epiphanies

epiphanies.... share less with non-deserving people. be your own best friend. expect noting and be surprised if something happens. being sick has taught me much about my surroundings.

july 4th 2009

i want to try to stop sharing so much with everyone on facebook and myspace. the reason being is i feel much of what i say falls on deaf ears. people say, oh i saw what you wrote today, but then they dont comment on it, or even take 2 seconds to thumbs up it. so i feel like im being annoying. and i dont like that feeling. its stressful and i dont need it with my health being weird right now. and when i was sicker everyone (99 percent) of people I know acted like i was being a child about it, an annoying child. i try to ask people when they are sick if they need anything, maybe im not always the best friend, but i do try. i have learned that only a small amount of people really do care, or show it, anyway. and that troubles me. why spend time with people that dont care about me? i am always always always there for certain people. i try so hard to be there, and then when i need someone, people just kind of desert me. this hurts and confuses me. it makes me think alot about time and how to spend it. i know i spend alot of time on the computer but its cheaper than going out to eat everyday and running the roads. i do want to get back into working out. im going to start again tomorrow. get back in the saddle again!! its not easy for me to Not Care. just as many people in my life do. how do i do that? how do i build a new life out of an old one? how to forge ahead, be more selfish, and concentrate on school and my health? i have to find a way.....

grady interal thoughts..chapter....five?

grady went to his room, and thought alot about what he was doing in this program. sure, it saved lives, but he HAD no life at all. it seemed a little ridiculous to him; he decided it must have been better to be a completely mindless zombie, just roaming the countryside scouring for flesh. and he longed to join these people, but he felt he had a duty to do. but when was that duty done? when had grady himself done enough to say, "i'm finished, ive accomplished all that i need to". maybe he was ready for retirement. he knew that the project heads of DBW would 'put him down' before they let him see what it was like to roam free. he was too dangerous; a thinking zombie?
and he was lonely. it had been so long since he had been received into the arms of another. so long in fact that he couldnt imagine the sensation, even though he dreamt about it. in his dreams, the sensual, passionate part of his mind was replaced with something that felt more generic and plastic. still he longed.
grady laid back on the bed he rarely used for sleeping. sleeping to him was something to pass the time, not to get rest, because he didnt need it like humans did. he looked around his room at the stale green color of the walls and the desk he never used. he admired the shape the shadow on the ceiling had made from the lamp, the curve reminding him of a crescent moon.

chapter one

Dead Behind the Wheel
Shane Camfield
In 1999, the U.S. government implemented a plan to control speeding and reckless drivers. Top secret operation Dead Behind the Wheel (DBW) was undertaken by the Department of Motor Vehicles in connection with Area 51 and paid for by American taxpayers. DBW's goal was to place once- dead organ donors in cars, reanimating them in order to drive around at extremely low speeds. Dr. Thorn and Dr. White were the brains of Project DBW ; they followed protocol only from the Department of Motor Vehicles and Area 51. Using a drug called "Chemical Refresh", created by Dr. White, DBW team Thorn and White discovered they could to re-animate dead organ donors and turn them into a useful source of control over the masses of reckless drivers.

Chapter One: January 1998
Dr. Thorn, a voluptuous 30 yr old female who loved classic rock and working in morgues, was a knockout by anyone's standards. Her ebony hair and cappuccino skin was eye candy for Dr. White, a 50 year old ex- college professor of biology. Dr. White had been widowed the year before, and his wife had been the light of his days. Since her death, he had thrown himself into his working relationship with Thorn and trying to perfect his serum of regenerating the dead, Chemical Refresh.
A section of Area 51 had been reserved for two years, for storage of the deceased and containment of the test subjects, as well as a lab. The lab that Thorn and White


2
shared was divided in half; Thorn's side was disheveled with piles of files, paperwork, books, storage of chemicals, all in a whirlwind manner that could only be decoded by her.
Thorn's superiors allowed certain allowances; a stereo, a freezer (no beer allowed), and a TV. The music didn't bother White, even though it played nearly constantly. His side of the lab was medicinal in its composition. The organized, squeaky clean area that White inhabited most of the time was where the organ donors/test subjects were housed. At any given time, ten pods holding subjects would wait for the time when Chemical Refresh would be tested on them. Eleven times before, Thorn and White had reanimated the test subjects; with limited success. Most of the previous test subjects moaned, sat in misery, then subsequently died all over again.
White walked over from his sterilized area to Thorn's, and said, “ How is Subject Twelve coming along?” He noticed the way Thorns hair waved naturally as she spun around.
“Shitty. Subject Twelve is responding on some level to Chemical Refresh, sir, but will not fully animate.", Thorn said.
She looked up at him, as he was much taller than she was, and noticed his handsomeness lay in his distinct intelligence and his strength of character, even in this kind of newfound, experimental field. Behind them as they spoke face to face, Subject Twelve twitched in a way that Thorn and White were used to, like someone fitfully trying to go to sleep.


3 “What do you say we get some lunch, and get away from all these dead bodies for a little while,” Thorn said, with a characteristic sparkle in her eyes. White nodded, and they crossed the lab toward the door together.
Walking toward a mirror with Thorn, White surveyed his appearance. Something about Thorn aroused feelings he hadn't felt in awhile, but White doubted he was attractive enough to sway this beauty to notice him in a romantic way. White was 6 foot 7, quite well built with muscular arms and legs; and a tight, perfect chest that most 20 yr olds didn't have. His face bore a scar that went from his brow, past his left eye and ended at the left corner of his mouth, and he wore thick black glasses. The most striking thing about Dr. White was his eyes, which were as light blue as a clear day, and which worked magic on the ladies during his single life before he met his now deceased wife. Unbeknown est to Thorn, White had reanimated his deceased wife and renamed her Subject Twelve.
As Thorn and White departed the lab area, the naked Subject Twelve became more animated; her skin visibly wiggled and radiation bubbles on her greenish-gray skin formed quickly and pop. Twelve began to shake and move against the straps, which were none too tight. Twelve was a female subject, long stringy blond hair, matted with dirt and grime; flecks of her flesh were gone. The dark leather straps had been tested by subjects before, began to strain, stretch, then break. Twelve's eyes, glazed over white by the
chemical in her system, rolled over to see that she was free. All she had to do now was get up.
The hunger in Subject Twelve's stomach and mind gave her tired, near lifeless body the strength to move off of the stretcher and stand. Twelve growled and shoved her 4
matted hair away from her eyes. As she did, puddles of fluid, drops of radiation hissed and dropped around her bare, corroded feet. Taking in a whiff of the air in the lab, she could smell the fresh, live bodies that had just left the room. And more than anything, she wanted to consume them. With a childish, loud stomp, Twelve began to make her way to where she heard the humans talking as they moved down the hallway away from her. Twelve fumbled towards the door, shuffling her feet in a sloshing motion that made noises on the floor. Slosssh...slosssh. She shoved her hands in front of her and threw open the double doors to the lab, leaving a smear of dirt across the glass portion of it. Looking to both sides, Twelve only saw patches of dark and tiny lights beading down the hallway on both sides of her. Then she heard a woman laugh and took a sharp left turn towards its call.
Thorn and White were eating and watching "Maury Povich Show", it was the 5th consistent installment on the show of a woman looking for her 'baby's daddy'. After testing 20 men or so, Maury decides to bring the 'baby mama' back to test some more unlikely sperm donors for her child.
"Ha ha! Can you believe this stuff?", Thorn said, in between bites of her sushi.
"All this time, all these men, and she's no closer to finding the father to her child!", White said. He looked down, fumbled with his sandwich, and took a couple of bites. Then he heard a strange sound coming from down the hall.. slosssh....slossssh



