Perks of Desolation

I wish I could drive a fossilized Cadillac
right through an arid desert
in the middle of Arizona
so my desolation can have its own landscape.

I’ll ask the grains of sand
rocketing in swirls around the wind
if it’s seen my talent running by;
I’ve been calling it for months now.

The citizens of Earth are not cold.
It was just my eyes that gave them frostbite,
my mind that morphed their faces
to resemble the hideous change within.

I’m not sure if that’s a truth
that fate has put on layaway since birth,
or perhaps a rumor that’s been force fed
like wart-ridden frogs to the purest of tongues.

All I want at this point
is to be a center of a desert’s mushroom cloud,
leaving with a new look at the sky
and a bit of dry skin.

Psychosomatic Slavery

I stood there like a drop of water
as you savagely tore my very last shred
of ill-fated dignity,
as you so cunningly blared through
my symphony of thoughts
with your out of tune foghorn.

There’s not a thing left to say.

I’ve already let every scathing insult,
every hideously imaged simile
escape from my yellow-tinted lips
just when I could find your eyes and ears
turn their attention towards another victim.

It makes my stomach turn and flare
to even try to find a reason
for the way you so menacingly throw
my existence through the gutter of your misery.

It seems like I was meant to live
for just a moment, in a follicle of time
before I signed my soul away
to the dictators, vermin, and snakes of today.

Nothing Is Nothing

Without the love of poetry,
were it not for the words ricocheting
from the nests in my soul
to the white paper sky,
nothing happens.

Absolutely nothing.

No planets will crash in the middle of space.
No ocean will swallow a village of saints.
Children will not start falling like dominoes
in a center for terminal illness.

Nothing will happen.
Absolutely nothing.

Earth that once flourished would now turn to stone.
Dust would be born from the stars that once shone.
All homes would be painted the same drab gray,
reeking worthlessly of tension and words unsaid.

All because of nothing.
Absolutely nothing,
which is not death itself,
but might as well be the nickname,
as he who does nothingis nothing,
and I might as well fill the air
I so constantly breathe.

Cheap Biology

I am utterly convinced
that my spirit is a ten-cent whore,
letting any passing nemesis
fuck it in the mind
with almost no tension.

It must enjoy the sensation
as its host clearly shows
in the streams of tears
that flow through the eyes,
the spirit's ejaculation.

It must become the sadist
at the viewing of torture,
as its host sits in an icy stupor,
with the times of bawling on the floor
and penetration of the flesh
the only times of breathing.

My spirit must have stolen all the charm it takes
to captivate the enemy into arousal,
as the host stumbles awkwardly in public,
pushing all potentials away with vehemence
and convincing itself of its inferior quality
to even the vermin of the sewer.

My spirit has made me the loathing host
to the parasite of my own existence,
with my mind as the main casualty,
ridden with smut from outer villainy
and decay from Casanova-esque traumas.

I hope it's happy.

Organ Music

As the exhaust spewed its mourning glum
onto the whimpering porcelain snow,
the chauffeur looked up and desperately prayed
for an Academy Award winner.

"Novelty tears shall spout at all times!"
And the thespian will charge through those double doors,
beginning his craft from the moment he hears the bawdy organ
singing the deceased's pleas towards the golden gate of Heaven
and crunching through an audience of bawling admirers
of a man he barely knew.

He was chosen to give the eulogy.
Designated to speak on the behalf
of man he never thought to glance at twice,
besides the intervals of days spent
despising the realization of his existence,
resenting the scars created in surplus quantities,
stomping down the darkest layers still oozing from the coffin.

For a handful of hours, it must all become a waning spark for the
method actor giving the most crowd-pleasing breakdown of his life,
delivering a perfectly tailored recital
cloaked to all the front-pew viewers
as a heartfelt elegy.

"Just a few hours," he thought as the double doors creaked,
and the scene will end with him sliding into his car,
a dead weight off his shoulders,
driving victoriously into the sunset.

A new set of tears rolled with the end credits,
along the face of the son,
liquidating the thespian with their bleak sincerity.
They were drops of remorse
for a bond that was never born,
with an abortion in a wood encasing
for all those people out there in the dark.

Royal Blue Abrasions

The elegant madwoman with a golden valor.
Louder than the falling trees
stumbling everywhere around her feet!
The spiritual mother, everyone's empress,
a concrete rose blooming over every obstacle
as if she were a one-woman, 21st century dynasty
with no malfunctions in its empire.

But, there's something writhing its way out
from the cellar reserved for her scathing history.
Past the cobwebs and futile pretensions of valiance
lies this warrior queen's greatest desire:
shrouded in shame, the need for love still haunts.
But it won't some accessory amid the ninth cloud!

Hard work and minimum wage flow much more smoothly.
She's known this since she discovered the world,
since she entered a home full of broken furniture
and reeking of alcoholic breath and stagnant, bitter tensions
that were released when father's fist met daughter's face,
and her bruise-soaked body became the symbol of her innocence.

That must be why she spends so much time
in the darkest Brooklyn alleys, selling her self-respect
to any man feeling particularly kind that night,
and letting any detrimental cycle resurface
for just one rush of vulnerability.

This contemporary queen dons a crown bejeweled with more grit
than the streets of three New York boroughs,
yet all she requires of the world that she holds in her hand
like a ruler deciding the fate of her people
is someone to transform adoration from myth to reality.
Will she ever find light from the alley?

Fly In My Drink

There
Is
A
Fly in my drink
And I'm starting to think
That my luck's on the brink
Ever since you told me
That one half of the bed
Seemed a bit more cozy

I soon realize
That I'm not drinking anything
And the poor old fly
Is drowning
In my
Pity party

My gloom made it nauseous
I've become so obnoxious
Since you sucked the life right out of me

I
Hope
You
Choke on the words you said
And the shallow waters that you tread
Are infested with piranhas
That's how it goes if you're not gonna
Live in the presence
Of someone
As holy as me...

I sucked your toes
I Folded your clothes
I made you stand on top of the world with the utmost grace
I told myself "Problems jump the ledge just by looking at his face"

I
Tell
The
Leeches hovering around me
That I badmouth you
Just to give Revenge a smile on her face
But here's the simple fact:
Your departure wasn't that bad

It's just that you hurt me
For Christ's sake, you hurt me
I can't believe you hurt me
Can someone stop this hurting?

There
Was
A
Fly in my drink
When I started to wonder
If this entire thing was starting to go under...