To the Top

all these lights
and they're oh so pretty.
there is truth in illusion,
everything is reflected
beyo-o-ond, ayyy, ay,
beyo-o-ond,
all that fuck shit.
lifestyle is art,
art is a lifestyle,
the style is part,
part is experience,
part is innocence,
part is expression,
part is impression,
perfect harmony is the lesson,
what is performance but deception?
all of it is money,
no exception.

delicate, gross

can I show you the world
when all I know are sad songs?
a life I used to love,
a boy I used to know,
delicate and gross,
predispossed to death,
maybe I'm obssessed,
but I have a hunch--
I'm blessed.

New Text Document (2)

endless space
time and blank pages,
yesterday, today, and then

triggering meltdowns
colossal breakdown
callous pen

byou bray one
gl
that's all

new town
no name

now
 trade time

money
 is king

tired all the time
waking

write
time waiting

don't write
wait

pacing
no time is worth this

i'm a patient boy
i wait i wait i wait i wait

and i just went like,
fuck you, you need to get your shit together,

good for you, yeah, blah blah blah whatever
this is all shatter,

nothing really matters,
nothing really matters,

after
all

pop
top dawn

down wind
nip

sip
little bit

bit by bit
tip

pit
top to the

bot, it
get
g
get
it, get

got, or
amore

pizza
poor-ay

meesta
mess

miss
misses

eminate
thrills

still
existence

still point
presence

no
not-it

it-isn't
it's nothing

nothing
is-it

is-not
nothing

i dn't got
git gr8

i'm rye-meme
so dank.

Ten Years

this is a cycle,
the journey of Dante--not a circle,
a spiral!
down and left,
nine reverse,
coffee in the colonnade
with some asshole archduke,
pretentiousness,
slit your wrists,
the poem I write is this,
more or less,
who is it that I am?
the mountains are the best,
after nine is ten,
I only want an exit,
an inscription over a crypt,
cryptic messages from death,
spaceman spiff crossing the Styx,
veiled references:
oil and sweat,
the river's bed,
I'm waiting for your kiss,
O
sweet death,
Burning as a witch,
burning as the pitch,
all black for images
etch a fucking sketch,
and drink from Lethe,
dig the ell-square pitken
as Tiresias said,
offer a promise
and follow through with it,
maybe you can spiral home again,
the rocky bed of Ithika
or
Bethlehem.

(thank me before it's all over,
before the suitors are dead,
and before Beatrice blesses our heads)

so now I wear an olive jacket with patches
like a turtle, or, you know,
like the man I have become.
once I was seven years old,
a child now grown cold,
with a rough exterior and a coat.
I like your face, don't use the cloak.

Dear God

excellence isn't abandoned
it's just postponed,
a roof over my head to lay my weary bones,
is anything less important I know,
I've been in the center,
the one bell tolls,
nearly perfect enunciation,
a wolf in a sheepskin coat,

The stony shoal.


I've been up and around the other mountain,
do you see my face,
dipped in moments of grace,
there's something there that I won't say.

How the West Was Won

daughters and sons,
my bed is dipped in distance,
approximately three,
now look what I have done,
where there was peace and silence,
I brought a gun,
they're all, um, disposed,
upwards, at most, 90%.
this poem was composed
of at least 100% lost souls,
am I full of remorse, or the purest pity we know,
compassion is gold.