Poised to the donkey's ass she spat loudly her discontent. The jokers she claimed were not as wild as had been promised. The abortions not as permanent as she had paid for. The book there waiting for her to remember how to read. The infected piss of gods who've torn out their cathaters.

Freedom isn't an asset in this world.

Diaper rashed Gods. Abusing the talcum poweder. Blaming their own assholes for why the shit inside them is still there.

She was constructing her own religion when it occurred to her that they're all lies. Fortunate monkeys looking to dead stars for guidance.

The perpendiculars of skin deciding before we have the time to see what fits. The luxury of skin foreclosing on ambivalent saviors.

What they don't know is why I still believe them when they say I am too far gone.

It's ugly convinceing the dream how to wake up.

The shotgun in her tits was loaded. Ammuniton is cheap. It's the weapons that cost us. We always want to name the world after ourselves, but it never listens when we tell it that it's ours.

Little dogs in big shelters. Cages become us. Wanting anyone to take us home.

The 45 in under her fingernails wanted any excuse to fire. Barbie dolls on heroin reason with methodone kens. Of course I'm addicted. What else could I ever aspire to become. The problem is that I know it and don't care.

The trigger is that nothing kills me anymore.

I've written it. I've said it to their faces. And still I have this shotgun up my ass. Still I have this circus in my head. And everyone's afraid of the clowns.

Can you blame them?

No one wonders. At least, I've never seen evidence to the contrary. Had I been willing to bet I would've bet on nothing. No one. But I never bet on anything other than surrender.

The itchy grease paint that turns people into characters. Tiny words on their faces I almost can't read. Dialogue like an antibiotic for missing saviors and sobriety's not yet recovered.

Still mine. Or someone like her. Clairvoyant infections thicken the bridges and narrow the paths. I dream of nooses and overdoses. Because life is secondary to living.

I tell lies because the truth is not a friend to anyone but the richest. How you measure such wealth is entirely subjective.

But I know nothing else if not when I'm lost. And this isn't it.

Or maybe I'm so lost that I just like to pretend that I can't be found.

No matter. Over is close enough to where I started searching.

Let me go.

I need to fall.

Ill with determination she scribbled the disease in chunks of vein. Tort lips arguing with gravity again. Pieces of train track lost in finding where they've never been. The piano on his hip laughing c chords in unison with faulty wisdoms about what I should want.

I don't want anything.

The smoke spills from her nose and she imagines herself a dragon. The fire in her throat real at last. The long stairways taking her somewhere else. Anywhere.

I don't go there.

It comes to me. In spasms. Baby birds thrown from the nest too soon. Bland wings and dull beaks hungry for more throw up. The lawsuit of want accusing victims. Letting the monster go.

We need the monsters. To make us ourselves. To knit these all too patient skins. That let us try them on even when they could never hope to fit.

Wearing myself in sips of coffee too hot to swallow. Liars in worn overalls cultivate the reasons.

I don't know how hard it is. I only know it's far away.

Damnable. Sure. When you consider all the fat of the wing. The point of the pencil blunted by the grace of women undone enough to know they're not wanted.

I think I know why it's so hard.

Love wants proof. Photographs of smiles. Life wants trials. Witnesses that can't remember who killed who. It doesn't matter now. Everyone's dead.

The dinosaur in the window won't go extinct because we don't remember. He's gone regardless. Her pantyhose will still be wet long after you've dried her up.

She's alive. Not just a moment for you to fondle. She's close, but not close enough to know what it is that coaxes boys into men. If that ever happens.

She puts on her shortest skirt. Imaging the eyes of strangers lost inside her. The moments composed long before she's gotten there. The dirt between her toes a trophy of sorts. As she plans her next God. In balls of thread to tight to undo. In demons too similar to angels.

He handed me a memory in a plain foil packet. I would've thought that he'd have dated it. The only jurors in our eyes. The only criminals in our skin. I said I couldn't keep it. That I'm not much for hanging onto things. He gave it to me anyway.

Trust has nothing to do with honesty.

It must've mattered then even if it doesn't now. Strange how it fools us that way. Finding the words to tell it as they suit our purpose. To find others either guilty or innocent. Depending on our motives.