5
"Woah. Did you hear that Thorn?" White said, dropping his sandwich and standing up.
"I hear nothing but the TV. What are you smokin'?", Thorn said, but she stood up as well. The sound was getting closer, it was midnight, and the one guard in their particular lab was on break.
Twelve stomped into the room, frothing at the mouth, breathing heavily as if her lungs were full of the chemical 12. Naked , her skin was a mixture of gray and green. She sprang towards White and grabbed him by the back of his head and flung him behind her, through the double doors. 12 then proceeded to follow him as he fell roughly into the wall, leaving a small dot of blood in a smear that followed his descent down. Thorn froze in shock and disbelief and wondered what had went wrong, and looked around desperately, for a weapon. Outside the room, 12 grabbed White by the head and gouged out his eyeballs with her thumbs as she let out a slow moan of satisfaction.
"You bastard, you used me like a guinea pig for your work and look at me.. I"m a monster!", Twelve said, her voice vile with hatred. White shrieked in unending pain, gushing blood, grasping for air, panicked. Twelve stood looking down at him. You were my husband.. a man promised to care for me, and you used me, turned me into a zombie...she thought.
Thorn came up behind Twelve with a knife and stabbed her quickly and forcefully thru the chest saying, "Get away from him!"


6
Twelve fell to the ground with the knife in the middle of her back, but still moaning; still functioning. Thorn grabbed White by the shoulders and began trying to drag him away from Twelve, realizing how hopeless it was, even from the first second she grabbed him. Twelve slowly got up and, still moaning with anger, staggered to her feet and began stomping towards White and Thorn... slossssh...slossssh.
Thorn made it to a room with a lock, a supply closet, and pulled White in beside her as she locked the door. Thorn grabbed her radio and nearby, Twelve was getting closer once again. "Rourke! We have a situation in Lab B! Bring reinforcements!", Thorn said, her hands trembling.
She had seen unsavory results from Chemical 12 before, but never had seen a subject reanimated and walking around. Twelve began to try the doorknob to the closet and continued her grim moan; pounding on the door and screaming. The clamber of booted feet was coming down the hall, shouting between soldiers... and then gunshots. Twelve turned just to see her attackers enter and begin firing on her without mercy, obliterating her body almost completely. Thorn looked down at White, his gouged eyes, his now lifeless body, and then unlocked the door. She kicked it open from where she and White lay, on the floor of the utility closet, and nodded to the soldiers, Rourke, West, and
Shelton, to take White away. Thorn stood up as the 3 men grabbed Whites corpse, sloppily dragging it down the hallway, away from her. She watched his finger, which was dipped on the ground, make a red trail of blood from his fingertips... all the way down the hall into the darkness.

7
Chapter 2: May, 1998
The first test subject to be allowed to be on the road was Grady McAllister. Grady was a Vietnam vet and former Area 51 employee; working there until he retired and subsequently died. Before Grady joined the Army, he was a taxi driver, which made him a prime choice for the new road control program. Grady also died intact, so his body could be reanimated successfully, his driving skills were impeccable (even as a member of the undead) and he had a history of servitude with the U.S. Government.
What was strange about Grady as compared to most of the other test subjects was that he had memories; he could speak quite clearly and was aware on a level that the other test subjects lacked. Thorn wasn't sure why Grady had reacted so well to the Chemical 12, but she had high hopes for him being the first to complete the program with success. A parking garage located in downtown Owenstown, Kentucky, had been renovated to house Grady, the cars they would be using, and the new recruits that hopefully would take as well to Chemical 12 as Grady had. Grady had been housed in his own private room next to Thorns at the parking garage. He knocked on the door as she was waking up.
"Miss Thorn? I've been practicing driving all week. Are ya gonna let me hit
the road today and show these crazy drivers how to go slow?" ,Grady said with a gravelly sound.
As she threw her red t shirt over her head, she yelled, "Yes Grady! Today is your first day.. and we are proud of you! Get ready to hit the road!"

10
Thorn's new assistant, Marx, was nowhere to be found as Thorn entered the hallway and began to move down the stairs to the parking garage. Grady was already behind the wheel, wearing a hat, his military uniform, and a special, flesh colored mask that gave him the impression (at least, in a momentary way) of appearing human. Thorn thought of this job mostly as a nice paycheck, but experienced a sort of pride that White's death had not been in vain; all this hard work was paying off and the program was running smoothly.
"Now.. if i could have 200 more Grady's, I would be happy she thought. Grady was a model zombie; reanimated, but not 'flesh hungry' (he preferred cheeseburgers) and subservient to her every whim. In a recommendation to her superiors, Thorn advised that she would like to use more military organ donors because they seemed more complacent, as well as satisfied with much less.
A computer had been placed in Grady's car to monitor his progress, and guide him on his routes throughout Owenstown. Thorn was mostly in charge if Marx wasn't monitoring Grady, and Marx was a compulsive loner. This worried Thorn somewhat, because aside from Ruby (Thorns personal, armed guard) Marx was all she
had. Marx spent a lot of time outside when he could, his mp3 player stuck to his ears, stroking his beard and smoking cigarettes. He was the son of a head project manager, and had gotten the job easily. From what Thorn observed, Marx had little experience doing anything except being a loner.


11
Grady was tall, lanky and friendly. He loved a life of servitude; or even an after life of servitude. Grady had a lot of pride, and everyday wore his old military uniform. He would wake up before sunrise, iron his uniform, and begin preparations for the his day. Originally, his days were spent either on the driving course Marx would take him to (basically an empty parking lot with orange cones placed on it) or otherwise conversing with Thorn or Marx.
Grady's' everyday/ natural appearance now was grotesque to most anyone. He had greenish- gray skin, a loose right eyeball and had a habit of losing parts of his body. Thorn had restitched Grady's left arm, his middle finger, and his left ear in the past.
Senility, even in its mildest form, wash something Grady had even after death as well. He would drop body parts off unexpectedly , not even hearing or feel them fall off, and later, Marx would come by and sweep them up for safe keeping.
Grady wore a specially designed face mask of latex to help him look at least a little more believably human.

(to be continued...)

beginning

In 1999, the U.S. government began to implement a plan to control speeding drivers. Top secret operation Dead Behind the Wheel (DBW) was undertaken by the Pentagon in connection with Area 51 and payed for by American taxpayers. The dead, mostly elderly test subjects, would be placed in cars, taught to drive (or a reasonable facsimile) and help control the speed of drivers within city limits in test cities.
Dr. Thorn and Dr. White were the head Area 51 Project DBW brains; they followed protocol only from the Pentagon and Area 51. Using alien technology, they discovered how to re-animate dead soldiers and turn them into a useful source of control over the masses of reckless drivers.
Dr. Thorn, a voluptuous 30 yr old female who loved classic rock and working in morgues, was a knockout by anyones' standards. Her ebony hair and cappuccino colored skin was quite the eye candy for Dr. White, a 50 year old ex- college professor of Biology. Dr. White had been widowed the year before, and his wife was the light of his days before that. Since that tragedy in White's life, he had thrown himself into his working relationship with Thorn and trying to perfect his serum of regenerating the dead, “Chemical 52.”
A section of Area 51 had been reserved for a couple of years now, just for the storage of the deceased and containment of the test subjects, as well as a lab. Mostly the lab that Thorn and White shared was divided in half; Thorn's side was ramshackled with files, paperwork, books, storage of chemicals, all in a whirlwind manner that could only be decoded by Thorn's strange way of storing her items. She was allowed certain allowances, music, a freezer (no beer allowed), and a TV. The music didn't seem to bother White, even though it played nearly constantly. White's side of the lab was medicinal in its composition. The organized, squeaky -clean area that White inhabited most of the time was where the organ donors/test subjects were housed. At any given time, ten pods holding subjects would wait for the time when Chemical 52 would be tested on them. Eleven times before, the dead had been attempted to be reanimated by Thorn and White. White didn't enjoy music, ever since his wife had passed away, it just reminded him of old times which bore much more happiness than his present existence.

