Stamps

My body is limp with exhaustion. Fog lights explore depths I have tried to forget. Lucifer lives in a nice subdivision. My God has no face. My God has no personality. My God doesn't exist. My God, I'm fucking bleeding. Today I went swimming and hit my head on the bottom of the pool. Skin peeled and I was bleeding pretty hard. It was embarrassing until I realized I didn't give a fuck. I'm thinking of sleeping forever. A death of my conscious mind. I could live forever in repeating dreams. I lie to myself. I wish I was really addicted to something.

Lynch mob wet dreams
Stained sheets mark ecstasy of hate
Words are what makes my fingers jump rhythmic on these keys
Words E X P A N D
and
(contract)
Words are what made tears break wet down to my neck
When you said
"I
feel
nothing."
These words bend to fit the context
incontextincontext
The pariah has nothing to carry him
He died in a box
Transcontinental flights canceled
Trepidation of abandonment keeps us all from sleeping
At what time did all this living turn to dying?

Father

Words drip slow, through the cracks between his crooked teeth. A southern draw that rolls steady and modest. He claims ancestry of Faulkner, I have never believed him. Tobacco sits complacent in a bulge under his lip. Dirty habits. Dirty habits. A 5'oclock shadow that can't tell time. The hair on his knuckles curl and his hair parts deep to his scalp. A face of trial. A face of error. A face of age. My face someday.

Her hard jaw line define her profile bold. With lips the color of grapefruit. A violent red. Her eyes shift with the weight of her perception; conscious, breathing, alive. Salvia smoke clouds her image, lines undergo ambiguity, soften and dull. The smoke spreads like dry ice, quick and free, finding a place to die in between the stucco and the gray specked linoleum. She laughs like a man, hardy and whole. I run my mouth down her skin, flaked and dry. She grabs my hair wild, tousles it with fury. Squeals of pleasure. She returns the favor. We make love. She stares at my cheekbones and says "You are the Odysseus to my Penelope. Don't make Poseidon angry, because I couldn't wait 20 years for you to come home. You know how I am." Her words echo in my thoughts as we go to sleep, carried by the humming of an air conditioner.

Salad days. Carnivorous nights. We are fucking cannibals. Eating each other flesh from bone. Ligaments pop cold on a dead night. Mars devours his child. Goya. Scary. I thrash my head like a beast in sun bathed pride.
Dark black fluid that makes my throat catch on fire. I am invincible. Fucking test me. Clocks synchronized, slowly fall out of sync. Moving in the imperfection of time. It is just relative. We are all fleeting. Forgotten matter that breaks down to nothing. WhydoIusethisconfusingwayofwriting?ToshowhowsmartIam?Anyonecoulddothis?Youhavetobeamotherfuckingbadasstosellitthough.Isellitgood. Deadwood trees shake away past lives and grow. Reaching beyond our atmosphere for the source of life. I only touch the source of life when she lets me. And when I do;
I
Understand
Everything

Airport

Carry on luggage that is worth more than my prostituted body. The hair on my arm sits modest and black. Like a cat I had when I was eight. Wheels roll against linoleum, droning out cell phone conversations and my silent screams. Starbucks. McDonald's. Braving a new direction. Cutting a new life. Surrounded by the same exact places. Why can't Abraham pull the trigger? FullOfLifeAndEnergy. DancingLikeNoOneIsWatching. Only to get my my skull crushed by someone better. The sirens sing sweet and I am hitting the rocks in a collision of enormity.
Close my eyes. dead.
Dead. my eyes are closed.

Heartbeat

Up from dusk to dawn. I'm tweaking on amphetamines. The doctor says I need them, and I do in a way he couldn't imagine. Objects sit idle in my room and I am the only moving denominator. Lusting after women. 7 deadly sins. Everything is deadly. Cancer. My bangs fit above my eyes geometrically. Donatello sculpted David. So did Michelangelo. Different ones though. Donatello's David is effeminate and weak like me. The sunlight drips onto the black asphalt, steaming the surface of the ground. Liquid hot pavement leads to a painful walk I forgot about when I was kissing the top of your neck. I listened to your heartbeat. It beat well. itbeatwell.

Curiosity never killed anyone. Curiosity never killed anyone. Curiosity never killed anyone. Three is the perfect number. Three is the perfect number. Three is the perfect number. Dragons are slain by knights in white satin. I love that song. It was on yesterday as I was in my car. The windows were up because I have allergies. Fuck my genes. Knights in white satin/never reaching the end. And I love you/ oh how I love you. Broken skies are mended by street lights. At a certain velocity, it all looks like nothing. Color and line that hold on for the sake of image. We are only as strong as we say we are. I have a limp cock and a limp will to live. Which one will be the death of me?

Split Hairs

Man and Machine fondle each other. Oil mixes with seamen. Which floats to the top? Sometimes I say the stupidest things just to be noticed. Brunette hair that is soft to the touch. Lets stay here. If your long eyelashes flutter like that again, we could break the sound barrier. Sonic boom. Lets do it again.

Strained Cremaster

I don't know what this is supposed to do but I am treating this "blog" like a journal. I don't care if it is public. Anyone who sees it should feel like an intruder. Get out! Leave! I am not claiming to be a poet or a writer. Lately, I have been living at some incompetent level of consciousness. I don't care what someone reads or thinks, just know that I am not declaring any of these literary pieces. This is for myself, a personal stream of consciousness I can reflect on to better myself. Is all this living just dying? The paradox of life. I wish I was a nigger or a faggot, maybe I am both and I just don't know it yet.

Terracotta

We move like horizontal skyscrapers on a moonlit night. God has damned us, but I fight like Xerxes. Ulysses died in the mountains and I might as well too. War against immobility.
Words
Descend
Down
The
Page
Naked
Like
Duchamp
Slaughter preconceived notions we have tried to defend. Coca-Cola teeth and computer screen eyes. Glazed over perception. That florescent light has cut my corneas. Dead like a doornail. Dead. Like. A. Doornail. The event horizon is about 3 miles ahead of us and if we go fast enough we may just break through to about 3 years ago. When I was doing the time warp with my Latino lover. I. Want. To. Be. Anywhere. But. Here. Right. Now. Take me back to where I was father. Oblivion is smothering me as I cry out incest between Cupid and Venus. Folly, Folly, Folly.