louder still the distance screams.
the ugly inferno of our voices ignites.

we continue to worship the horizon.
though it only tells us lies.

we gnaw on the edge.
all its sour colors an irresistible drug.

we sit in our machines. 
listening to their choking engines.

convinced they can be still repaired.
flirting with time. a poisoned romance.

melted crayons in our pockets.
knotted colors in our heads.

shouting at the outlines
we're unable to fill in.

the angles oblique.
as we approach the center.

a catastrophe of skin.
nothing left to feel.

except what is missing.

 unexpected visitors infiltrate the seldom crevices.
domesticated monsters gnaw on the keyboard. 

the empty chairs search for faces.
the tilted table wonders after the math.
as broken skin sheds its bandages. 

the corner grins.
full of so many shattered time machines. 
they laugh as they fumble with the remnants of our past.

as we tremble in the void between
where we are and where we've been. 
our voices held hostage by all the words left unsaid. 

the truth continues tying its knots.
shallow creases steadily press deeper.
eventually becoming permanent. 

the scale sighs are we put on our weight on it. 
but lacking an opposing force.
we sink. 

alcoholicpoet.com

when we were new and gentle the world would let us run. we had no need for promises.

everything was small. and the things that we wanted were irrevocably ours. 

but time must draw its nooses. and nooses will always find their necks.

now we are worn and aggressive. animals chafing against a stiffening leash.

every breath thick with the places that we've been. strays dropping breadcrumbs on a one way street.

we look in the windows. but all we see is our own reflection.

we knock on the doors. but inside, no one answers. 

skin is paper. touch is ink. words are the poison that wears our faces. 

it's a fever of choices. dominoes tumbling in an endless cascade of why.

inside an abattoir of questions. 

as we chew on the fingertips of time. 


Filed under: Sad Poetry November 2024

the window was open. though the wind did not come inside. the apogee of bone to blood. a deceptive orbit.

voices collapsing. like folding paper. icicles melting on the edge of zero.

we tried it on, but the suicide was too small.

steps to when. the pace of fractions. louder than it used to be.

the stones at our feet. in the simmer of darkness.
betrayed by our bodies. the stern biology of reason. weakened by a  rupture of choices.

the beginning is constant. everything else is clay. time stumbles. barefoot. over life's broken glass.we ignore the blood.

borrowing each hour. spending each other. the savage economics of flesh.  makes us all paupers.

missing turns chase the road. curious angles draw the map.the truth is that line that creates the horizon. the division between Earth and sky. the place we long to reach that always recedes as we approach it. feather and bone without wings.

the world encroaches. all detours and drawbridges. ripe enough on its own. but sweeter on the return.

the years sweat and bleed. a long series of open wounds. we're hurt. we heal. repeat.

the chase takes us farther. the hunt brings us home. the appetite of the flesh and the hunger of the soul.

there are intersections. colors coaxed from skin. greys still to be told. life moves through us. a raging locomotive. emerges on the other side a trembling victim.

words fail to find us as we languish in the depths of our discovery. this paradise of ghosts.

it's the end. the featureless void. temples in solvent ink. and the curious monsters who worship.

the trembling miles. dim switches in the shadows. crumble and bleed. time's lazy asssassins whet their blades.

the dirty switch. the struggling bulb. the torn path that chases us home again. empty chambers in the gun. the simple economics of everything lost.

the waning kingdom. tears in the skeleton. folds in the scars. the absolute cost. the future in card tricks and bus strops.

the angle hissed. the atom splits. nothing moves. the ladder trembles. the doorway whispers. we go on. it's the end of the world. and it isn't.

close as you are. ferreting the distance in stabs and confessions. close as we were. impossible choices. scratch the glass.

there are glimpses. the dream wakse me up. in jagged stitches. the holes still open. the knots still easily undone.

touch tempts the mechanics of when. this cold engine. this choice as it were. orbits. tracing the edge. skin's momentum catches us.

soft cages. broken locks. a hungry prison. more predator than friend.

the heavy charms. the melting snow. as the cold befriends us. in tangles and crutches.

the dark labors. the flesh whispers. fading songs.

dense partitions between then and now. long wormholes boast their knots. the lesser gravity. of thinning hope. shivers and expands. the hunger of descent blossoming.

solvent stares steal the dark away from itself. in gropes and gasps. sharp cloaks diminish the man. in favor of a thicker ghost. 

borrowed sympathies resign the kingdom. pencil mazes forfeit their walls. the only truth is in the skin. the only lies lurk below it. amateur gods weighing their thrones.

the grey glass. the delicate walls the whisper within. the soft murder that is how. the infinite suicide that is if.

the open door. the churning fog in every breath. growing. the dense yawn of why. that swallows.