2
White walked over from his sterilized area to Thorns', and said, “ How is Subject 12 coming along?” He noticed the way Thorns hair waved naturally as she spun around. “Shitty. Subject 12 is responding on some level to Chemical 52, sir, but will not fully animate, “ Thorn said. She looked up at him, as he was much taller than she was, and noticed his handsomeness lie in his distinct intelligence and his strength of character, even in this kind of newfound, experimental field. Behind them as they spoke face to face, Subject 12 twitched in a way that Thorn and White were used to; like watching someone fitfully try to go to sleep.
“What do you say about getting some lunch, and getting away from all these dead bodies for a little while,” Thorn said, with a characteristic sparkle in her eyes. White nodded, and the doctors began to cross the lab towards the door together.
Walking towards a mirror with Thorn, White surveyed his appearance. Something about Thorn aroused feelings he hadn't felt in awhile, but was he attractive enough to sway this beauty to notice him in a romantic way? White was around 6foot7, quite well built with muscular arms and legs; and a tight, perfect chest that most 20 yr olds didn't have. His face bore a scar that went from the top of his brow, down his face, past his left eye and ending at the left corner of his mouth; and he wore black glasses. The most striking thing about Dr. White was his eyes, which were as light blue as a clear day, and they used to work magic on the ladies during Whites' single life before he met his now deceased wife.
The first test subject to be allowed to be on the road was Grady McAllister. Grady was a Vietnam vet and former Area 51 employee; working there until he retired and subsequently died. Before Grady joined the Army, he was a taxi driver, which made him a prime choice for the new road control program. Grady also died intact, so his body could be reanimated successfully, his driving skills were impeccable (even as a member of the undead) and he had a history of servitude with the U.S. Government. What was strange about Grady as compared to most of the other test subjects was that he had memories; he could speak quite clearly and was aware on a level that the other test subjects lacked.

rough draft characters

black female-
older doctor-
teen boy-
prostitute
zombie female
zombie male
extra zombies
old lady

dream times

i had a dream i was singing to these creepy ass cats who were staring at me scaring me and i was out in a big green field at night.. full moon.
i had a dream i was in this house with a huge monster fighting me.. and water was in the dream.. like a pond in the middle of the house. this dream has happened twice.
i had a dream i was in this huge house with strange slides, mirrors and colors.. i was lost and angry people were talking mean to me.

wreckage

She has disappeared and no one will speak of it.
The wreckage
Her heels used to make as she escalated into the future.
Shattering another glass ceiling.
My sudden invisible was spoiled. Laws started bending,
Light into fog and back again.
The green has begun to mask its color and was subversive.
Its time to go back home she says she
supersedes velvet in what aura she gains by clapping hands.
she has disappeared and no one will speak of it.

what good is this?

What good is this face
without you to smack it
what good is this mouth
without you to kiss it
tell me a story that you wont tell anyone
show me something you're afraid of
tell me something have you ever been in love
with a demon like myself
what good is this heart
without it full of love
what good is this prize
if no one will taste it
so give me a sign, a terrible sign
show me something so i wont forget you
tell me something have you ever been in love
with an angel such as myself
what good is this body
without you to scratch it
what good is this mind
without you to break it
i can only testify to my religon
which is you and now im without sight
i can only pray to my new god
which is you and now im without sin

we enter this premise

we enter this premise
a masterful apprentice
a sludge of a time
here at the hideout
the tree the trees are calling you to move
in the most tainted way
and the knowledge of what i felt today
will never melt into dread

Helix of night,
ticker tape of hush
hush
flush open, froth red and tangled like so many synapses
hung thick with whitening smoke,
it strangled like so many synapses
sleepover for a lullaby, an umbilical sign,
my decoder ring.
As the calendar expired into a stain on nails
Another time passage

In the mint fresh of the morning, recording static electricity
atomic bomb residue yellow amorous
Aged sunlight, cabins, animals, cannibals
corner my soul into the open, target practice, archery, nuisance
Morning course, fresh, orange, squeezed
insects sleeping while birds are singing seedless
tank me thoughtless.
make me forget the map knowledge of skin my hands once knew
Unless they prove useful in the way they used to
flood you in pheromone

vixen princess

I do not want to talk to straight guys
i do not want to talk to strangers, anymore.

I don't need your labels to sustain.
But sparky, i love you.
Come back down from my cloud,
then you see my explanation of a logical fallacy
you're asleep in apathy, your stuck up a tree
somebody's on line three

and the day was just fine without the sex,
i was perfectly Satisfied.
But after you left, you left
i became a tiger inside
and, exploded on. Myself
i was perfectly Satisfied.

exploded on ... Myself. Imploded like your head, third eye, you are my dark god.

I don't want to talk to amazon robots
i just want to kiss your ass, anymore.
I don't need your label to sustain.
I don't want to be your vixen princess
i don't want to suck your soul any more.
I don't want this. But i really need it...

Either way i leave my poison in your hat
where you go, where you go- Remember that.

don't be soft

Some scars, she said, stay with us.
Our wounds can be visible with detail
Some time, wasted, and can never return.
Yet I hope I never hear your voice again.
Don’t be soft with me anymore.
Soft as speak can be wasted on velvet mafia
They can possess you, mirrored lights. records spinning.
you're a sympathetic actor. deliver your time- honored lines.
They will buy them hook line and sinker until they look at you years later
To realize a snake in the grass like you
Don’t be soft with me anymore.
My heart was ache, my dreams collapse and on crutches,
While you danced on drugs with strange men
My stomach was sick, with passion and neon
And it broke me in half
So I bind you tightly in the recesses of my mind
And pray of forgetting you’re there.

my Judas

when i was a child i gambled my view on you.
The light was nineteen eighties. Your flesh was handcrafted by artisans, and never did you notice.
Then the records would play sexual mornings to me.
And I was crafted by my crush, formed by ice cream and butcher knives, and wrestling moves.
We made a dance. We cast spells and forgot about you in time for supper.
My sister was my witch hound. My sister made the brews.
A nakedness once displayed by you wont fade- its in my movie, its my biological fuck pad.
Your absence of shame in your nest was capable of forging a volcano that still moans.
Here i am now legal and you are back into the fray.
Sometimes I see you in a motorcar, casting out telepathic signals to women. I catch them in time to not
know if you want to kill me or use my shell for discreet motives.
Many episodes have been viewed since your change. You've grown but still the intense statue of a man, angry and sad enough to hold you into me forever in protection.
Does your vehicle have a backseat to accommodate a romantic?

