the kitten chews her tail. the corpuscle takes a breath. 

time pauses. slick with intent. 

we feed ourselves to the nearest oblivion. 

arbiters of nothing. conspirators of conscience.

the rabbit discards his ears. the tendon closes its eyes. 

momentum chews its hook. 

grim with the evidence. we stumble into gravity. 

disobedient monarchs. in crowns of lead. 

chained to the miles. spent by the distance.

calculating choices. as everything combusts.

dutiful is the orphan. loyal is the thief. 

fickle is the decimal as it wanders through our skin.

the whims of broken numbers elegantly poisoning us. 

resolute is the pantomime. open skin sells itself in loose crumbs.

the humble touch of impotent choices. all missing keys and broken locks.

absolute is the choke of the bridge. as it crosses through us.

the numbers panic. the equation sighs. knowing we're solving for loss.

stern are the doorways as we search for a way inside. 

the walls stumble over the windows. the rooms swell with our absence.

places we know that have forgotten us.

it's only time's faulty medicine. making us weak.

it's only the monsters under our bed.

still growling.

time swallows us slowly. sweet candy skeletons laced with putrid marrow.

though hunger pays it no mind.

change hunts gradually. sharp claws scratch the surface. 

while underneath the tender meat remains. 

waiting turns sour. closed eyes forget how to see. 

the truth bangs its hammer. and all the nails slither into place.

there are no lies. only spoiled memories.

we wander. feasting on the distance. as lost threads its needle.

we search the edges.. toting baskets heavy with choices.

foolishly bargaining with the wolf. 

as if we're not already caught in his teeth.

 time has its own measures for the volume of blood spilled.

the parable of skin is written by spurious strangers.

we wear our trust in lazy nooses.

choking on the knots we've made in its rope.

stilted by the lingering bruises.

flesh has its own equations.

to calculate the value of each touch.

we merely stumble over its numbers,

pretending to understand the cost.

loyal beasts gather their grins.
the perpetual fever of touch,
digs sweetly in their hardened bones.

time accumulates its debts,
in chafing skin
and ugly distractions.

curious monsters,
chew on the empty pockets
in abandoned rooms.

the distance is sour
as it coats our lips.
in raw betrayal.

we bite into the fruit,
even as our skin is ripe
with so many treasons. 

time she surmised had its own agenda.
a path meticulously situated between corruption and salvation.
sharp dice in the hands of strangers.
speckling every victory with someone else's blood.

choice she supposed had tried too hard.
a sunken variable.
stranded in a sseries of unsolved equations.

it continued to function,
though everything about it was wrong.
an arrogant parade of limping assassins.
all their precious bullets wasted on the dead.

time she assumed was deaf.
a student of all the words it couldn't hear.
the simple truth much more complicated
than she had anticipated. 

choice she noticed
was a fragile construct. 
its straw house being the first to collapse.
when the wolf  comes to call.

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 hours stumble over the remains of our thoughts. 

no more nervous adjectives to tangle our breath. 


the narrative chokes on its fading protagonists. 

the end switftly asserts itself. 


time is an infinite passageway. 

teeming with open doors. 


i aksed her name as she stroked the sharpest corner. 

she polished the edge as its razors ripened. 


we screamed at gravity. 

as the world came tumbling down. 

 the coin was loud as it shimmied to its inevitable halt. finally flat against the tilted table at which we anxiously sat.

still we kept counting. expecting more to fall. 

eventually, we abandoned the precarious whims of arithmetic. determiend to discover a more generous defeat. 

bargaining with the edge. our faces plastered to the wind. while gravity undid its zippers. 

the end stout and fickle. as it spent our dwindling choices. 

the window was soft and unsure. full of faces and shame. 

and all the obvious confessions. 

time is a weak menace. all faded make-up and failed parodies. 

we've been thieves for so long that there's nothing left to steal. 

we arrive. all burnt hair and singed voices. in the hollow economy of lust.

love is a special kind of violence. all small bites and delicate cuts.

we begin. as everything does. strident and stark. struggling for breath.

life is a curious puzzle. more missing pieces than anything else.

we learn. by bruises and by fractures. animals in human faces.

savage. because that is what the world has made us.

change is all cobwebs and kittens.
ugly tremors and broken fingers.

lingering games that no one wins.
heavy skins worn much better by anyone else.

bitten pieces of abandoned puzzles.
dubious stories written in someone else's words.

charm the distance with our remaining coins.
purchasing their vacant wishes.

digging for treasure swallows us whole.
quiet choices reconcile the math.

truth is a function of touch.
though we continue counting.

long after there is nothing left.

the cold tells its stories in simple conceits and shattered skin.