the obvious wars of mice and men. the unfortunate soldiers condemned to save us.

bent shadows scrape the ceiling. searching for a limit. the heat builds. in empty ovens. travellers boast their paths in sour candies. if the future knew her. surely it would admit. the end is thick and grey. musty with old knots and soiled bandages.

the entrance swells with virulent predators. the rim grips her. in a spectacle of weakness. gravity shouts. in its husky whisper. like running water. the beautiful monsters of men. drowning in the gorgeous tucks and folds of simple choices.

the edges of the paper sharp. the little dolls dancing. on whims of ink and eager strangers. her busy buckets hungry for more. distant claws find the crease. the color bleeds in calm confessions. the scabs form slower than expected.

candy houses with all the lights out. revel darkly in the cost of witches.

her voice empty cups. words sweating and evaporating. her skin swallowing her up. in growing folds. like quiet hurricanes.

tripping into the world one scar at a time. chewing on the stones.

chasing the horizon.

her thoughts volcanoes. her words ashes. it's gone. the future is over.

finger paints and scandals. elevators and friction. fading evidence of survival.

hungry ghosts feast on the wormhole. the distance raw like meat. compelling comsumption.

little shadows in their tall hours. stroke the moment. the ratio cold. the math betraying.

the machine gasps and moans. the bitter servitude of pistons and gasoline. coloring.

time has no such luxury of faces. only the tremor of bones as they struggle to shape us.

layers. fits of skin. interrogating. hours. minutes. years. the heavy basket. full of nothing. that led us into these woods. and trembling wolves. in chokes of grandma. With further fists. furious with science of memory. and how easy it is to forget. the future is always a whisper. tomorrow is always deaf.

we just watch. pretending to understand. as the words fall out. in forgein languges.

the simple lies that truth insists. as life presses deeper with its blind infection. the sickness is the apogee. the wound is the orbit. rumors of god. tame the monkeys.

the colors roar. the engine sobs. time negotiates in piss and blood. meat and bone betrays. only the words survive

wet scars draw their pictures in open wounds. determined to change us .

loose skins coax the breeze. the storms are on their way. be patient. you'll die again. in your heavy pajamas with the seams all crooked. in your sunken bed with the sheets all wrinkled. in your hollow dreams with the muted villains. and the wounds that never bleed.

her quiet story is louder than it seems. her January has its reasons. days bargain softly with the edge of the world. life boasts its turpentine. seldom autumns solve for suicide.

smothering the cold in fits of skin. an hysteria of choices. living the needles. awkward seams chase the origins. nameless ghosts and shrinking heavens. pound the walls.

 confounded foxes. tease the hounds.

her quiet triumph wins her no prizes. the hunt goes on.

her thighs like blackjack. her nervous lips. chapped with fragments of when.

 stubborn time machines laughing out loud.

time enough. wilting words. barking slaves. soft hammers caress. the hard edge of the world. we've always tread too close to it, stubbornly refusing the fall. stolen hours. moist with fainting gods. and all the many simple lies that are the archictects of everyday life.

the gravel road. paints her journey in blood. as she stumbles forward. on her bare feet.

the future stutters and chokes. stupid and infrimed. the future dances and shouts. the same as any prisoner in the throes of freedom.

her pencil finds the edge and follows closely. a fever of strangers. deeply embedded in the thin threads of purpose.

time confesses. a sinner just the same as us. absent the constrictions of heaven or hell. stilll desperate to measure the man against his demons.

the paper creased. the seams all cut. the shapes exceeding their form.

the eager monsters that offer us war. where peace whispers. the simple cuts that trains the beasts to attack.

time whimpers and tugs on its leash. entirely unaware. that it's been captured.

we listen. with our broken ears. to words we don't understand. wearing each moment in nick of bone and pieces of skin. the monster close enough to kill. but the thrill is in letting it live.

Dominoes. as linear as our perception of the world . Fingers. Moist with intent. And the things that lie between. Cold hands struggle to determine. What is the difference. Forward. Back. Simple breadcrumbs draw their jagged maps on vacant skin.

the world didn't end like we were promised.

so we remain. fickle valves debating with a flood of when. we knew all these strangers.

the world didn't stop like we had assumed it must.

arrogant children with too much knowledge and not enough experience. time came and went. disregarding the milestones of mortality and courage. time scores its path equally deep in each person's wrists. only some of us bleed.

the machine is swift and indifferent. a callous god not at all of our image. the chase is long and uneven. but constant is the hunt. 

hard things in the crust of her fist. playing each stone. as if every wall is deaf. the hollow songs of
touch. repating in an endless echo. like the entropy inside a wormhole.

we go too far.

the distance between us still lingering. long after we've found our way back. 

