the road is hungry as we stumble over its gaping jaw.
the hunt is a curious beast.
all dressed up in our empty skins.

time is a feral creature. all growls and claws.
we wander. feathers in our vacuums.
watching everything around us fall.

running because that's what we've always done.
running because where we're going is so impatient. 

the distance is a perfect measure.
the  temerity of beginning to end.
solves us all, eventually. 

the road is uneven as we discover our pace.
pins and needles in the cold extremities of ambition.

we run.
because theres's always something more to chase.  

the buttons are soft on time's weary keyboard.

all our dogged epiphanies summarily dismissed.

no more wilted adjectives to give us pause.

the chains are limp on truth's withered engine.

as we barrel forward. blindfolded and adamant.

the last of our claws sold to the sheep.

trust is a vile consent. built on borrowed beginnings.

we spend our choices on temporary things.

because temporary is what we've always been. 

the box in the corner has my name on it. but it isn't mine.

the room that it sits in is otherwise empty. except for the shadows that it casts.

its door is unlocked. yet once you step inside, there is no exit.

its walls are unadorned. no one seems to live there.

but there are footprints all around it.

the box in the corner whispers my name sometimes. though it never answers when I respond.

it can't be moved. but I never find it in the same place that I left it.

the box in the corner contains everything. yet it's always empty when I look inside.

by alcoholicpoet.com

a dark poem for the vagabond within us all. 


the horizon stumbles over gravity.

more perspective than condition.

fragile sticks in the fists of change.

its eternal equation still solving for what we are to become.

lost is not a place. nor is found.

we assemble our destinations from what remains of ourselves after we arrive.

falling is a map that boils under our skin. full of all the little lies that infect us.


we are nomads. wandering inside ourselves.

searching for an exit.



Filed under: November 2024 Sad Poems

alcoholicpoet.com

this poem is a about the frailty of humanity's power. 


the world gives us different names. empty identities that betray our faces.

the world purchases our voices. dirty pennies in the fists of strangers.

touch is an architect. building everything from nothing.

we are curious carpenters. dressed in crumbling walls.

spent quickly. by both the wolves and the lambs.

the truth is a disease for which only grief is the cure.

we are inadequate gods. in a dilapidated utopia.

stubborn engineers. chasing the remnants of tomorrow.


Filed under: October 2024 Sad Poetry

we are given our names.
by circumstance and contrition.
worn by the skulk of the wind
as it chases time.

sold at a bargain
into the slavery of earnest skin. 

we measure each moment
in burnt sugar and flaking scabs. 

the distance yawns.
bored by our panic.
we stumble over the zippers
in the backs of our throats.

choking on all the missing words. 

we watch the world end
from inside our dusty windows.
shuffling tomorrow's bones.
runners on withering crutches.
spent by the distance. 

we take the names they give us.
discarded dolls in yesterday's gowns. 

living as if they know us. 

certain they never can.

the tender distance tests her. in the bleak angles the sun has struck. a cacophony of negotiated shadows in the perpendicular to lost.

the shallow convergence of the perspective humbles. proximity. betrays the intimate. progress merely a function of indifference.

all her choices are narrow bridges. the arithmetic of how far is secondary. the science of skin wide open.

the points erupt with tired contradiction. her journey is spent. in empty places and absent thieves.

narrow bridges chase the sun.

yellow knew her. she it. a long passage in a broken chapter. screaming in the deaf corner of her mind. the inches surrender. the miles continue their war.

the hours stomped their feet. the rain forgot to fall. the skeleton wore its fancy dresses while the flesh took off its soiled pants.

the moment chews. bites down hard. on scavenged bones. and deflated skin. it's just the ugly arithmetic of lovers and poets. the unfortunate angles that tend to spoil our paths.

the obvious pictures. a relentless gravity. the long distance between intersections melting like wax. and falling again. an apothecary of victims. and the diseases that define us.

the softer stars. that poison the darkness. failing to know. how to measure the void.

the bluntness of the beginning. the acuity of the end. obvious intersections. impossible parallels.

