slap the bag

she has a pill for that too.


pills,
fills,
water mills--
(suburban alcohol).


here, have some kombucha.
..i'll take a side of pinot noir.


hipsters lying in bed.
fulfilling nothing,
but
      pills,
      fills
and water mills.



                         

regulars from hell

anger drifts from my soul..
a passing of whatever sort of time
I have drifted into..toward, around.


shit shit shit
always hitting the fan.

problems for weeks,
months.
I feel as if I am restricted,
contradicted,
wicked.


drink drink drink
always fucking up my life.

hate everyone.
snitches and bitches
I have no respect
for any of you
lazy assholes. 

out in the sweet unknown.

i feign to dwell.

to breathe means to smell your own boogers.
so, i suppose,

                      i dwell on that sensation quite often.


hence,

             i must say,


         most of the fresh dewey air does not have the opportunity to reach my flaccid brain.




               Go on now.

Come on, now,
don't be shy.


Keep reading about my congestion issues.
                   That happens to parallel my souls demise into its personal revelation into becoming a                                                                              recluse.



     CLAIM ME OH PIOS SINNER!

I am yours for the taking,

 as well as the keeping.

I'll Be herE tomorrow.

when I was younger, I was full of such promise.

Now


I am much older.

And my promise seems to be fading with my clandestine youthfulness.

I feel weaker, yet stronger.
Scared, yet ready.

I am not sure what this epidemic in my mind means.

I feel lost, lonely, but full of myself.
More full of myself than I have ever been.

However, people still push me around.
My temperament is not as calm, my vices are swelling and my eyes are pouring.

I AM GETTING USED TO BEING ON MY OWN.



--------
she sits on
a swing-
a beckoning to someone's
heart's string,
waiting to sing,
under a lover's peril
promising security;
immortality.

the moon struggles
through cloudy skies,
an attempt to pour it's
silver embers
upon the ghostly figure
sitting on the swing.

WHERE AM I GOING WITH THIS SHIT?

bullshit, literal, shit from a fucking bull
hit me in the leg this morning.
As if some deity-tied animal
swung it's shit from the heavens
to purposefully grip my leg,
suffocating it in it's diabolical force.

Shut the fuck up.

nothing can be taken seriously in this platitudinous planet.

Gag.
 

         GaG.



                          voMIT.



                                        shIT.





               I feel the planet erasing my soul with this literal bull shit.

It's a thought, It's real life.

Sun beams seem to miss me when I walk under cloudless skies.
Wine becomes water in my everyday living epitaph.

There used to be a horizon, of golden and pink embers that touched my soul.
Realization has turned it into the burning depths of my dying desires.

Flying arrows juxtapose the contours of my body.
Herding my limbs into folded pieces of crimson cloth.

I could go on.
However it would just become a series;
Dramatics.
For thousands of sonnets.

too many shits

                                                   Chastised into some underworld 

                 

                       in the middle of the valley. 

Berate me. 

Just do it, over 

   and

                over  again. 

                                              Rail me. 

                                              Did you not hear me ? 

                                                                                    RAIL ME. 

Then, 

leave me, alone. 

                           Her voice stresses me out. 

Her fake demeanor boils my blood. 

                                               Tell me ONE more time to see a psychologist. 

                                                                    and I will grow more irate. 

Just chew me out and flog me down. 

    

                        I AM FINISHED.