a crease in the page. a footprint in her head. dusty maps to long spent treasures. time doesn't have a face. it's eyes are in its back. time doesn't walk or run. it simply finds the edge and jumps.

worn by the dark. or wearing it. a foot stool on the lips of reason. as it chokes on the carcass of choice.  minute lines in the glass spreading slowly toward the margin. stutters in the structure of life erupting in silence and madness.

the smell of tomorrow burnt and tempting like gutted fish. the hunger tree obese with low hanging fruit.

yesterday. the taste of its fever. warm on her lips.

the comfort of sickness. available in all directions.

dead things murmur on the fringes of touch. cold thighs form frozen bridges. empty travelers linger in the void. content to find themselves lost.

the telepathy of skin. chews the image from the bone. lighter fluid infused cigarettes. coax the predator from the grass. left turns into heavy traffic.

the hours idly consent. to letting us wait. to allowing our surrender.

vacant terminals receive and transmit. the anatomy of touch. ragged maps possessed with destinations. nameless roads lead us.

time's gloating machine. gnaws and pokes. as addicts beg and leaders wither. just a taste. a temporary desert. constantly growing.

the missing moon. the gloating stars. the stumbling Earth. all characters in a desperate fable.

obvious villains.

expenditures of skin. weak against the the mercy of time's solvents. the gravel in her throat. tempts him to listen. as the words crawl toward the surface. the lead in her hips. begs him to go slower. as she flirts with the finish. curious marathons of sex and disdain. fill in the spaces. between gravity and acceleration.

the muscle fidgets with the strain. tears and stretches like elastic screams. a humble of wolves search for their fangs. a whisper of right in a shout of everything else. going toward. running away. similar, but different. 

wearing the numbers. soft clouds sell us their rain. in tempting bargains of death. the chemistry of strangers. needles taming the wrists. in cuts and stones. monsters solving for closets. storms all thunder and wind.

a desert of darkness. expanding beneath the surface.

one ogre growls with the veins in his fist. another sobs with the knife. still working out the arithmetic.

thousandths. decimals like lips. whispering the words. almost a reason. or a chance to take. almost. eventually. time dilates and we can see ourselves in the darkness. pictures taken. pixels used. on empty portraits.

That girl with her dress on backwards. With her panties in her fist. I used to be her.

That timid hitchkiker with all her rage in her back pocket. going places just to get there. Time like music in her head. A concert of choices. Heavy with consequence. Three bears, maybe less. One tale told countless times.

The punctuation in her skin. She is a malestrom of commas and apostrophes. The nouns. the verbs. The adjectives. flaunt their stories. Dead men with their eyes wide open.

A barter of weaknesses. like gravity. how it softly it keeps. both feathers and the stones. pale like the gun. nervous like the trigger. all those variables inbetween like broken time machines. shuffling their bullets.

suspicious time lines. choke on the drum. soft stairs replenish. broken atoms. simple lies to offset the bigger ones.

her road maps in flesh and dandruff. the pulleys impatient as gravity shuffles into oblivion. take the doorway. in fangs and claws. open wounds deliberately tempt the wolves.

tomorrow's thin lips. yesterdays swollen tongue. either way, the words are the same.

vagrant iterations. cycles of when. these bones still sweated life. these shadows still touched the sun. shallow harbors fiddle with the dial. arrogant machines bully the clock. we live our lives as outlines. waiting to be filled in. talking in colors. loving in pictures.

too often, the future comes back for her. and she is stubborn. refuses it.. wearing her eyes backward. telling her stories with erasers. imagining the ink will someday catch up.

every day we are destroyed. lost and recovered. in a chaotic compendium of desperate choices.

the bent key. the flex of the lock. as it squeezes. a parable of flesh. in a slaughterhouse of touch. little girls wearing their men. tiaras and pennies. deep wells. where the echo never reaches the surface.

the simple doll. yarn heart. button soul. a series of masks. each one hiding nothing other than the obvious. ample wounds under the smother of conceit.

the smallest particle. too small to see. fears nothing. the cartography of skin is mutable. relative. the cold wind chokes on the dying things. everything disappears eventually. subtle monsters in their skinny jeans. fiddle with the zippers on empty magazines. the casual dominion that circumstance prevails. heavy drapes on shattered windows.

the science of people. in quick staples and slow infections. rumors of why. haunting.

tenative ghosts. solved by their mazes. broken colors that name her sickness. in rich pastels and fetid crayons. open bridges. circle the path. absent gods attempt to dance. to the missing music.

the simple lies of time. the chronic boasts of truth. nothing is small enough. to fit inside this manic equation. the weeping wolf. the nervous swine. the fever of the hunt betrays them.

soft needles coax the vein. in a panic of skin. the death inside the box uncertain.