black pants
black socks
black shirts

sometimes it’s so easy to hide
under this muted cover
of sheltered darkness
and sometimes when i hear you spew
your complacent propaganda
i want to liberate
or kill you all

so i drink
and smoke
and fuck
a lot
but god still loves me
or at least
that’s what i’m told

defiant in this radio consciousness
i gather solid stars
and store them in my back pocket,
spare change for better days
slightly depressed
yet charged buy the sun
i wear this whiskey face
and laugh at all these common absurdities
but sometimes while on my
mystic and solitary head trips
i just can’t endure the thought
of these easy conversations
soft answers
and even softer questions
that sort of emptiness
fuels my frustration
as my anarchist tendencies
scream for rebellion
and swim violently
to break the surface
of all your anonymous personalities

partially struck dumb
remembering our possible pasts’
and whispering innocuous songs
i’m an accomplished slave
but i never forget
these chaotic enchantments
that drive me towards divine living
and it kills me slowly
to know that nothing is real
except for that close contact
of opposite and contradicting polarities
skin on skin, meditative massages
and spiritual connections
so many souls, so little time
and there’s just too much nonsense
for such a small space
often i retire
to the solace of drink,
righteous music,
and solitary poetry

drifting into the comforting silence
of another entangled night
like dried roses
caressing the razor’s edge
i often wonder
are we just waiting
for the bomb to drop?
nah, fuck this self abuse
i’m gonna keep riding
that silver pendulum
and practice playful chants
of beautiful chaos

and i love howling
at paper moons
it’s such an obscure
and simple existence
complicated and frustrated
i write white answers
to black questions
trying forget
the ghosts of past holidays
ruled by homeless passion
and poorly trained thrills
but i’m running out of places
to store this heavy disbelief

ahh but these cigarettes,
mid grade whiskey,
and the melodic tones of
nine inch nails
carry me from fright
to heightened levels
of damaged content

i could sit here
for eternity
but what’s the point
i have to remember
my angry backyard rants
lighting distant fires
of black and gold emotion
flush in filthy contrast
as i pray to
bare and forgetful gods
for green poems of rebirth
and a minuscule measure
of open tranquility