Cure

Drawing the molecule

Over and over again

M-D-M-A.

Methylenedioxymethamphetamine.

Methamphetamine .

Amphetamine.

A hammer-to-anvil sense of the world 

that brought us misery

casting syllables from the bunker of failed civilizations  

Loaded into a pez dispenser, like a clip

Dropping red-eyed, hating bodies into a chemical euphoria

They don’t fire from guns, they don’t explode

we're safe, man.

realizing that justice is another ideal  

rooms of shadowy figures loom overhead

towering specters that cast the spell of words 

with their shrapnel-laden

B-P-S-D.

Schizophrenia.

Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Sociopath.

Sculpted expressions designed to lift themselves up

devastate those who trusted their benign surroundings

Forgetting that; though the ocean is a magical place, taken lightly, you can still drown

I think of those figures in the rolling waves

the far-off oceans  that mountain people imagine

collectively forgetting human worth

Suburbia

Your words fall like meteors from some ominous sky

Hurled airborne by the catapult

Of your immeasurable disgust  

Standing stark and unforgiving as gallows

More than ready to let battle be joined

As am I

more than ready to spread my wings against you

as the dragon of my ire

unleashes the infection into every-fucking-thing

Like all of those loves you put the chainsaw of your words to

Where in the moments of cheap vanity

You chased all of my dreams into a corner of some forgotten playground

& eviscerated them… one-after-another-after-another

In the drone of incessant lawnmowers

The wake of gasoline

As whalers become soldiers

 & their flags fly

At shopping centers

& the counter-culture remains anonymously paralyzed

Marking them like the ignoble scars of circumcision

Ink-stained hands

converting the powerless into copies of some sick perception

gripping them like waking drunks

laughing manically at the permanent wound on their psyche

as the dead become brandished with pride   

This is the hell-

Where they stripped me of my wings

casting me down into this disease of lies

with the imaginative façade that sterilizes everything

the empty space of projected illusions permeating

that irreversible viral load

an ominous reminder that hangs lifelessly

that my wings can grow back

 

Tear

Through the many dimensions

I saw your face in my dreams

I met the damage inflicted upon me

In kind,

Where hurt placated all my thoughts of violence

And I became gangrenous  with the damages of your action

 brought down in in a thick swamp of your cowardice

Enraptured in the tar of your sick world

In boxes, in a cage, entrapped

Where the tainted shroud and mask became everything I had left

as though going through the motions remains everything  

As time passes, I see you for what you are

Recalling through the many verses

The vacant words

The vacant look of your treachery

Packaged up in the same boxes that I placed my eviscerated eye

those same boxes reused as refuge

where you have hidden for so long.

the world is filled with sick, disfigured animals

because of creatures like you  

where you cast me into the infected

corruption bathing my heart for years

I am of pestilence

As I ride half blind into the dark

The single tear you shed will never be enough.

A sick compensation,

For an attempt to bring light to this dark place

A tear in the ӕther that nothing can repair  

Los Amsterdam

I am sick

Sick of them showing up in white blouses

White slacks,

And their pale Dutch skin

Making the world that we are a part of

Look like the fourth circle

It is what it is

It’ll be what it’ll be

I have seen the canals first-hand

In that land beneath the sea

At it’s core it is brilliant

beyond robotic and the same

the organic breathing life

that takes away our mundane

across the six dimensions

this schizophrenic town

burns as a cauldron on the hearts of everyone

and every dream 

we are the exploding volcano

we are the breathing ire

in this dragon city

that stands burning at the pyre

lily pads and mushrooms

brown bricks in the rain

the hookers walk in daylight

the macabre becomes plain

art becomes the royal business

of the queens domain

enthroned on the kingdom of fungi

textiles of our fleeting woven world

It is what it is

It’ll be what it’ll be

I have seen the canals first-hand

In that land beneath the sea

With the stale headlights that stare

The wyrm runs on forever

into the forgotten life that rots

the tangled dance of the commercially clever

the lives fall in ashes

skies that never rain

the frame burst into wildfires

and the world becomes the same

we are the exploding volcano

we are the breathing ire

in this dragon city

that stands burning at the pyre

I am sick, sick of their cheap words 

Posing as if they had ever struggled

 tormented souls falling as trash

 on golden roads where dreams have crawled 

to die.    

It’ll be what it’ll be

 As we are the breathing ire

In that land beneath the sea

that stands burning at the pyre

   

Phantom

They are the roaches

Or something akin to it

We convert them into; with our piety

I saw a phantom

A thin specter of the friend I grew up with

And felt the hurt, of his body

You fell as the walking dead

the drug put you between both worlds

It feels more and more like your there

I don’t know what Aichmophobia really means

never believe in hierarchy

because of our mutual footing, I call you brother

of nature

On the far side of the river

As the sun falls in the sky

I seek to know your process

And the shimmer of your eye

The dirge of our lives

Sung low when we die

The flowers of our being

string we’re seeking to untie

Plain as vile vectors

infect us with their words

the venom of this existence

taking flight as dark birds

As a rising, flowing, rift

That dissects us into thirds

We dreamt of greater things,

Than a lifetime made of words

Recurring so repeatedly

The cycle is so small

Repetition of the inadequate

With emphasis in the scrawl

They’ll devastate us surely

we must construct a wall

to hide away their ignorance

from the fragility of it all

corruption is so deft

seeking not souls, nor desires

our people’s world burns

in any type of fire 

the stones of the fortresses

powered by casual liars

placing some strange value

with a fear they mask as pyres

we must pick our heads up

be kind to them again

lashing it all together

with the might of our chain

that binds the flowing ӕther

seeking hopefully to obtain

 we are as the running river

 we are the falling rain

Cell

palms towering overhead as bars  

they vanish into the crimson sheet

the sun dies out beyond the ocean

city lights plastered over the stars

snow crunches beneath bare feet

deft little steps that lead us home

I peel the wallpaper from my heart

to repaint the walls in fresh hope

claws that sift through loose earth

searching for blessings buried in the past

losing these things is their synthesis

permitting the volta of which they came

I wish so many things were different

Blooming into colors that carried no connotation

A semblance of déjà vu that lingers

In the ketamine whispers of your mind

Eternity’s haunting embrace enshrouding

Compartmentalized into distraught ideals

The hyper-snap of shattering lights

A jagged wake of phosphorescent glass remains

Though Stripped of the necessary tools

I think of it in the rolling waves

Like the glass and steel cages

coming to mind when contemplating freedom