a lonely metaphor of grief in a cacophony of narcissists.

all the buttons are made of why. all the zippers forged from when.

we press the needles through the fabric. but the holes are too deep.

the pillows wear their dented grins.

the sheets fumble with the stitches at the backs of our necks.

we solve each other with melted candy and rusted hammers.

looking for the truth in all the wrong places. 

 the grin of gravity is vast as we tease the fall. overconfident in our plastic wings.

only the sky knows what we look like from above.

frail gods in heavy robes. biting at the wind.

the truth is a curious venom. gently peeling away calloused skin.

time is a fickle mistress. draped in her soiled sheets. singing her broken songs.

the journey is a paradox. how close we come is the same as how far we've gone.

the apex is a simple lie. a forgotten name that still lingers at those abandoned intersections.

we see everything. and nothing. orphaned arbiters of empty staircases.

only the bottom knows what we look like from below. 

 

the silence wears its rigor in delicate scabs and tender folds. the light of a dead star scouring the universe for a grave. 

change paces softly in the corridors of our minds. while the past stomps its feet. a spoiled child in a terminal tantrum. 

imaginary gods shuffle our lives. decks of cards dealt randomly. we play along. gambling that we'll be chosen to win. 

stern in our epiphanies. we don't bother to measure how sharp each corner is. 

memory breathes too shallow. but time can hold its breath for decades. 

choice spoils too quickly. and our hunger overwhelms us. 

we're only artifacts in someone else's grief. dangling threads under their skin. 

the more we try to untangle them. the more knots that we create. 

we navigate this treacherous skin.

every new touch cutting deeper than the last.

prisoners ascending time's crumbling walls.

our flesh engaged in an eternal war.

every word a surrender. every glance a suicide.

blood makes its promises. tears tender their confessions.

as the years betray us, the distance shrugs.

our weapons grow heavy. our armor turns to dust.
 

but even long after these bodies have surrendered,

we still keep those blades sharp. 

alcoholicpoet.com

a poem about the nature of weakness. 


wear the wind.

the smothering contradictions

that put their faces in our blood. 

rebuff the tired poverty of flesh. 

let all their hideous stories grow stale. 

be born in the choke of death. 

alive because we must. 

nourished on simple lies. 

wild animals tamed by the claws of emptiness. 


Filed under: November 2024 Sad Poems

alcoholicpoet.com

a dark poem about how those who do not learn from their mistakes are doomed. 


corners stir. like blood smiling through punctures.

the numbers are manipulated. the math is corrupt.

the walls quiver. the doors are shut.

the war is cold. the soldiers are all corpses.

the corners whisper. like heavy rain breaking glass.

the truth is diseased. the lies have become us.

the end grins. its smile all polished fangs and cracked lips.

everyone devours the rotten meat.

too hungry to notice. 


Filed under: November 2024 Poetry

alcoholicpoet.com

this bit of poetry is all wandering molecules and angry atoms. 


touch falters. a soldier in a long series of silent wars.

words hold their breath. as time's floods prevail.

we are only paper and sand. bits and pieces of a puzzle we can never hope to solve.

the end would come easily. if only we would let it.

their names make us weak. their faces pull on our zippers.

we grow smaller as truth colors in those empty spaces.

fingers dance over quivering skin. a dare to look over the edge.

strays gnaw on their leashes.

choice is a tunnel. once we enter, the other side is the only exit.

gretel emerges from the forest.

the seldom tears that fall on plastic cheeks abruptly become authentic.

but it's too late by then. 


Filed under: October 2024 Sad Poems

alcoholicpoet.com

 the spark worries. dismissed again by the flame.

strays and orphans barter their remaining flesh.

as time sheds the last of its skin.

we're only temporary.

eternity yawns and we vanish.

change is precise, sharp and cruel.

we sneak inside each other. searching for light where none exists.

the spark stumbles. as the dark asserts itself.

time continues to make it promises. while the distance parses their veracity.

we're only temporary.

but the spark. 

the spark is permanent. 

Filed under: August 2024 Poetry

 the cut did not bleed. it only grinned and asked who would like a taste. 

the map contained no places. only roads to follow. 

the truth wore a tattered mask as we searched for its face. 

the wolves were quiet. as the pigs assembled their houses. 

the thrill lay in waiting on their eventual demise.

her bones were patient. as her skin fell away. 

touch laughed and asked her if she was real. 

she sighed and continued counting strangers.  

her cuts do not bleed. 

but all the scorned contrarians that flesh has created. 

they still see the scars and want a taste. 

eventually, the lights went out. but having spent so long in the dark. 

we could still see everything we'd lost.