Mass Blisters

Mother, you give me a pair of silver scissors.
As soon as you leave, I need them- I use them.
When you are tuned into my station, you bring me things that I need.
Mother, you give me a pair of magic scissors.
Sister, your husband is an overbearing bastard and people talk to your breasts.
As soon as you leave, I pray that men are kind to you.
When you called into my station, to make a request, its a positive response.
Sister, tiredness and children surround you. Patience of a Latter Day Saint.
As soon as you leave, I pray the kids practice nice with you.
When you are tuned into my radio, you understand the music we shared.
There is a secret music only we have as soundtrack to our life together.
I couldnt protect her though I tried.
I understand the evil in my sex. I have witnessed its murderous wrath. I'm a boy made
of dirt and grease and sin.
I'm a born hero. Now I'm big enough to stand in the way of a fist or a bullet or
a blade.

Headphones

They dressed like spies, together.
My body shifted time space and reason to be apart from itself today
They look like a high-quality amalgamation of well-liked humans.
I already rehearsed for that part, and turned down the role.

StandingalonewalkingincirclesbobbingmyheadtomusicfromFinland

Headphones are my ear warmers
They are snake charmers
Give me a nonexistent badge
And protect me from interaction


They dressed casual on Fridays.
Someone wants me to love, to kick, to claw but he fades, to pixel.
I used to want to be married. I love their secret veil.
Self-imposed exile quilt, my selfish private fasting.
Her movements keep him wide-eyed like kids at zoos.

Headphones are ear warmers
They are snake charmers.
Give me a nonexistent badge.
And protect me from interaction

do they wanna keep you?

Nightmare..shit shit. Nightmare shit.
Your skin, so tight
KEEPS ME FROM FLOATING AWAY
your skin, so tan
KEEPS ME STARING I CANT TURN AWAY
now if i could do one fucking thing but
keep my eyes glued to your body
maybe i would have a Happy Life?
This circuit is wet, its coming unglued
I need to see,what you do, when your alone, is anyone home
do they wanna keep you like i do?

Ill give you blood, ill give you more
than those bitches could adore
ill take your pain, ill kiss your wounds
washing my hands over you

do they wanna keep you like i do?

Keep me Mentally Reaching.
Keeps me up all night
your love is soemthing i cannot taste, i just want to plead my case
cause no one no one can do it better. Best believe
keeps me floating
im leviating.
And this is a song to fuck you up a song to keep you dumb a song to make you feel
like you have no idea what is going on. And this is a song to kiss my ass, let me live, let me be,
come and see. My magic is the best around, my magic is the bomb.
Your skin so tight
your skin so tan
your arms so tired
let me lift you up. Ill give you blood.

death valley romance soundtack

When i hear his voice, im his wife, his husband, his slave. I live and die a thousand times under
his direction and his lead. Still, I put him on repeat, though I feel bad artistically. Those 4 single songs make me feel I should be listening to the whole album- at times when escapism is necessary, maybe i could discover the secrets of his album- a secret decoder ring, directions to the hideout. Then, I become afraid of the power surge of meeting someone so intelligent and hopelessly cool. He is a man that spills out innocence from his chin, and a man that probably is always washing his intense love all over some other human being. For that matter, he is a safe fantasy lover. The distance is complete, for I am existing outside of his realm of belief. My flesh, this shell is protected from him in the most pleasing way- I can and never shall be his token, his thing, his object. Fantasy has become my vacation. The simplicity and bliss of fantasy has made me more strained when reality rules. The more that I indulge in these things, the more delicious they become to my pallet. Reality begins to be a stale representation of what my mind can create. Its not utopia up here- I just always get my way. Dancing and singing as loudly and as badly as I please, my world is mine. That is what is so addictive about the womb (home)
because I control the world with a smile and a nod from my bed. My pillows are my crown. When I crave the pillows in my hands to cover me from the noise and distress of the outside world, its instantaneous. I blot out the dark with my will and caress the skin of my imagined lovers chest until my eyes close for hours at a time.

Curtains

You're the chemicals in my town. You're the chemicals in the apocolypse.
You're so close to my capsule, its a tragic belt, its a magic celibate belt.
Do you want to break through to empty creation? Its here. Shining and worthless.
And i want i want i want you to worry about me throughout the night
we all hang like a drugged Rapunzel out the window. Without hair.
You're unaware that I'm asking for a day, an hour, a week in your secret club.
The constellations your government buries, could be worth holding my breath for.
Scar me. This holding cell is a skin-bag. I don't want to live without it.
You can't help but smile with my ass in the swing of your smooth galaxy..
I can't help but smile.
You're the chemicals in my brain. You're the chemicals in the rain.
Its a time travel masterpiece my friend; its a never bending train.
Do you want to run through this death? Its there...
over the marshmallow field that smells like the seventies.
we all have ghosts like sheets with holes cut out of them.
We all have ghosts but no one will show them in public places.

You can be nowhere near my nuisance. At times, an embarrassment.
Its needless of me to communicate with words, with hands, with text.
Take this idiotic basis of language as defining anything as bullshit.
Take this artistic mind, these hands and break them for i am exhausted by your craft.
There is no language for this condition, though it prevails science.
You can leave me now for sake of drama.
Its curtains for me, there is no reason to try anymore.

Coda

Fold some fume around me to breathe
Fire this back into your dungeon
Topside, outside, too neon, distinct. regimented.
Fold some smoke around me to leave

Throw your body like a blanket
this biographical aura calms savagery
Origami my secret tree into pixels , power lines
fault lines, untapped transcripts.
I am electricity. Yet I travel the path of most resistance.

Combustion is true shyness
we are born unto dark red
highness, Drown me your highness
dissection is the skin of the night, dead
soldier head, construct.

Partial lighting through the cave
implode in some fashion
throw your body like a grenade
Car crash into a mountain
flash back coda lemonade
partial lighting through the cave

Cabin fever

We enter this premise
a masterful apprentice
velvet mafia recruitment
here at the hideout.
the trees, the trees are calling you to move
in a most mistaken frame
my knowledge of sane
i burst into flame
will never melt into dread, but
flush open, froth, and ferment like so many synapses.

chew the mint fresh of our morning,
record my static electricity
atomic bomb residue:
yellow amorous
Aged sunlight, honeymoon
Formation, fresh, orange, squeezed
insects sleeping
birds singing
seedless, thoughtless, and unarmed.
Against the dark skin of the night
A helix of hush hung thick with widening strokes.

Zoloftesque

You should ask what’s wrong with me. It is five a.m.; my limbs are quiet. Outside, hot rods, muscle cars, biceps, sounds like bass and mufflers flood my head. Too early for la policia. Too early for me. You should ask what is revolution; it’s the dark matter of bullshit or the light bulb of new ideas. It is America, still.
I felt the cold and wanted more. The cold was so familiar that it stung in its name and its action. My bed is cold; and I know that I am not a good enough person to fill a whole, empty bed by myself.
Winter time, adding more curtains to my windows, adding more covers to my body, adding more distance between me and the world. I had been down and withdrawn in this womb of an apartment for so long; I had changed. My thoughts and actions swayed toward fantasy. The idiocy of being even slightly mentally ill is that the supposedly sane judge your mind. Take the term psychotic for instance: psychosis can be a detachment from reality, but most just accept the 'Psycho' Hitchcock film to be some sort of bible on psychotics.
To feel is painful and at times, near impossible to bear. I feel so much that it hurts. My nerves are a radar to the hurt inside the worlds' body. What’s wrong with anyone? It depends on who is judging.
In public, I feel accosted by the outside world. Psychology has made me take into account most of my environment in a kaleidoscope. The sad old woman in the grocery store, I want to get inside her head. What was she thinking? Was she happy, in this store, with overpriced, mildly toxic food and her glimmering, one dead wheeled cart?
I’ve done my time; I have listened to advice from good friends and surgeons. I have tried to become non devilish in my actions. But, this guilt follows me around, and it never did before. Someone needs to cast it out, its too great a weight for me to bear.

