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I Am Never Alone

I am never alone
When it’s quiet I’m drumming my fingers,
Tapping a riot and strumming at a thought that lingers.
When it’s silent, in nonviolent moments, I’m dreaming,
Dreaming of screaming, dreams teeming with meaning,
I dream dreams that seem to be blue jeans with faded knees
They fit so old and I think it means, they’re too jaded to please.

When it’s empty I fill my cup with noise,
Boys will be boys will be boys.
When I can’t talk I think, I think about drinks,
I think about lingering winks,
lost down the drain of wandering sinks.
And I try so hard to be clever, forever and ever,
but I’ve never said whatever they sever stays attached,
I’m forever a lever to my own ego, detached.

When I cannot wilt I rise, when I can’t sit in shit I hit the skies.
I have often felt, that leather belt, that beats me between the eyes.
I remember, being a member of a family, being in danger,
Strange and stranger, I barely recall the instance, the fall of the feeling of change.
I always see the distance, the regrets, the hedged bets, How I stay out of range.

You can’t throw hurt at me though, can’t throw dirt at me so,
You can’t flirt with my touch. You can’t drink too much,
or throw up a bunch or blow up or some such.
I keep my head down, I frown instead of something to say,
I clown and I use fury and sound and I push you away.

There might be times where you see my heart, just start to start,
Before I rip it apart, because I’m art and I can’t be part of this.
I’m only working against myself here,
I’m only delivering the shivering feeling of fear,
That I’ve always known, when I’m alone, and I never am.

It seems like I’m a negative person,
I’m not a two-legged hearse, I’m only her son.
That mother of fear and father of failure, what avails you can ail her.
What I know of being a man I could stuff in an envelope and mail her.
So sad that I can’t be sad, too bad. Too bad my dad is dead and he was all I had.
I’m mad I can’t be mad and constantly blame you away.
I’m pissed that I can’t be pissed and this is all I have left to say.
Turns out they lied, I died inside and I’m still here today.

You don’t need a heart to keep pumping,
don’t need wings to keep jumping,
don’t need love to keep humping,
don’t need nothing to feel something.

Turns out the walking dead are all well read depressed obsessed writers,
Who quote what the liars said, in a suppressed & repressed party of fires.
We are all prizes and there’s not a single fucking Cracker Jack.
We all normalize a single stupid laughing lacking fact.

That I can’t be alone, I never am, I can’t be by myself.
I can’t be at home, I never am, I am always somewhere else.
I can’t see the dark, my eyes mark the points of light,
I can’t be as blind as I’d like, my second skill is second sight.
I can’t be alone, I never am, and this is me in the light.

The Wicked Dreamer

I am edging incrementally away from disgrace,
I’ve hidden my face in theoretically public meaning,
like an asymmetrical, political leaning,
Nothing promised, nothing given, no space,
So I can’t be pinned down, seemingly seeming.

Then the world swallows itself like a symptom,
the hooked pill lodges in a crowded throat,
but the half panicked cough that shows death is near,
is inexplicably and inextricably great,
and the strangest feeling of fear,
is pretty and functional with a tinge of hate,

The better of the best of two dreams,
Doesn’t fit with the way my world is turning,
A dirty pleasure giving life to glands,
the chemical remembers,
oh, and yes, god yes, the burning,
leaves the best scar ever in my hands.

The soothing cold of a razors edge,
against skin hot enough to cut last summer.
Through all the shadows lost in shade,
truth is the leaning beckoned blade,
stabbing like a billion shiny memories that will not fade.

Awake, this is just a drunken tilting planet,
with eyes open, the sleeping row of cars,
the rest of what I see is just black over layered black,
Can this vision ever kiss me?
Can I ever kiss it back?
Only in the wicked dreams that damn it,
And they, these wicked hopeful dreams, are full of stars.

My Perfect Picture

I paint you on the back of my eyelids.
Every night when I sleep in your memory.
Warm, the last time, held against me.

I paint you with my fingertips,
The artwork hotter on cold canvas,
Laughing, like you are every tomorrow.

I paint you with my empty arms,
Held tight against sheets cold from missing you.

I dream you back to endless sleep,
every time I wake without you.

I dream of every time you smile,
and your laughing eyes stare,
from every, ceiling, face, or faded picture.

I paint you with my heart,
on a paper-thin stain of tears.
And I caress your every color,
With my distant, deafened mind.

There’s only a single statement,
Meant to reasonably rhyme,
That you, my perfect, pristine, picture,
Are always, never, sometimes, mine.

We All Have This

You have never felt more alone in a crowd,
You have never seen so much quiet in so much loud.
You see it in every medication,
you believe you are fixed now, your benediction.

Follow the dark, or your instincts in pain,
burn bright or see a hungry shadow again.
You’re higher than you’ve ever seen.
So Clear. You don’t even know what you mean.

You move forward in spurts and spatters,
produce passion’s poison, like it matters.

We all cry, we all fall down,
we all die, we all hear the final sound.

We are burdened by our dull and private rage,
singing bitter, banged, and broken to our empty cage,
Yet there is a honest harmful truth to see,
gasping borrowed air that sets us free.

Through the tears you’ll see madness,
There is a sameness in our sadness.

We all have this,


We all have this.

When You Describe God

Perfect calm, perfect anger,
the meaning of being,
inverting all that can combine,
into the infinite spiral,
who gives a desolate pillow
to the void.

Two imagined hands,
cup oceans between barricades, of dirt.
The universe is tilting,
and the concept of seeing,
believes in and of itself,
puts minds on an insect level.

Hunt, follow, believe,
Faith, the reverse compass,
always pointing inward.
The guide is self fulfilling,
and always has a plan.

The words are not the picture,
this place is not the plot.
Dreamlike trances walk hot-coals,
in the quest for sorrow beyond,
your own, miracle life-style.

The zen of everything, is chaos,
The contradiction of the eye,
Is the souls feeling of otherwise,
logic denies, fear confirms.

The instant constant black,
Is instantly, constantly, there,
dark like an angels eye.
Staring dispassionately at evening.

This is not your reason to exist,
This is the reason you do not.