesh below the moonlight May i slide my fingers beneath it in silent mourning Sink back into your $hame-faced exi$tence The rise and ebb of idle tide, Constricting like a fierce tourniquet, conspiracies melting in the sepia daydreams of missing fools, We were all born for the slaughter floor anyway, regardless of whether any of us got to engage in slaughter of our own. &You're oozing Milky secrets from the corners of your eyes as The clouds undulate in divination Trapped in their tiny saltine dewdrops The smell of saliva fading from the puncture wounds in your neck is enough to leave you feeling frigid.. The wounds have long faded but the divots they left feel more like craters sometimes Sometimes I want to howl at the new moon but can't seem to find it (plus my...jaw keeps locking up )) ) WE are stranded in this convection oven paradise, sinking into the sea ,,Velvet gloves cast off so that we can feel the cold lead in his knuckles collide against our cheekbone.

#poets on tumblr

[instantrelease]

loud on deck

Can you feel yourself blistering with ideology, undulating thru your skull's inner tissue & washing it out like bleach? we're a generation fried, beside ourselves, condemned to jovial nihilism and memetic image macros, but that alone isn't enough to complain about.. Can you feel it as we sink into senseless oblivion, enveloping us like the broad lap of a lover's tongue? Pain is spectral

Pleasure is dull life is, at its twilight, an empty candy wrapper a softening dick leaking cum a bloody pair of hands scrubbing frantically in the shower

#poets on tumblr

[instantrelease]

factory dream #3

i pour a tumbler of old whiskey that, tho brown, reflects prismatic colors like a puddle of gasoline. The smell is acrid and borderline noxious, who broke down all of our bodies into disassembled filth, deprogrammed us desensitized us to fabulous lies? ..i'm asking because i think we both want to know the answer to that question :: My lungs are swollen with plasma from breathing in ether. I lost my mind, couldn't hold onto it either.. became consumed in itself Begotten, not made bathed in perfumed oils as the wayward feet of our messiah, long gone nothing but a set of dusty fuckin footprints and a mouthful of empty promises bleating like sheared sheep naked and shivering in the null moonlight, still new, the wolves rest                          for now.

#poets on tumblr

[instantrelease]

fever cabinet

Somber winds blow back like the kick from a I2 Gauge packed fat with buckshot My hair is a mess-- a monument to my own disshevelment

#poets on tumblr