Defense Rations

I'm addicted
                                                  to doing nothing
or flushing my life away into the plastic ocean                   to swim with cigarette ends
                                                                                                                                         and endless bottle caps
and a corked archipelago
stained the colour of ethanol blood
                                                                                  all the while telling myself                     that it'll work out
living your dreams in your imagination               
                                                                                                                                is ok
when it's as vivid as mine
                                                                                                                                                             or yours.

                                                                                   I once read
that Einstein worked 4 hours                                                                                            a day
                                                      and he was a frizzy geinus
        so why shouldn't that be true
of me                                                                                                                                                     or you
           i ask myself
                                                                                    though i know i know sure, i know
it's all conciliatory lies
                                           comforting shameful delusionary conciliatory lies
                                                                                                                                and yet it still remains
the rational defense of a lazy beanpole
                                                                 trapped for a quarter century
                                                                                                 in what if's and drowning imaginary possibilities
and christ       
                               what if you actually make it?

Ode to YOU

There are millions of writers

who are better than me

wittier and more expressive than me

almost all of them

in fact

and many more

who should be poets

and don’t know it yet.


But

none of that matters

I love this shit

and one day

if just enough people

can feel me

and I’ve lived just slightly enough

to fill that bar of happiness

every single body seeks

I’ll die the gladdest of men

and hopefully too

will all of you.


Always love,

Your dearest degenerate

Leeches

Stuck in the amber abyss I try to create a picture of something that might catch your attention. A thread of life perhaps, or an action so intense that it wakes up the hairs on the crest of your neck. And yet the curse of individualism will tell most that all that lies in these letters is hopeless impossible ramble. What if I told you that an ever restless soul resides here, screaming under a patchwork of black and blinding white monotony. Aching and writhing, begging you to sit up and notice its twisted dreams and its paranoid self-reflection and its shuddering egotistical genius. Ripping at the seams of this being it dwells in, it longs to bellow sweet nothings until your ear drums burst and it can burrow inside so its crushing voice becomes that which you hear when you tell yourself that everything is not ok even though it could be if we learned to smell which of the leeches is kind for fruitful benevolence and which is merely a disease utilising lifetimes’ worth of beautiful star-born vibration to gain access to resources which are nothing more than collectively enforced bridges to undeserved narciscisstic decadence. Alas, how can we when Truth is lying in a twisted broken pile in the lobby of human conciousness, bearing gushing stab wounds from the selfish and giant great boot marks from corporation issue cover up kicks. Collective Goodwill and Endless Prayer are no match for the Pyschopathic Fucking Syncophant.

.

.

.

Oh, the caves I hide in, cowering beneath the expectation of an unwarranted shakespearean pipe dream.