pure morning

All the books you started reading, all the boys you started seeing, every half completed sentiment that you always meant to say gets stuck inside a memory like a miracle unfinished and you only feel like going back to where there's no place to stay.

Your face is pasty because you've gone and got so wasted, what a surprise.

It's a broken house, bloody handprints on the wall, ghosts out in the hall. That's where mamma lives. I still hear her calling out my name, singing I'm sorry now, I didn't mean to hurt you like I did. I always wanted to make a change. I always offer the worst in me, all of my hate, all my anger, all of my self-loathing. You can't go wrong if you bring love. I'm a broken man, blood on my hands, ghosts out in the hall. Just ignore them all, but I still hear them. I can't hear her, I won't die here. Time to fly, time to fight, time to be a better man.

I woke up with a headache from the night before,
cause sometimes I drink. I spent my night with my
head in a toilet bowl, it's where I like to think.

hands shaking like milk, my thoughts turn to you again – a jealousy over a typewriter. and over your ability to be free, my ability to stay grounded has left me alone again. Robert smith in my head phones as I sit in my car, in the freezing cold, because its the only place I can smoke and type/write at the same time. a desperate desire to not be alone has ultimately backfired. the people I place on a pedestal only to have them fall down around my ears. the ones you least expect, are the ones who give the best advice. its cold, I’m cold, the blood in my viens has curdled again and no one can tip out this sour milk stained by thoughts so decrepit that my heart trembles. this car seat is numb, my ass will fall through it and I will fall away and there will be nothing left but ash. those meant to miss me wont, and the others will. the ones who whisper my name before they sleep and the ones I throw away like used sanitary pads. I’m sorry, more sorry than you could ever imagine. but I will never back down – this brick is slowly drowning, just like a smashing pumpkins song. a stencil for the 90’s. he broke down, I broke down coz I was tired, of lying. ive fought this battle to get sober, now I can’t play the blissful game of ignorance anymore. the guilt, the guilt is consuming. its whole, in its entirety, my fear of everything. my fear is debilitating.

a disgusting anecdote of fear, of novels read under covers, of bukowski and tea and sympathy. of love, of hate, of deep sadness, of delight, of vulnerability. I wilted, you grew – you never knew, you never will. no one knows, except those queens of the night, the ones who wear white. oh I love a little poetry, I know you do. I’m a writer, not a duke – she said, she whispered in my ear. I felt my toes crunch and my heart creep inside my chest, only to spasm and not regain its dignity and composure. its all gone, its disappeared, like alice did, only to emerge corrupted and raped of her innocence. dreadlocks and cobwebs, intertwined, a love that endures all things, or a love of ignorance, of bliss, of a nirvana that only exists in the brain. a clinical orgasm and two blankets, its cold she said, too cold. dreams of a sexual revolution, or a revolution from your bed. it always begins, it never changes, things never grew, I never knew. I stood tall, through it all – perhaps I even did it my way. sitting on my ass, in my car – what to do, where to go from here?

"I hate to be the one to break it to you, but rock and roll can't actually save the world."
"See, I disagree. Walk into any club on the strip tonight, and just look at the kids. Look into their eyes. I mean they're all looking for something to believe in, and I think that music can be the thing to change the world."

I want to share my tin man heart with you – or the scarecrows nonexistent brain – you can be Judy garland and I can dance in the rain.

robert frost is incredible

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair;
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, And I-
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

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Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

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Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

my sweet prince - ramblings from a back seat.

you smell like leather.

like jean paul, rolled cigarettes, old music sheets and silver.

until I leave the sun behind me, you are there.

you remind me of an old banjo, of Dylan on a rainy afternoon, of good weed.

the kinks and strangers on a train. the Darjeeling limited.

I am a broken knitting needle, not much use yet.

broken tiles and a kingdom up for sale.

nail polish and eyeliner. lashes dark and supple. a waterloo sunset.

searching for a familiar face, some recognition.

corsets, Marlboro reds and dark chocolate. you are these things.

chain-smoking, god-fearing, sinning.

poems written on a Sunday, bourbon drank on a Monday.

boy – I want to be with you, all day and all of the night.

ex-boyfriends, no faith.

underwear mothers don’t want to know about.

here’s wishing you the bluest skies and hoping better comes tomorrow.

it’s really nice to see you smile.

I’m ok.

so you found me. I was hiding, you with your Hemmingway and me with my lost notions of baffling, powerful and cunning delight.

my vulnerability and your cocky self-assuredness. your asshole boundaries and my willingness to chase you around the country side.

you are not here to make me happy. I know I can only do that now. friendships created in dark underground bars.

friendships created for life but relationships that are like the wings of a moth – they fade and die when faced with daylight. my anger and rage, compounded by a self loathing that never dissipates. a problem I want you to fix. but you can’t give me anything but heartache.

I know, doubt. doubt makes me run, a fear of losing control. friends who seemed strong but wilted in the heat of an alcoholic blaze. you are clinging to my brain like the way clothes do after you’ve been skinny dipping.

that made no sense. you’ve done nothing but piss me off. made me feel inadequate in my fears, my naivety and vulnerability. you haven’t made my cunt feel like my heart does, but you promised you would. my scars and my stories of heartache. you with your grandiose ideas of love and being a writer. you have no idea.

You were just a boy on a bed in a room, like a kaleidoscope is a tube full of bits of broken glass. But the way I saw you was pieces refracting the light, shifting into an infinite universe of flowers and rainbows and insects and planets, magical dividing cells, pictures no one else knew.

I smoke another cigarette with
no consequence, and no conclusion.
Only wasting my body heat in the cold,
only wasting my breath on tar and nicotine;
one heavy breath closer to the last.

All your friends and sedatives mean well but make it worse.
Every reassurance just magnifies the doubt.
Better find yourself a place to level out.

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear, nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to "glorify God and enjoy him forever."

Henry David Thoreau