war pillow

A distant ancestor
devised a hammer,
against a mob of spirits.
My lineage
expects the danger and the damage;
eyeballing fractured bones nearby.
Destruction is my skin,
animal brains and marrow.
Though not prone to violence
I waged battles,
piled bodies to the walls.
The lights have indeed gone out.
My instinct for death is my situation.
I could be seriously harmed
to postulate my nature
and give birth to raw life
expelled from the womb
my infant meets the world and reacts.
Who loves tranquility?
Soldiers gladly spill their blood,
disgusted by the government;
that ravages and robs rivers-
shoot editors and hangs predators..

unknown parasite

Unknown, my mind crushed beneath its own weight. Cloned streetlights, America, wet slick domains for cars to mow down. Unknown is where the road goes- bends, pulls, turns, recedes until it disappears like my body into dust and erodes my promising mouth. This place is no longer mine for I am a prisoner of my own bodily temple. My head swells with fever and will not cool like your affections. Today we spoke in the hallway, you put that parasite label back onto me. Unknown are the moans that echoed off my ceiling when I kissed you. Outside was the United States, an open forest to run through naked; but not here, I'll wear my red dress tonight as a cosmic fuck off.
You bask in what you think you believe, which only gives you bloody guilt to wear as it soaks through your white t-shirt in my nightmare. These useless tokens of time add up to something for every other person, but lately I would rather die than count the moments until, until, until. You are so infected with your own dick, counting the days till some silly vaginal rhetoric eats your aura. Though I'm wearing the mask for you, I cannot be her and do not want to.
I have my heart on my hands. It beats, thumps out an archaic symphony, and goes to bed before the witching hour always. For so long, this heart, ashamed, guilty, afraid, gullible, has paid its fines on this prisoners island. I have my love to spare the world. It completes me but offers not one tense moment like you did weeks ago. And now, we have lost the game. You bore down on me, took advantage of my weakened knees and my girl smile all for a fear you emit.
Unknown is this holding cell, people make phone calls about my conditions, run tests, sap blood, flick urine, but they don't understand. Inside, I've wretched my life from its own grasp in your honor and to your horror. These keys, in my pocket, they wont take me any further away from here because tomorrow is written with bones and ink; until the well runs dry I'll keep slashing and burning my skin.
Today you were rock star stunning, but hope was flowing down a river of bullshit. The vampire that I am is something you create because you are scared to taste the blood. These chances, for men with dance cards full of promise of breeding soon. Unknown is my womb to the cavernous desert that is my existence at this stage. Pretending this will pass like stone, keeps me here on this plane a little longer.
When I realized you were just like them, the world fractured like stained glass suicide until all the souls came marching into the light.
I see you swallowing the girls around you like a prince without a crown. Though I'm quite tempted to murder you, I'll murder myself slowly in your glory hole. Just because I am a vampire doesn't mean i lust for your flavor of blood. These days pass clockwise, cock wise; fracturing my limbs and testing my sex. Boy you are in your own tiny world of shit. My days, my own, unknown to you or anyone. When I die, I'll die alone and unknown. No one knows what my shoes feel like; high heeled, crimson, and torturous to parade with. I only get stigmata at the disco, like Patricia Arquette.

swordplay

I take the remnants apart, you handed me a resinated, resonated flower. This time, you touched my hand, a slight brush with disaster. Don't deny it, you do not deny it. We will talk about anything today, and everything. And with your eyes and mine we will fuck in the only way we can, with words. It reminds me of swordplay, this latent homosexual conversation that turns the daylight to twilight. We never go out and look at the honey dripping from the moon and maybe one day we will, together.
Alone again, I take the flowers to my mouth. I smell some of the crickets outside and turn to embrace a resin rose. What my nose is now is a connoisseur of complete mastery, though I'm sniffing and breathing in the ends of the beast to get to the best of what was offered. It was an alien offering, and no one could describe the experience. Though my heart is as empty as your hand, I keep holding on to something larger than us. You won't be mine to possess and I have died for that death, and forgave you for the murder of we.

sleep naked

So i sleep naked tonight
dispute the fact im alone
inside your dungeon
absence of light
it's so tense, my skin, it won't let go.

So I take off my clothes,
and I bury.. the day
inside your bedroom I'm martyred and stoned
its 4am and you're not home.

what is a kiss without a mouth
what is a heart without love
what is a man without meaning
what is a life?

you wont come calling
so im sleeping naked tonight
its no matter if you do show up
cause I I I I
been around enough to see
your kind is blind to girls like me

so I sleep naked tonight,
in the wash of the moonlight
time is wasted on me
so I feel myself to know im real, again
flesh is be wasted on me.

Robot, Scratch Your Balls.

Morning calls you to move in the same path as the other mornings you have known. Robot, fetch coffee and turn on machinery. Robot, scratch your balls. Morning brings hope that may not be attainable. Still, the Hollywood dreams that you were trained in become the blueprint for your life, but you are here, outside of Hollywood. Dreams- these tangible sweet slices of plastic gloss that spur us.
Saturday morning as children; over blown sunlight forcing its way on top of your cereal bowl. Morning was pajamas and ignorance, brilliance and the knowledge that you are a super heroine. Sunday morning sounds the church bells to warn, to praise, and to signal politely. Those within that church have good intentions, unlike those pigs outside the Brokeback premiere with signs of hatred and hell, the new terrorist is the Christian. The new terrorist is the homosexual and everyone alive is a homosexual. Robot tells me the bells mean the Christians are going to try do things Right This Time.
Everyone but me has an animal, a familiar classified as a pet. A watchdog. A security for your coveted sex organs when you lie awake at night wishing. I am my own pet.
Afternoon, too early the sun died. Two strangers, men, stand bowlegged on a rotting balcony to talk about the storm. The storm made the sky bleak and sent children and women shrieking. The flood came, washing, making streams and ponds out of the man made shithole of a street.

The two men interest me enough to eavesdrop. Both appear far enough away from each other to be honest. Honesty between them is concerning safe topics: the rain, women, and beer. My neighbors in this shaded building are bored with trampling up the stairs like humanoid buffaloes.
Regardless, the storm had shifted everything outside. The lackluster construction of the house was privy to many huge streams that gulped when it rained. The house breathed with the souls of the dead, and this energy was unappeasable.
The great fear moved across the land like a virus. It shunned the freedom it had known before. My love song for computers goes unnoticed, molesting the keys with the oils of my hands.

prettyboy

In the absence of the king
he is humbled
In the silence of his thing
he is crumbled

He is blue
darkness
down
to dive in
invoking an aftermath
his mouth has a motor that spins
out automatic spell craft

He is somber
a decapitated
object that is
mine
twisting in tongues
a worthless whim
has its time
my body is your surgical sponge

