You awake next to a warm spot,
And that empty darkness grows hot,
Loyal abandonment recalled, forgot
And there’s a lover where a person’s not.

An unattended party, you’re the host;
With open doors, unlocked, left closed.
The fading warm-spot starts to roast,
And the thing that touches you the most
Is the formless finger of a former ghost.

I hope your lips are lonely,
That they feel abandoned
And they’re quivering.
I hope your bed is cold at night,
I hope you’re fucking shivering.

I hope your giant heart falls out,
Slips like mine out from my sleeve.
I hope you chest cavity caves in
Every fucking time you breathe.

I hope that you find people,
That there’s a line, a streak for you.
But most importantly
I hope you know
That I hope none of this is true.

He broke his smile and took a shard,
Made a handle with a jumper cable.
He knew that he had made it hard
But never thought she wouldn’t be able
To see past all his anger barred
Within himself.
But his surplus of  poor mental health
Slowly made her unstable.

He wanted everything to work out fine
But by this time, she didn’t want to live, too.
He realized that ever “yours” and “mine”
Was just further pushing his shiv through
Her chest, her heart, until it hit the line
And she was dead,
But right before, she said
“I love you and forgive you.”

 

I broke the sun and took my run
Gallivanting in the dark.
I used a word to shoot a bird
That was once my favorite lark.
I smashed the earth, and all the mirth
Of life died with a goodbye spark.
Then I took my joys in spilling poison
Over all the flowers in a park.

I killed the bees and fell the trees
With a manipulating ax.
I stomped the grass and and in my pass
Left a brittle trail of tracks.
In a moment hurled all the world
Into the deep volcanic cracks.
With the rest I can live,  but  I won’t forgive
Myself for what I did to the lilacs.

 

She couldn’t breathe – the room was spinning,
An so when she saw that fissure, she
Dove in saying “In was fun in the beginning
But the rest was endless misery.”

The Pianist

It began where it stopped;
The anorexic abhorrence of eating.
The definition of the ribcage
With nutrition-lack increasing.

He began to stave himself
Until his bones turned into keys.
The only thing he ate was Beethoven
In lonely moments such as these.

Starved himself to life in death
And overindulged in the famish;
Staved himself until his breath
Began to wither away and vanish.

Only in the end did he rejoice
When he was nothing left
But dust and warts.
He played: “No one would hear my voice,
But maybe they’ll listen to my corpse.”

An Evening at the Art Exhibit

I broke into an art exhibit
And stared shitting and pissing on every picture,
I slashed and spat
On ancient heirloom tomes of scripture.
I jerked-off, hunch-backed
On all the busts of beautiful people.
I mocked the biographies of the artists,
And I scoffed at deeply human expression.
I smashed the record-tables,
And carved psychotic ramblings into vinyls
Of talented composers;
“Chopin – Remastered by Pissed-Off-Pervert Labels.”

I broke into an art exhibit
And ruined the meaning of art.
I dulled creativity,
Tried to malcontent nativity,
And I fell to a proclivity
Of thinking everything was really fucking shitty.

I broke into an art exhibit
And hacked away at sculptures
Made of bed-posts and comforters.
I gargled vomit
The rust-red, chunky kind
And licked every wonderful thing I could.

I broke into an art exhibit
With a gallon of vinegar
And a flask of gasoline.
Got drunk on rage
felt sad and confused
So covered everything in kerosene.

I broke into an art exhibit
And I ruined all the paintings of pretty flowers.
I  ripped up tapestries
Tore down murals,
And what makes it worse?

It only took me a few hours.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, hesitantly, not really wanting to hear the answer she expects around the corner of his voice.

“Nothing,” he grimaces, “honestly, it’s fine,” he replied with a scowl. He always hated himself when he lied. “It’s fine. Just the same shit,” he finishes his half-thought, more so out of resentment rather than satisfaction. (He’s been lying a lot lately.)

“Alright,” she responds, vacant, in resignation, wanting something to change; wanting it to be ‘better’, but having no idea what ‘better’ is. It’s hard to use superlatives when everything is a consistently leveled field of unhappiness.

He begins again: “It’s…” and just as quickly and as randomly as he started, he stopped. A moment passed, speech in-utero. “It’s just…” he tried to continue, holding onto everything, shoving into himself and his throat everything he wanted to say, but he can’t swallow it. He took another moment. “It was easy to get into my mind; that shit only took a second…”

She hesitates: “Yeah?”

“It’s jus the ‘getting out’ that’s killing me.”

Antony saw Cleopatra

Painting a picture

For Caesar’s ghost.

Though he was long gone,

She stayed faithful

And her daily smiles said

“I loved you most.”

So, Antony, in his jealousy,

His confusing habit

To dwell in the

Present as sure as tomorrow,

Drove himself insane.

Constantly asking Cleopatra

“What’s my name?”,

She responded on the Mark.

But Antony saw behind her smile

A smile he couldn’t claim:

A bit of Caesar’s spark.