I don't want anything. I don't want anyone. It's the only thing logical choice when I consider the evidence.

I can't see the arm, but I know it's broken. Splinters of bone falling like confetti. I can survive January, but February is a challenge. The cold knows we're weakest when it's about to end.

The wisdom of winter is that it never let's us remember how close we were to dying.

We love who we do and deal with the consequence afterwards.

Dirty fudgesicles make this coldness a religion. Arrows at the back of her throat point in every direction. He could've saved me. Had he only saved himself first.

Not that I needed to be saved.

Or wanted to.

I could stand up every domino and still not be dsiappointed when they fall.

Ice cubes melting.

Just like we do.

How does the doll stand up on soft legs. The wax still loathe to coagulate. She kneels. Barfing on empty thrones. Until the king calls her name.

The mold is cut in half to determine where the defect is. Be it in the product or the ideal.

Her taffy skin betrays her cause as she attempts negotiations with the robotic arms that have made her so. Blunt candy canes become daggers with enough licking. They woke me up, but forgot to tell the dream to stop. And now I can never be sure if I'm real or just imagining myself.

These soft skeletons struggling to hold up my many skins. Juggling the now against the then in sharply spinning plates. Fairy tales cinching tight like dry, raped vaginas.

Some careless burlesque act that doesn't know when to stop. Electric hymens. Corn kernels exploding to the thrill of paper bag penises.

We're all instant coffee. Dolls left without any clothes on them.

I was old before I was young. Cigarettes and skin doing performance art in my underpants. Red tantrums of womanhood escaping the neat receptacles I bought for them. Possible tears on trial for fraud.

Teddy bears face first in the graveyard. Curious with their pink felt tongues. How these mountains came from nowhere to separate us. The perpetual presumes us in delicate intervals. Time paces in blunt expositions. Frailties we thought overcome.

If it's not Freud, then, it must be Jung. It's something. Isn't it? If I'm still stuck in here. The struggle empowering the failure. In sweet recessions of touch.

It's over. I am not.

Eyes like bus stations. Terminals. Where the end meets with the start in a paradox of confounded senses. The taste of transport. Tin and calm as we jump through these portals called memory. The stories our brains tell when confronted with limits.

Skin. Its subtle time machine dropping us off in moments passed. Places where the bone is all we are. Decorations in place of the person. Hanging loosely. The meat falling quietly off.

Someone else's dinner. Or the knife that cuts it. Someone else's broken arm. Or the cast. I see the pictures in row of numbers. The drawing counting how hard it is. To prove it means something.

I have the pictures. I know the men. It's myself I forget.

I have the language. I know the conjugations of the verbs. It's the tense that makes me feel foolish when the stories want to be told.

Searching for the next nightmare. In bit of skin left over from the demons we've chosen.

Hot spigots at the back of her ass. Pissing reasons to wait a little longer for the war to end.

I went looking for lies to tell myself. The kind that distort your face with plastic wrap, but have holes enough to let you breathe. I went out wearing the roll of the dice and came home with nothing.

Little girls don't know what they want. Big one aren't sure what they can have. It's not the men. It how willing we are to be used by them if it might mean not sleeping alone.

There in her Pandora smile she let the box open. Eager for a respite from all that hope. Curious. No. She'd seen it all escape before. And come back less.

Talking to Zeus in big fairy tales. Like the bracelets she still has pictures of herself wearing. Long winters that promised to end, but never did. Confections of skin that gave us away just as we were learning how to taste their sweetness.

I'm not asking to be remembered. I just don't want to be forgotten.

The words are fickle, but what they say is consistent.

I'm talking to myself again.

Sguar pills choosing where the sickness begins.

Fingers like dicks and skin made of cardboard. Upstairs they say is where to go if that's what you want to wear. Plastic bow ties hewn from ribbons of malice. Little gods on big thrones pretending to know us.

Swimming in her pantyhose she held her breath for as long as she could. Suffocating always seemed more appropriate. Imagining the nylon to be some sort of suicide contraption. A guillotine starving for a head to cut off.

