why try

Vocal vomit of an ignored television
ran ragged in the back ground,
developing new forms of deadening silence.


Shit stained underwear, meandering
sweat draped shirts on the floor,
the fabric ocean of deadening youth.


Torn paper lungs crumpled at the edges,
spit roasting a worn belt that cowers
within the thrall of deadening arrogance.


alone
careless
lonely
Talentless waste of British ignorance
desperate
dethroned
deprived
Removed from a single use
appauling
cankerous
let down


In this cavern I stew,
dirty sheets enveloping
thoughts provoked by who?
dead men of fortunes timing
belittled by the ignoring
ambitionless because
no one cares now

1800 miles Of skeletons On The interstate

Lies disperse themselves about me
uperturbed and doubtfully
encroaching upon my history
Strangers hack them down
for shoots of blue to bleed
up, down, left, right then drown

A sword to hone from ink
grasshoppers thoughts to think
in an endless reflection of a King
Yet the heart disease
causes swordsmen to sink
with no beer or winks to please

one night stand At THE ok corral

Eyes stapled into the thin black line
of an over hanging bulb's cloak, while
the stale sweat stuffs it's mouth with
the heat of last nights passion. Miles
away from the victim, yet fucked up
and offering the drunken cries of a cruiser
sinking.

Rugged and reckless in the fort of
an eternity's juggling act. Who'd
have known the keys knew this -
yet the amazon seduces the next
unfortunate victim, as he gropes
and fails to stand to attention;
shrinking.

Bukowski

Don't try

He died.

we're left with a flood
of flotsam that drools
ink into keys and they
like i are nothing on him
we copy we ignore we spit
i hate us but more i hate you
i'm not afraid to drink this last
bottle and write to release that
last ounce instead of jacking off
into a frayed, old sock; an odd sock.
but you cover up our lack of anything
by blinking aimlessly at the clock and
bowling for the big time, take time.

Sorry
Don't try
you died
and with you
we died

art fag

Appreciate a bag of jumbled letters
to an audience of idiots, like yourself.
Understand what means nothing to anyone,
as to blossom into a old, fresh spun web.
Discuss the work of a drunkard; of a wife beater;
of a cheater; of the town whore who lies to you.
Discuss the shit that has always been labled art;
discuss it and adorn yourself in popularity.
Is it good to be loved? Do you think of it alone?

Or are you as she who wants he to be hers by being his untimely demise by her caressing of oblivous ideas that his body craves yet hers is his, til it's theirs.


Appreciate anything that is not the norm,
that wasn't born with a silverspoon.
Understand the fact I know you lie to me
in order to get a hard cock of a rad guy in your stinking gash.
Discuss how you fake an orgasm as to heave
a thousand collectables into your attic.
Do you understand? Do you love my art?


I fucked you because you were there.
I wrote this becaue I don't care.
I got rid of you because you're not there.
You just pretend to be, but all you are is pussy.


Now comment on the genius of the honesty
that is created in my poetry.
On how the lack of metaphor instills honesty
that is created in my prick.

honesty And A million flowers

Open up my ribcage to display
a paint palette, adorned with the crimson
of navy and green of the through.
Eloped to the stained bone of you
as it blinks, eating sand and caressing hymen
in lazy fits of ripe dismay.
We appreciate the hiss of wind that
flutters through the wound in the throat,
a cloak of hazel; dry; net.
Don't whistle without a care,
we'll die and so will you.