In the service of the queens
he is more
in the distance of the greens
he is sore

pornographic hologram

Love hounds led me to
the room with the magic
buttons all over to use

love whores make me see
the room with the lock
sets my inhibition free

when i turn on the machine
its a truly beautiful thing
by going to the program
that feels good im singing

love dogs leave me to
my own particular devices
pleasure all around
love babe take me to
my own silent hell
pleasure all around

when i turn on the man
its a truly realistic thing
by going to the program
makes my soul start singing

piano player

Everywhere I leave
I hear your hands
pounding ivory
school halls full of red wine trances
should be close with skin to skin dances
every time im crazy i hear your hands
pounding out an sos

more than once i wished those keys
were skin for you to play
that I'd be stark white, jet black,
for you to change my fate
when I hear you play the piano
it brings out the warm lover in me

you look like Yoko with your glasses on
like you just woke up
you're a nebula shine star man
you look just like Jesus with his sunglasses on
and like you just resurrected
you're a space shine star man

play me in the dark of the hallway again.
Make me weak and flexible with your hands
I've no dreams no children no ring to hold me back
from being a complete mess

Oscar (I'm So Sorry)

Such a fountain of wit you were,
a glowing, flooded, blessed curse.
i must apologize for those who speak the worst, sir.
Here in the classroom, the attire of the day is bland at best,
You would surprise their sense of style and cast them into sorrow
Here in the classroom, far removed from your tapered setting,
ignorance about you still abounds, and astounds my intellect.
They have labeled you horrible things,
and your disclaimer is longer than the list of your works.
It sounded quite like this:
“Oscar Wilde, a degenerate, sexual freak, slept with MEN! (classroom gasps) And was jailed for it, and his style was femme. (class laughs) Even though he was the most despicable person alive, we will now read some of his work to pass the time.”
I apologize for my 'higher education' through this ignorant torture hour.
I apologize for the dirty spandex drag boys,
gullible laughing jesters in their parent bought cars.
The freaks are the ones that make the flint, the flicker of joy.
I offer a lily to the literary star you are.
You're alright, somewhere, aren't you?
Dressed in your favorite attire, brushing your hair, to meet some boy,
dressing your words, but they are as natural and beautiful as your love.

My Blues

i suppose in a way
i was hoping to dive
make a circle in the river
with a body i deliver

i thought in a way
i was going to jump
off a bridge that was blue
into water, that is true

my body would dance
my body would shake
in gravity before i descend
my body would break
my body would bend
in swirling motion before i descend

i suppose its a thought
i was hoping to fall
make a puddle in the river
with blood of my own

i thought in a way
i was going to jump
off the bridge that was blue
into the water that is so very true

luscious satin router

This marriage bed is medicinal; hospitality reigns. Where are we? In the dust of germs floating in the rooster crow of the sun, the sun stabs through the blinds. I can feel you behind me in blind embrace, your skin so warm that it makes my dead body seem vital. My eyes are shut, though I'm aware of your naked impulsiveness. This bed is ours now, pure, raw, and able to accommodate two men in love. Your evening signal transcends my mind, teaches me how to play well with your parts. Movements you use to match my fitful awakening, silence is demanded by your animal side.
The sun is a serial killer out for blood.
Your skin is so dark, like a drop of tan in a pool of white. The nurses are walking past us now, and we afraid to say anything because it could lead to danger. Whispering, you have begun whispering in my ears to summon the practice of breeding. Surrendering all to you in the bacteria we emit, your dirt is my dirt now and we share the devil. Sleepy as I was, somehow unable to shift the gravity of the death of us, unable to keep you close to me; reality was calling you back into waking.
This bed is full of your scent, the rage and the sweat of a fulfilled sinful match never meant to be. Wrap your clothing like a shroud around me; let me breathe in your tense nature.
We are perfect. Puzzle pieces have now found their master, and I'll frame the puzzle
page 2: Luscious

when its done. We match. You come from another land, another time, to wake me up and show me my youth is real. We cannot truly be one; you wouldn't understand my shamelessness. My freedom is mine, and it's not for sale. We are ring -less, single, bounding throughout the galaxy of lies. Only when I hold you tight inside me, you cannot escape the grasp of my worship. You had rushed over me like a head wound, laying me down on the battlefield until I pass unto glory.
Your jewels reminds me of the nights before that we have laid in bliss, drinking the orgasm of our slow death together.
Shine like the jewels you possess, and let me see your sweat pound out Morse codes now. When i wake you wont remember this dream; that would be too tragic for you; a man from an island, not used to doing these things except in agonizing dreams.

love song for computers

Do you hold hands with broken technologY? And does it make your electrons scream? Those moments spent with family computers- sure did me in. Business computers, first class, package handlers feasting over keyboard drunkedness.
Now the days and months have been deleted from my hard drive and the days are merely bytes of information, clouding clouding dusting up my keyboard- the one i live over. You could do a system restore; go back to when you were a healthy little thing firing on circuitboards.
Do you make promises to old computers? As obsolete as they are? Those times I spent here- gave me reason to believe its true. We are best friends, it's a nightmare for a parasite like me. I hate the sounds of other people but im aware of the popping in your keys.Its the popping in your bones that signals hours days seconds weeks, but here is no time for human demands.
When we go back to the dark ages, can I finally just get laid?
This computer is a friend, an enemy, a frienemy. The waste of orgasmic massage in the air, stinking and everyone can smell it on my flesh like a scarlett letter- but i am not ashamed. I did a good job pleasing myself, because no one else truly can anymore.
This blue white glow holds me though. It shifts and escapes and controls my days and my nights and gives me a secret timeframe for revolution. The revolution is personalized. We picked out matching random access memories. But you cannot give a computer a successful hug, or a scarf to make it start smiling.
So, tell me computer, why am I ungrateful? Self-serving, and unwilling to rule or fight the best of men. Sloshing in my health, when will I be as grateful as you are. If I clean you, if i scan disk your hard drive, among other things, you will obey me- so why won't I obey myself. The connection is slowing down, grinding, your fans are dusted with skin and hairs. Super information highway road trips are all in my head. But you make me smarter, you hold onto my tiny zip drive heart, you complete the operations.

king of tongues

Oh you little devil, heart breaker, poet, prince, victim, piece of meat.
You are so much more than the gravity of your packaged pulse.
You tempt me with silence you tempt me with stares; I hope you never turn your gaze away. Oh, no, I catch you in my arms, you are so small inside like a child afraid of my fire. These things, sexual glances, heavy breathing, let them come, come to my world. . Your hand is close enough to grab, your body is my new God and symbol of worship. Run away with me, and forget this life. Leave them in dust with me.
You tell me where you live; it's a mystery, it's a cloud. I don't understand anything any longer except hands, fingers, sex organs, and flesh. I am blind, I am naked and I am unashamed. Tomorrow I'm going to meet you. Tomorrow im going to rip your clothes off. Tomorrow we will dance naked in the red wine of our shared kisses.
Unless of course you're not my kind.
Today you tell me you are curious and it riles my steam engine. I hug you close out of want, out of need, out to end your suffering. You can be my new drug; furry, ripe, sensitive and brighter than the sun-- you burn my skin. Swimming into your eyes, deeper and further into your soul. Sadness floods from your hands and your mouth, a melancholy fascination as well as a bond. Eat you alive, I will. Your skin is on fire, and ready to go.
You are not a one-night stand; this is not a result of my hormonal imbalance, this is pure nature. Written in the clouds, on the caves of our past. You get to close to me and I embrace you without thinking; my hands go where they will and my control is absent. I cant stop unless you punch me, slap me, kick me, or shake me. There is no control; this is a fantasy come true. I'm your slave, here to please, here to shake you from your safe nest, here to crawl into your bed and make you explode. You don't want to seem available too easily, this is all a shock for you, and tonight you will fantasize thinking about what you didn't allow yourself to do.
That is my purpose now-- to make sure that you know that I'm king of tongues. Queen of sin, princess of lust, prince of desire. The nymph of your dreams is here, flooded with rage, upset by your departure, swinging on the railings. Don't shoot me down unless you shoot me dead. I'm the serpent again, and what are you? A movement in cello, a dash of blood, a spell upon my heart that leaves me heaving from injustice?