these expired dreams linger still. the solvent aristocracy of flesh not withstanding. the shaking wolf with tender fangs. still devours. hungers the sames as any ordinary beast. a crest of skin. a tsunami of moments. a flood of birth amongst a chaos of death.

each lover to be worn. in button holes and zippers. undone. the fit of the hour dependent upon axiomatic encounters.

the fading bulb. tells its stories to the dim. the dull pencil draws its images deeper into the pages.

spoiled by the machine. eager to go back. negotiate with the hours and the minutes. carelessly adrift in an ocean of lovers.

tepid trials. the coin barely flipped. one choice divisible by a series of strangers. her ruptured future. more pus than blood. .

numbers and flesh. the practical hysterics of gods and men. she traces the path. with broken pencils. content to draw regardless. shattered images more than motivation enough.

quiet monsters plague her fairy tales. too soft to kill.

the random claws. the heavy fangs. like desperate clouds. bursting with rain. condemned to the desert.

the villains rarely have names. the heroes seldom have faces. the world is a brilliant chaos of ringing phones and hollow epiphanies. stout syringes overflowing. with impotent heavens. dusty atoms with their tails on the time machine. fucking fractions of each moment.

farther than we were. closer than we've been. i found her in the future. obvious angles firm in their ink.

more lost by simple maps. the cold geography of flesh. measuring distance too literally. tender wolves ruled by their fangs.

the ugly paradox of choice. like mental diarrehea. 

every hour daring her to become that stranger in her head. who whsipers of moments. that stick like needles. and break like confessions.

the child in her heavy shoes. struggles to walk quietly. the burnt math of trembling fingers. as they touch. but fail to feel.

incredulous demon trying on abandoned halos.

laugh because the end was always there. frayed shoelaces and awkward left turns. on a journey without places. filled with synonyms for how to get there. years after there's nowhere left to go.

empty boxes. torn wrapppers. the mortgage of skin and other such devices. a commodity of indulgence. to barter or to leverage. the rich algebra of skin manipulates her. the stern science of humanity. like paper. so little surface. so many sharp edges.

no heroes. just curious villains pissing on capes.

tremors in the void. wear her well enough. solvent conditions. tempted by the idle. casual encounters with a softer finish.

the night coughs. sicker still. with concrete cunts and broken cocks. the world is the same as her eyes. open wide, seeing nothing.

want compels the tiniest fibers and the biggest beasts. little pieces of glass tainting every step.

watching. as the dark is given to do. a focused confusion. an accordion of skin. breathes us out. swallowing the remains.

the process assumes the product. the future bleeds out of the past. little hammers in the choke of her fist.  blunt pens in the scar tissue. paint their scabs.

travelling quietly. through a shrinking world.

running on broken glass.

yellow bridges stab the dark. digging roads through the drowning. the grey suits us. stirred by the moonlight. to quieter wars.

broad soldiers boast their atoms. the brutal science of division. and the lost.

we are only young when we are in love.

want blossoming in purple and blue. swelling bruises tighten the skin. on mangled bones. at first, this small world makes us big. later we discover how easily we fit inside it.

dying comes in the pinches of cocks and the shudder of intoxicants. god lives in the piss of cocaine and the vomit of heroin. anywhere else he is only a visitor.

all the songs lament the same. wanting more.

her voice pencil marks. the silence ink. suicide is a long process. of learning how to want. crumbling corners discover dying in all kinds of places.

the poison is rarely what kills. though it's taken every day. it's happiness that talks her off that ledge.

small boxes stew in the shadows. as hollow as they are. there's something inside them.

the end comes in whispers. everything else screams. but it's the angles that are often overlooked. they change the distance. they wrinkle the map in places no one can see.

it rains when she listens. it snows when she weeps. everything is her. yet she is nothing.

it's only ugly because they say it is. bruises in the bridge. and so much ocean to cross. drowning in the cold math of touch. she doesn't come up for air.

we live for seconds. we die for years.

he would dance to the song of her corduroy lips. base conditions fermenting sharply. on the solvent edge of relative time. the surface frivolous with gravity. falling. always falling. choreographing his words to the rhythm of her hips.

the temple dim upon approach. threaded randoms for the ratio. simmering armies wear the conflict. in failing fires. steal the quark. in a tunnel close. measure destiny by the circumference of her throne.

