Friday 10/17/2014 12:28:00 AM

always warnings. beautiful sirens. all vinegar and carbon. still working the creases on those sharper angles.

the tug of skin. all color and folds. drowning in time. stubborn paper coming undone. the nauseous arithmetic of touch. a suicide of sober. in a circus of diremption.

she measures distance in images. flashes in her mind. crude lines. vehement hues. every step a picture taken through a broken lens. no focus. just blurred edges.

the lost have their own maps. their crude imitations of direction. good for a time.

she stops. challenging  the weak tug of gravity. she has a sympathy for the beast. all emotional theory and malfunctioning bridges. crisp dichotomy and failing manipulations choking on the flawed devotions of flesh. 

the miles accumulate, the distance becomes her. the swift punch of humility. wakes her up. the gentle scrape of want puts her to sleep.

everything is small.

little boxes. delicate angles. paper walls. the crumbling perimeter. fractions of when. we still knew ourselves. each other. the diminishing catastrophe of having lived.

the ignorant ocean. the stubborn sand. their endless collisions. time's absurd opiate. the map unravelling inside her. the distance a martyr. the path a villain.

everything is small from this far away.

Thursday 10/09/2014 12:55:00 AM

the dead leaves have their voice. soft and diligent. like how the rain falls. and the storm approaches. the stubborn angles that discover her. all chaos and confidence. under the flicker of dying bulbs.

measuring the conflict. in flattened pennies and open bridges. circling. cheating patience in stutters and sobs. waiting for the surface to return.

the paper creases. eager distortions wager their symmetry. on an arithmea of pornography and science fiction. whores riding their time machines. poets beating their madmen. nowhere we haven't already been.

a temporary vein. a permanent poison. such is the nature of how. skin. sick with itself.

the tumbling moments. each one. all of them. forever. going over the edge.

the shapes emerge. hard outlines boast their conflict.  an infinite suicide. the moment resolves to the pale complexion of if. like dirty water. and the quiet thrist that compels us to drink from it.

growing louder.

a thief. the confession. the riot of flesh. the dubious hours that consume. these manic tsars of touch.

all the words are starngers. all the hours are spent.

on petty wars. where there is no winner. a pinprick of ecstacy.

Friday 10/03/2014 12:47:00 AM


folds in time and flesh.. abundant bridges over deep chasms. her voice is paper. her words are rain. they will always be betrayed by one another.

she counts the steps. pretending she is getting closer to something.

breaking the skin of the apple. to let it rot. because regret is hidden in every ripe piece of fruit.

mediocre gods fiddling with the contrast. lazy devils distorting the volume. there is no script. only the memory black and white. the colors don't belong to us. the images are only temporary.

the precision of touch. seldom reliable, but always accurate. the science of skin in vinegar and ketchup. hope. the sweetest of venomss.

the collapse of reason. almost deliberate. as the experiences overtook her.

a slender resolve. ripe with a ferocious impotence.

her fingers the empty envelope where the words should be.

time machines. both real and imagined. finding no future.

Wednesday 10/01/2014 01:07:00 AM


evidence arouses. a compendium of skin. measured in cuts and wrinkles. the bones all but circumstance. as the skeletons evolve their calculations. logic she challenges is something reserved for other occasions.

the geometry of how. erupts in a stifled cough. a reaction to stimulus. nothing more.

she goes. though the going there is far. it distance soothes. a petualnt placebo often mistaken for a cure.

she wishes nothing. as easy as it sounds. the encounters. the policies of flesh. souvenirs of a fleeting democracy.

curious arrows, struggling with direction.

Thursday 9/25/2014 12:44:00 AM

the edge is never far. bound by structure and tesselation. content with variables that are seldom solved. the surface is always moving away from us. it's how we know we're getting closer. the shrug of wind. burning paper on the tongue. particles at play. the exhale of the sun. deflating. in the small colors. the dimished geometry of when. the poison in the box. all possibilities within.

the journey is hungry and soft. she's absorbed by the distance. a number in a sequence. consumed by its function.

tempted by gravity she teases the fall. lured by the current. skin all rhetoric and detours. shallow steps. take her down. to the hysterical increments that draw the maps. and the manic integers that determine where they start. where they finish.

she doesn't remember. can't claim the angles nor the math. indifferent numbers paint their crying clowns. on a crowded canvas. she swallows the distance. chokes it down. pebbles and piss. much sweeter than she expected

the variables remain. unconditional. unresolved. a hollow structure. a skeleton of matchsticks. a friction of skin. an impatient host. unwilling to breathe again until she has found the constant.  where the hysteria pauses. surrenders to the current.

stubborn capillaries. insisting a path. in an ocean of blood.

Sunday 9/21/2014 12:32:00 AM

tilted signs harvest shadows from the sun. turning sharply on obtuse scars. the maps betray her. the road so delicate when running. that turns fiercely hard when trying to stop.

the direction is secondary. it's the terrain that narrates. this bleak fairy tale. all acute metaphors and blunt ironies. chasing the chaotic motion of the loss.

pretending to know each other. in nervous stabs. shallow cuts that leave no workable math.

the monster in her bed. quietly killing. seldom ghosts.

the predator not obvious. the hun soft and fatal. bee stings and puddles manupulating the storm.  the road all sweat and stubbornness. as she spirals out from the edge. reaching for the embrace of a fickle gravity that too quickly forgets. what has fallen. 

the vast. laid out before us. as we frantically negotiate how small we are.

the pictures. the colors. the sound. all emotional collateral. against the eternal void. each touch a single number in a perpetual lottery of moments.

going nowhere.  just places finding us.

| Alcoholic Poet Home | Older Poems


| Sad Poems |



copyright 2005-2014. all rights reserved.