head trauma

Trauma, we spoke in the hallway; you put that parasite label back onto me.
Head, my mind, crushed beneath its own weight. Streetlights, America, wet slick domains for cars to crash.
Unknown is where the road goes-- crunches, crutches, recedes until it disappears like my body into dust. This place is no longer mine; I am a prisoner of circumstance. My head swells with fever and will not recede, like your affections.
Unknown are the moans that echoed off my ceiling when I kissed you. Outside was the United States, an open forest to run through naked, but not here. You bask in what you think, which only gives you bloody guilt to wear as it soaks through your white t-shirt in my nightmare. These useless trinkets of time add up to something for every other person, but lately I would rather die than count the moments until, until, until.
Unknown, I have my heart on my palm; it beats, thumps out an archaic symphony, and goes to bed before the witching hour. For so long, this heart, ashamed, guilty, afraid, gullible, has done its time on this Alcatraz. In youth, my love spared the world from pain. Now, we have lost the game. You bore down on me, took advantage of my weakened knees and my girl smile all for a fear you emit.
Unknown is this holding cell; people make phone calls about my condition, run tests, sap blood, flick urine. Inside, I've wrenched my life from its own grasp in your honor and to your horror. My tomorrow is written with bones and ink; until the well runs dry I'll keep slashing and burning my skin.
Today you were porn star stunting, but hope was flowing down a river of smut. The vampire that I am is something you create because you are scared to taste blood. Your body is a planet; a world fractured like stained glass suicide until all the souls came marching into the light.

www.gay.coma

Loneliness breeds hope for solace in the strangest things; even technology can see warm and inviting. The computer formed a virtual reality for him, made him feel like a rock star; who's lyrics can change the world. Men before have went genius in the wilderness, crazy in the bloody streets of America with the fury of loneliness. For him, it seemed modern to interact with 'worldly' people, men who had high I.Qs, deep, poetic thoughts, and mannerisms befitting a true cyber gentleman. At night, he'd dress up, hit the stage which was the Internet, strap on a glistening black guitar and smash the speakers.
At time the chat room he frequented he dumbed the 'romb' for its nature for being a womb; a comforting place, and, merely a room as well. He met people he called 'chat friends'; men of a certain level of respect for his words, men who listened.
There were also those men who made him cry with their words, tortured him due to his convictions, and even though this was hurtful, he continued to go back down the stairs into the darkened room to meet with the men over and over again. It made him feel as though he had a purpose in life, that he was a character in the mad drama that is life. He felt correct in being tortured because at least he was not doing it on his own now; and that made him feel nauseated to even consider on any level.



page 2/ gay dot coma

After many years of this being a satiating, warm place, he began to see the coldness of these continued interactions. But he knew no one else that would accept him for being gay; this horrible disease society had made a monster out of him with. He had considered of course, the monster he had made himself, the one who hides in the dark, fascinated by the socially well-behaved and those who had lovers. They seemed like zoo animals to him, at peace, though trapped.
He wanted the blindness of love to strike him down in his tracks, but it seemed he was always just out of the lightning bolts path.
He had originally thought it possible to meet someone real that would restructure his existence with the onslaught of love and passion. After awhile, the men seemed to blur together into one lying beast of a man, and he found it increasingly difficult to jump over that wall each time he was faced with its power. Reality was not some over rated thing, but a plastic thing; he had a facsimile of reality that kept him going while he was suffering from loneliness.

Sex Demon, LTD.

Some real life human beings need some fluffing up. When we get to where we are flattened by the rules of existence, a little shaping up must happen. Make it pretty. A snip here, a tug there, into a new skin again and again. Stitch by stitch. When you are there healing it will come with the warmest voice; and hear what others don’t. My body holds many spirits, and they will speak through me, and I will praise that action. My body is an oracle, and if no one recognizes, I’ll still get off.
I fall in love with your stupid, predictable face, and I smell you so that I can remember your scent when I’m away. It’s too animal for the way that I was raised but it is my intention and my role. You’re going into my files, on my list, of endeavors of lust.
Pleasure, I’m a snake writhing in ecstasy towards your darkened back. Make your hair stand up. Make you feel my energy, it is red. Oh, rational logical overrated thinking. Leave me now as I prepare to be pure lust.
You’re my favorite visitor.
Sex demon won’t control the bombs. Sex demon, you’re a whore and you left me for other whores. When I was yours, I clawed paint for you and orgasm without acting. Maybe sex demon is watching me, if you were part of me then now you understand how empty your physicality felt to me. I had to banish you. You hop on someone else, the fall on you. Sex demon, you are a bastard, and I love you.
This is coming without calling. This is coming without touch.
I’m a lightning rod. I’m a snake with the belly that’s been all over this town. You visit me, sex demon, and make my pain melt like butter or drugs. Why do I want to please men? Sometimes it’s my career. I’m too much or not enough for anyone- just ask.
Some humans like me can’t resist the lust inside. One or another way, it finds you, in the dark chasm of your existence. When you are alone; when you are stoned; distanced from yourself, you will fuck yourself crazy. Some humans cannot resist. They need tongues.
She had the sex demon virus too, and it left her with the cries of her children. She gave it back to me, and its banging down my door. Maybe the children were crying as she met with the demon again, and that drove her mad. Her apron was definitely removed at some point in the conversation with evil, but she shared no more detail.
I change my skin again; still dirty and bruised. My skin remembers the death of my heart and soul, my skin remembers the dirty old men climbing into bed with me as I cried.
Rubbing my claws across your furry face; touching your skin, a fresh parasite to tempt you into indiscretion. Use my tongue like a paintbrush, painting out your fears, your hopes, and your need for worship. You’re so human now, so fragile and so willing to let me consume you and introduce you to the sex demon. Maybe someday he will come with you for a while as well.
You see how pretty it is, you can see through me, into the darkness of my wish. I am not fragile as you like. I move, bend, dart, and I survive. They have tried before, and maybe you will as well. To conquer me, convince me of some greeting-card dreams that satisfy your softened mind. Let me sharpen my fangs again, its time for killing in the bush. You see you are my prey; it makes you look towards the exit door. Though I am not as innocent as you like; I coil and it is hypnotic.
Ah, you love her, you love him, you love them, and they are beyond perfect. But, ah, you will learn to love my imperfection and my nerves approach the epicenter of your heat. I don’t need to touch you, to drill into your core; all I need is one gaze to set me aflame.
You see how pink it is. There are things others wont talk about politely, but I am always on the edge of time and don’t want to waste it. Actually, I’ll cradle time, attempt to bottle it, swallow it, bastardize its name as my own.
Since then the demon and I had grown quite a rapport. It’s a twisted tale, filled with skin, sweat, blood, and the lubricants of sex shop fame.
I’m compassionate to my host.
The void isn’t moving this time, here to stay I pray. For what purpose? To occupy this death around me and give it some warmth and to pass the days where I was a lone body, fending against the technology with my hips. You’re only a stud if you were a horse on Viagra. You’re only a stud while facing the glossy monitor of glossy girls.

