Friday, April 29, 2011


"We thrive on corpses"
Spring declared as she consumed the dead landscape, claiming
the decay as nourishment, I too, felt her pulling me under
gripping my chest, filling my lungs, luring me to the earth
with lavender scents that sensuously mixed with rosemary and sage,
with freshly cut grass, and freshly cut skin.
And now she has me, locked in with roots and nostalgia,
with the bones of my grandfather and my own weakness.
Let me have my hibernation after all, your dead
keratin has nothing on the weeping willow's long locks,
and our bed has nothing on the warmth
of the winters sweet decay.

Still working on this one, it will be alot of work too.

sometimes I wish to become nothing, to just kind of painlessly dissolve with no memory of me left behind, if you have read my other poems you would realize that I face these desolate feelings every once in a while. I am not entirely sure where it comes from, take a look at my "some thoughts on suicide" post if you want to know more about my past with this. It is not a "pretty" side of me, but if you are reading this then you know that I do not try to be a "pretty" person, I try to be an honest person, even if the truth is ugly.

Monday, April 4, 2011

For all of you Tuning in this Fine Evening

Maybe if we just run in one direction long enough
we will end up liking it.

Maybe that seemingly important question:
"What do you want from life?"
is an exercise in futility, because
whether we want it or not
Life is already here.
See? There, you are doing it right now.

It is made up of these insignificant moments,
a summation if you will, modeled by your path,
the one you accidentally took this morning
because of the traffic, your dog, and the caffeine content
of your bloodstream. And we keep on running from our shoes
but we are our biggest influence.

Maybe this road, this beauty, this pain
is its own reward. Or maybe not...

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Blood Rust

Black bones and blood,
the creaking dinosaurs bobbing their triangular heads
pulling, sucking, with terrible purpose
their own essence from the earth.

Herds of them for miles and miles
stretching to the skyline, a desert necropolis,
mired in place in a graveyard of dust, the killing
rust stopping joints, grinding until
there is nothing left.

Today you bought the blood, I did too.
It runs through our asphalt veins and arteries,
fueling our vampire soul, if only we could be weaned.

The poetry I write is influenced heavily by the music I am listening to at the time. Which is why I often post what I have been listening to. Here it is