the hour paints with fingers in the pigment. stained fists and trembling fingers beseech the images already drawn. the colors sprint. toward some distant finish. while we wallow in our outlines.

impotent gods rattle the sky. ripe with the science of dolls accused. seeing loudly in a silence of soldiers.

soft blacks surrender to the deeper greys. if such a thing could be. knots in the thread. holes eager to open. long shadows bend to release. time comes in chokes and needles. a furtive drug more arrogant than effective.

chasing the edge of the paper. hemorrhaging ink.

time speaks in riddles. flesh answers in numbers. she chases away the monsters. like any good dog would. but is more defeated by their retreat. empty plastic arms. discarded dresses. spoil crippled dolls for their barren heavens.

the future gives chase. a rabid dog full of froth and kill. the future takes us each. big shits and little pisses.heavy daggers in paper fists.

quiet stories whisper below the skin. measuring victory in frail wars.

life is a series of mirrors. all of them broken.

narrow paths absorb the pawns. a shifting leverage of light and dark. the strategy of flesh. the labor of touch. abundant in chokes and stabs. blind animals baring their sharpest grin.

the layers thick with pity and contrition. studious insects burning in piss and shit. all of her faces too small.

the bold charms of reason and hour. meted sorely by monsters within. worn candles push the flame. the moment churns. a contest absent warriors.

quietly, like angle would expect. seizing the plane in curves. the empty math of ambition. leaves her bankrupt.

counting. this empty future ours. matchsticks yet to be burned. fires lsot in concept. her time more science than predator.


a futility of colors. hard like the angle of her distance. soft as the tremble of her fist. a blur of holes. heavy with all that is lost.

broken dogs. cut the dark. with heavy jaws and impotent barks. the hound is the obvious target. simple of resolve.

the mountains sigh. more weather than discipline. the world we make rebels. the fury of nature and the sting of absent gods. the lopsided arithmetic of lovers and friends.

as if that mud chose the footprint and was not randomly trod upon. the lure of blood diminished. by brighter colors. animals content with blood.

accusing the monsters doesn't suit her. she'd prefer just to let them to their war. would that she were deaf and could not hear. the screech of the bombs and the whisper of wounds.

the distance confounds. burnt matches. press. the abstract of man. focused by his scars.

daring porcupine wipes his tears with pointed hands. amber tiger fangs chew the knots in pelvis of night. blank caramel between her thighs. giggles and whispers. apes and soldiers. cross and loud with the radio cast. clay guns telling stories in empty fields.

a tempest of strangers. pieces of skin. like rifles and ammunition. the numbers humble. the needle urgent. as the seams make their decisions.

goats in red capes. chewing on the curtain. the story that wants to happen. the words that struggle to be told. she wakes the rabbit. to ask it about the proximity of the finish line.

simple marathons. that run us. while we wait for something to move. measuring the miles in sweat and thirst. and the hysterics of running. collars on the necks of gods. stiff with choices. or the illusions that pass for them.

temporary cuts in permanent wrists. no blood. just a deficit of courage in the seldom of depression. quiet lies build their frictions. smooth stone. jagged sticks. gamble the time machine. impotent wolves discard the fiction.

when we were small. it all looked so big.

Bark louder. Now softer. Change your song. Whet your fangs. Meat is anxious. The cellar is stiff with dead things and dinner. Truth and plump lips touch below the grime in the secret arithmetic of time. The kind of toxic inspiration that certain lives require.

Keep grey the cellophane documents of touch. Nervous catapults on their last war. Stabbing the silence with bent blades. Carving the path with burnt matchsticks. Let spill the empty gallows. Narrow intersections ugly with traffic. Steal the storm from the gods. And are overcome by it.

Race quietly in burgundy forests. Tall with sickness. A ceiling of want erases the sky. Makes us big. Makes us small.

Eyes like sunburn. Words lile gangrene.

Pluck the fog. Strings seep toward the sun. In a murder of choices. Stones in the belly. Razors in the head. Barking a path from here to then.

Matter divisible and swiftly accused. Meat on the floor. Shit in the corner. The window open. The door closed.