Dream Car

2008:
Don't join the militia. I'm afraid for you, afraid you're the one; my beloved con artist. Wake up early, orange and senseless with me. Struggle and gasp; play in your underwear. You are ripe, so don't join the militia. You missed your freedom train; you missed your underground darling, and it's killing me to tell you to be safe. You make the mother in me protect you between my legs, a spider web you can't quite get out of your teeth. Ready for everything; you're a revolutionary morning. Its crippling our happy nest and makes the babies afraid.
The militia gives you protection, we used all the protection. It has been days in hiding, and the government has your information on tap. You're tracked, like a GPS -collared dog. This is the future, this is the now. You are sending out signals; your bar codes and magnetic strips make you obvious prey. Through all this you hold a Deniro taxi driver pose, we can never live like the seventies.
I'm setting your levels for the next stage; I've plotted your flight plan, packed a lunch. I wont watch the revolt; I'll be singing in the stables to a satanic horse, if not painting one. You are marking territory, pissing, punching targets. You make graffiti with my skin. Fire your pistol in the air or fire into me. You are now healing up; laying hands on the sick. I'll upgrade your continental breakfast to a feast for soldiers who cant be bothered.
I cannot breathe today, like any other day. The pills and bills and cigarettes are a tumor to me now. Don't ask about the weather; I'm interfacing with the Goddess as well as multitasking myself sick. I can feel the vibration of the angry militia, graceless buffalo trip up the stairs. Sometimes I long to hang a picture of Audrey Hepburn outside, to at least remind them of some delicacy and unobtrusiveness. But, I cannot; when I go outside, old men in bleached white shirts with beer bellies and handguns look at me. My goal is to see the men in cars, shirtless and tan, their muscles glistening in the burning atmosphere.
Today, I was a wretched capitalist; my head was engorged with fake fur and gaudy rings; a momentary pillow for my helplessness. You began to tell the story of your day, as you always do- a cigar falling from your mouth but never lit, a glass of whiskey and ice. The stories unfold but you are a distraction sent from Hell- you are so handsome that you distract yourself. Peeling off your clothes, makes me think of fruit and flesh. Your artist hands are mine; our bodies are interchangeable and classic. "The lack of common courtesy," you'd say, as you peeled your white tee away from your caramel flesh. Your eyes were like candied emeralds, facets of so many colors it was incomprehensible. They always darkened when you were saddened. When you smiled, the same green eyes opened up like heaven. Your hair was wild, defiant of your efforts, and dark as a black hole. Then you close them and we match our breathing patterns to the insect lives outside our window.
You're up before me and upset again. The powerlessness you feel to stop suffering turns to rage in the steam of the summer sun.
“The Internet was invented by the Pentagon to distract us all,” you yelled, and left me in the blue face of the morning. I turned away from your madness, back into my own.
When I was younger, I believed in the promise of science and modernism that were made to geekish boys with books in their corduroy laps, reading about flying cars, and colonization. My faith in such things has mostly passed.
I lie in bed , frustrated with the promise of technology. As any forthright citizen may choose to do, I buy the necessary tools for my habitat. I lie in bed, and somewhere a set of new parents meets the man to talk about their order for a child. They cross off a genetic checklist, and erase the chaos that is beautiful.
This town, this world, feels backwards; like being in a buggy with a confused horse- the passengers are all asleep. My cold relation is to machines, and I accept the consequences of electronic addiction- but i want my damned flying car. Where is my promised dream car of tomorrow?

CLOVE

When i saw the remains
of your cigarette,
strewn across my bedroom floor
there was a color in its composition
i won't forget
now no ones knocking on my door

Taking One Last Drag of You


When i light the cigarette
you left
it tastes just like your candied mouth
and a room
we both have since departed
becomes a memorial for the softhearted

Black Massacre.

she melts in her hands
I feel like a dirty black sedan
to see it melt inside the night
makes me see
all the stars on fire.

she kisses all the boys
I feel like that when im absolutely stoned
to see it melt inside the night
makes me see
all the bodies are on fire.

take me on, in the shadows of your secret cliche
and give me nighttime medicine to kill the pain
of disappointment, rejection, and definite lows
take me on, in the death of what we know
and give me a lullaby to kill the seeds

Drip- Drop

she melts like cane
when its tickled by her name
it taste like wax until the candle dries on my skin
she colors like me
when shes tempted by a new flame
it taste like corduroy this black massacre

and I wont be the same without you, I wont forget the ways to entice you
I wont be the death of you, but i wont forget the life in you

she eats in the car
with music from boys she wants to bed
and it strangles the day
to see her in so much sexual pain
its like a cosmic crash,
a nebula, a full on facial mask
its such a lovely task
when she is me and I am she, again.

air port

Airports are marsupials holding us
in pouches for traveling down a
destination within a destination.
Is this a host for parasites?
Or a birthing canal spitting out decent humans
for future flights?
Humans carry the luggage to the temple of
the mechanical birds, the
conveyor belt is a strongman
that shoves the people and luggage
to another portion of its own body.
Escapism is an easy sale,
everyone wants to ride the iron winged
mammals of the sky.
Humans get weighed by what they carry,
weighted by what they left behind.
Reality changes in airports. It has various new laws; you can get drunk, just not too drunk.
You're scanned with x ray radiation but, please sir, no radiation on the plane...
Airports have their own country song about lost love, a last kiss, broken moments, strands of convenient behavior.
Patsy Cline, Buddy Holly, victims of airplane pop star crashes, John Denver, Aliyah.
Mechanical birds fly so fast, blurring its passengers' skin with time and gravity. Lagging the skin, flustering the body, taking its toll.
Glamorous Jackie-O armies descend from the aircraft with shiny ebony sunglass smiles.

Is Yahoo Answers Biased?

is Yahoo Answers biased? As the site grows in popularity, it seems to be attracting just anyone at all to jump on the soapbox. I realize that is (partially) the point of Yahoo Answers, but it seems strange to me. Lets start by doing a search on questions about "liberals"- approx. 33,500 hits come up on questions about liberals. The front search page lists questions that include items such as 'liberal infestation', 'Nazi gay-loving, towel-head lusting', etc. Some of the front search page do NOT have demeaning terms against liberals, though. Sponsor results at the top include, "Mitt Romney-Conservatives". Okay, onto my front page, Yahoo Answers search for "conservatives"...first result "...gonna energize conservatives everywhere"..."what do you think about Ann Coulter?...LOVE HER"..."stupid liberal". "Conservatives" in the Yahoo Answers search merely has 21, 835 results. From what I am seeing, simply by face value, conservative sponsorship of Yahoo Answers is high. When I searched for 'liberals' conservative sponsors and Bill O'Reilly came up. How is this an even playing field? Or does that just not exist at all anymore?

mannequin factory

showing up at an awards show- for no reason, wasn't invited, wasn't called. greeted for strange reasons, sit with semi-famous people. turned into, whatever an insta-star is. give me a scarf and rich friends. some friends were rich for reasons, some rich for gender, some rich for makeup.
going to the house, unbelievable wealth and decadence. big pink inflatable elephants remote- controlled to attack the swimmers. blue on pink. drugs, offerings, promises. danny bonaduce making out with anna nicole in a hot tub. why am i watching this? the escape, the gossip later, the mannequin factory. my new friends rich mother tells me all about it. underground hotel. driving around, never behind the wheel. pancake makeup, insta-fame. its fading now. but it was contrast, shock, color, notoriety, classic Hollywood.