Long goodbyes I can never finish. Turning boys into men. Skin into choices. Like we all are when it's left us.

Crisp snow on the window sill asking me to admit that I'm cold, but I can't. won't ever know. Deafening gods that overrule all our instincts. Liars with too much wire. And nowhere to put it.

Even if you're an atheist you can still make a deal with the devil.

It's just a matter of talking slow enough so those demons can understand you.

The name. Letters espoused from the pores on her ass. Friends a technicality in a trial of sober. Skin pickled and jarred in dark basements. Sold out in the open. Small lies, she says, to make the world inhabitable. Big ones, to make it forget.

The choice frozen on tiny ladders. Afraid. Jello molds of people. No flavor. Just color. Movement. Assuming the empty is bigger than I am.

Tigers in the doubt of their stripes search their claws for blood. What have I killed lately that hasn't killed me first?

The myth is that we will learn what can't be taught. The fact is, even the brick house can be blown down. If the wolf is determined. If the mortar is soft.

Hanging the truth in lazy nooses. Broken guillotines try, but fail to cut their heads off.

The black bird in the bit stream flies closely to the conversations I always have, but never finish. Penises as spoiled tourniquets for bleeding vaginae on the verge of realizing the void is everything.

Everything is nothing. Nothing is the hour I was born in and the eternity in which I've lived. Everything. And nothing. Pale twins finishing each other's sentences in gobs of phlegm and broken condoms.

I could be the smoke. The source of the cancer that pours the tumors like rock candy into your blood. The damsel in tarnished heels counting the beats in her head as she dances. Pretending she knows the songs. Or even the reason that is exists.

Tame shotguns killing the dead in a spray of indifference. Triggers searching for a finger to liken that death to something real.

The blackbird on the telephone wire teasing the lightning.

Silly girl, he said. You, with your eyes sewn to the back of your head. How do you see where you're going?

I can tell by where I've been.

Pretty girl wearing your ugly face. Do you think you're fooling anyone?

Yes. All of them.

Silly girl, he said. You, with your thoughts carved into your wrists. Are you dead yet?

No, but It feels the same.

Sad girl wearing your happy face. Who are you trying to convince?

No one.

Everyone.

I was debating with monkey over who came from where. Dark lanterns in the hands of the mischievous make for magnificent religions. His face, like mine, drawn in ink around the hair. His hate as potent. His gods as loud as I was able to hear.

At some point I'm done and it doesn't matter what I want. The floor decides it's time to fall Hanged men can't be revived.

I might die. It's true what he said. But dying is the least of it.

Shotguns at the base of her head, triggers surrounded by paper hands. Bullets of ink wound, but dare not kill. The strangers they call friend.

I could have been an end to this war if only I could stop talking to the dead.

Prom queens in borrowed dresses dancing in shoes that don't fit. To power ballads sickening the room with the romantic vomit of so many drunken optimists. No underwear. Just genitals with bigger mouths than contingency plans.

The deer on the windshield. The antlers in her throat. As she bent down to pick up the remnants of its hoof. Hunters see a meal. Vegetarians a murder. I see efforts better spent killing something else.

She turned to the ostrich and asked if the sand was a comfortable denial. It couldn't hear her, of course, but she gleaned her answer from its lack of response.

She laughed and told herself TVs were false messiahs. The bigger the screen the sadder the man. She watched her movies in high definition trying to imagine how they'd look otherwise. She fucked her men in slow motion. Always anticipating a defect.

Time she was sure would listen to her if only she could learn its language.

There are marathons to run. Punish the bones to strengthen muscles. There are diseases to cure. New ones to make up. So they can sell their drugs.

I'll just do nothing.

The dark so sure. Like birthday candles on a cake that won't extinguish. Rows of orange eyes that never blink. Coaxing wrists to turn over. Convincing bottles to open. There are lives to live. Everywhere. But no one is.

I was speaking with the wolf. Trying to find out how he blew those houses down. He said it was easy because that's what they wanted. To be the victim.

My interview with red riding hood came to the same conclusion. She was knew it wasn't grandma. That basket of goodies was never intended for her.

