The Wickedness of Wonderful


We left this crucible urge back in the woods of ink roots.
All you ever wanted to do was paint the sky red.
A place where gaze interaction fades in,
But your on/off switch is broken again.

Please excuse me, but I often explode with a bit of disposition.
You’re nothing like a spelling error that makes me want to write a how-to book about doing nothing.

The progress.
Deeper than the mechanism of notes by D.H Lawrence.

Let me swim in the dirtiest river fully clothed,
come out clean in the most dangerous way.


The Crust

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A very close space to me sounds intellectually insane,
but in the most utopia way,
I’m sinking deeper into the naked and the stained.

I’m only bleeding from the side.
But let me whisper in your ear and say, “Darling, we all bleed sometime

I want to dig the crust of heaven out from your eyes.
So I can kiss the dirt under the womb of our children.
This is too much, so deep that I’m crawling out of a mud hole.


My Sins Are Beautiful


Oh do you mean the catalyst is just a shade under the veins of this rotting sun?
I have disorder that is painted like Easter eggs.

( ….and I dress in black)

This is insane, but I don’t want to be the boiling water in your pot.

I have sins.
I have better sins than you.
And I don’t even know why.

It seems the strangest thing to say right now,
but this cat hair in my mouth is the weirdest dream so far.
I can swallow my own tongue, and speak a different language you can’t understand.


I Sleep With Ghosts


Suddenly, there was a noise coming from the space inside your fingernails.
This dirty old pond, you know it will follow you to the deepest end of any ocean.
I can’t swim, but i have recklessly lived on landscapes where I’ve drowned in words i can’t pronounce.

These things, Oh these things I don’t know about.
I am bent in the suffix of verses.
I do sinful like I have no surface.

The heat is off,
But the sunshine is like a razor blade that can cut stone.
Please be careful, there’s glass in the comfort of pillows.
And the softest scream is like flowers that grow in empty attics.

The Artist


She lives quietly on the tip of my lips.

She breaths clouds that I can sleep on like in romantic movie scripts

There is a wilderness fire in the bones of bee’s
When all I want is the sting that burns like breeze.

I may be a godless man, but the wings on my back are made of polyester and golden hair.

They Bring Fear

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Not again, not the flowers that grow in cement of skins.
I’m waking up in blindness,
So I can calm the darkness.

You read my mind like a novel out of print.
I could almost feel your cold fingers ripping out each page.

Like night, the colorectal of ink fill my veins.
Maybe you can feel the blood that flows between the roots of my fingers.

I have days that taste like sour milk.
And the thought of crawling back into a womb without a push – is only a pull I can’t imagine.

Fade Up


When I left the forest deep inside your heart.
I cut a few veins along the way.
I left the place dirty and messy.

Face up beauty scar.
Ugly stars and cigarette smoke.
Fade up again, I’m so tired.

The Dark Story

North Wood

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A small house on a field of brown grass, it’s the mud under my feet I remember the most.

I feel the dirt of the sun in my eyes.
Spliced beams pushing in the vague of motion sickness.

Upon the backs of worms,
I feel the crust of the earth in my hands.

The Girl Gun


Those bullets are made out of joy.

She’s pissing zen like happiness is a warm gun.

This is the part when the lights go out.
I can hear my crooked smile turn perfect.

Do you realize or dig real lies?
Oh those ill eyes, good night and sleep well.