The lie is the best part of sex once you're forced to talk to yourself afterwards. That I could be that cold. Like no one's real. Or I'm not real to them.

The differences being slight enough that I can overlook them.

Some say god is a flea market. Shop around for the best bargain. Others say he's a department store. Take the escalator. Try on something that you'd never wear and you'll meet him in the fitting room.

But I know god is just another excuse lost people use to prove they're not.

Life is something the living often overlook. That's the clinical me, not the poetic. That's the girl with not enough stories and too many friends. That's the woman who want to be alone, but not for the reasons she is.

Life is a measure. Of breath. And pulse. And skin. A flash on a monitor. People give it essence. If they can. Maybe I just want to die. Or in other words, have never wanted to live. Don't see the point. Kissing happiness's ass only to be covered in its shit.

Wrong or right is irrelevant. You're all dead.

Some of us just tend to notice.

The trap door in the tiny car that lets all those clowns come out. Like so many men I can't remember now.

Thwarted passengers on a long bus. Dense with discussions about infinity. I'm still there. Adding and subtracting. Even when everything has given up on counting. Faces. little embryos of lies spawning a species. I'm there on your cheek. The threat of color thickening your words.

I can hear. All the things he never said. Flesh rumbling to life as we insert our key into the ignition. Idling there. Polluting this space with places we'll never go. Shoulders we won't be stranded together on.

I can hear the world in brittle metaphors begging me to relent. Faces. Each on a paper cut. No blood. Just skin pleading surrender.

I can't make it right. Wouldn't even try. I'm just waiting for the right time to say I don't remember.

I used to travel time. Pretending it wasn't chasing me.

Now I'm too slow.

My words don't mean anything. Waking up without them. Falling asleep to their dying. These tabloids of skin tell so many lies. It's impossible not to read them.

Jiffy pop hearts expand until the cracks are all they have to covet. Wrinkled aluminum dances against the heat. Subtle drugs pretend to know us un all the ways known else ever has.

Touch lies so well that I almost believe it.

When it says I can feel them.

Floods Cereberal. Motion Flaunts Pixels of Skin In Broken Libidioes. Little fibs make us better.

Little women bleed out their gods in missing children. Words on their wrists sharper since they've stopped try ing to prove the world doesn't end where they do.

I once was lost, but now, I'm just trying not to be found. Wet maps to a buried treasure some might call not looking for it.

It tears away. With a purposeful sound. Almost as if we'd ever been connected.

Nowhere. No one. Knotted eyes struggle to untangled what they see. Gods lay the mortar. Demons the bricks. This is our home. Anywhere I don't remember having already been. Skin like a parachute afraid to open. Letting us fall.

I fall no faster as the falling lingers. It's just an illusion. Gravity is louder when you know it's there.

Years worth of sleep in just a few days and still I'm tired. Sickness is how you define it. Be it by dolls of paper lost in the scissor's resolve. Or the ink from your pen that gives them veins.

Dark trench coats prepare the person in small eclipses. Like the bleed of ink through to the other side of the paper.

It was never meant to be seen.

This disease is my greatest accomplishment.

I've been plagiarized. Again. For a crappy poet a lot of people sure like to pretend they've penned what I have. I'd point you at the thief, except the site is gone now. I wrote to wordpress and I guess they deleted it.

I think I took the wrong course of action. I should've revealed to the Internet the location of her thief blog allowing the entirety of said Internet (or at least the few hundred passersby that stumble upon my blog each day) to descend upon her it all their affronted glory. That probably would've been more interesting, gratifying.

This same person has previous stolen Words from Lonely Roads and Psycho Paths and will no doubt return again to steal from others.

I was plagiarized once before (to my knowledge) on some early social networking site called so would you do me. When I informed them of the breach they were far more responsive (read: scared). The user's profile and stolen material was gone within hours of my complaint.

If you're going to steal other people's work at least take the time to date your thefts earlier than the originals. It's common sense, but I guess if these people had any common sense at all they would use their own words and not rape the thoughts of others.

Cause it is rape. That same kinda rape portrayed in after school specials with the girl huddled in the shower unable to cleanse herself. It's a profound violation that should be a big crime, but isn't unless you're a major corporation.

I guess it's my own fault for publishing it is the first place, but is it so much to ask that people just read and enjoy? Is it so strange to think that people could simply relate and not steal? I'm not trying to profit from this site. I'm just sharing the pictures that flood my brain when the windows are dark.

I may or may not be a 'real' writer, depending on your definition, but I do know that writing is a way to connect. A passive, aggressive way I admit, but a way nonetheless to connect with strangers. A pinhole in my bomb shelter thick head. A balance of risks. The hole that let's me see out also enables other's to see in.

If that symbiosis is corrupted we are all alone.

well, if you still feel affronted.. here's her myspace page

If you write a blog yourself and want to help join
lonely roads and psycho paths and me by posting to your blog about plagiarism and cross-linking to our posts on it. if you let me know about your post i'll add your link here as a member of the campaign.

Should I lie. Say I'm someone else? Maybe, in fact, I am. That lie the mirror tells again and again. That stranger in the tattered nightgown that the sheets always try to, but never can undress. Blunt abortions of touch spilling from bent fingers.

No offspring. No legacy other than moments hijacked by barren others. Not there at all unless I can open those wounds they've yet to discover.

I will lie. Say I'm someone I've never been. Like every princess in every fairy tale has done. Folded herself into the tiny glass slippers in the hands of their so called princes.

I will lie. Because truth is a terrible friend. It's not a lie if I become it. It's not too late if I still know what I'm not.

The embryos are like a tornado. Missing faces everywhere. Liars hold up their stop signs, but I keep moving.

Pretending I'm going somewhere.

It's mine. Not yours. It's mine. All you can is take the piss of it. Dirty girls flirting with the toilets in their heads. Kissing so much shit searching for happy endings.

It's mine. No one else's. They crawl inside my discarded skins. Reluctant viruses foul the world with the enthusiasm of their sickness.

It's stolen. Identity is gone. And no one wants to save it. It's mine, but now it's yours. I consult the oracles and find no rescourse. It's mine, but it's not. My words strobe to take the photographs of unnamed hearts. My life sickened by the motives of thieves. My words taken. Controlled by people they don't belong to.

Chse me on sterile wings of solitude. So empty that I can fill you.

I am falling on him. Like rain. Sunshine. Gods on graves. The world is a lie we tell ourselves. In patches of skin. The same bandages cover the wounds that once made them.

My choices are a garden thick with weeds. My choices are a poison nothing real can grow inside. So I draw in the flowers where I imagine they might've sprouted.

Pretending it's my fault because blaming them only makes we weaker. Pretending I remember what they said. The wisdom of skin is that it touches, but never tries to hold.

All those little wishes we let escape us when our gods are on hiatus.

Stains set in her dress. Punctuation for her thighs. Exclamation points on her vagina. Stories she'll tell to no one.

Blunt chisels peck at the hard edges of skin. Penis and breast debate the rewards of feeling strangers so far inside. Smoldering wicks consuming the candle. Vague apparitions of touch carelessly shape the blood to match the grin. In long strands of paper dolls that can barely hang onto each other the path is marked. In stitches of skin trying hard not to fall apart.

A suicidal attempt at taming the things insides of us we thought were happiness.


Just liars in our heads. The punch of the pillow. As it hits your heads. No one left to blame.

Imagining heaven in trademarks of when.

I used to tell him I was unhappy and he'd say it was my fault. I think he said it to himself more than me.

Some men love too much. Others not at all. I don't which ones are wrong.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

I only know what I've been. Stranger either way. I only know what they've told me. Little lies become big ones.

It's finally tomorrow and I don't know what to do with it. Scanning my life for moments to remember. To want back. It's easy to ask for forgiveness when you can't see their faces. They want to love anyone, not just you.

Or they don't want it at all.

Choices.

Like apples fallen.

Choices.

Based on words skin never said.

Choices.

The complexities of the sins we call truth.

Deciding who i'll be born in next. Some stiff penis playing the pontious to my vagina. As if eden still rememeber ejecting us.