someperson716

You're no Kerouac she said - no open road of verse, your life's work painted in a gaudy yellow line, slapping the asphalt like a greedy river. You don't own a Nikon or black loafers, or hop a boxcar to sleep under stars so eloquent they make God himself inhale too much clean. You have no cool lurking in the corners, giving skin and ink to strange women; no green rush of neon or cheap whiskey pissing in the wind, crawling home to rape the sunrise. You just have a mouth angels could fall into, your tongue and lips a lean and tangled beast, words breaking up in a torrent like a cacophony of electric blue...

Lovers are like landscapes - fields of wheat, a crowning glory cascading down a bare back as if to beckon me closer to touch; rolling sand like tapered limbs that bend gently and hug the dark wet underneath; the hushed breath of jungle  - a canopy ripe and bursting overhead; and the beautiful surround of rugged peaks thrusting through the soil, knowing which direction to move in.

My garden of delights, infested with such pretty, twisted things, mandrake root and toadstools and glistering ravens' wings. I planted belladona, such a melancholy crop, and grew poison ivy in blistered vines - a haven in the bogs. Skullcap grew amongst the weeds, its slithering, slivered, ragged leaves a home to noxious worms and mealy nettle-bugs. I gathered withered poppies, a delicious apertif, and brewed brackish tea from bagworm seeds and garnished it with slugs. Brambles thrived between the stones - the hedges overblown with ash and bone to welcome all my guests, who hunched and huddled in the damp covered up with d

this is neither the time nor the place to tell you i souled your nightmares to the devil's mother for three dollars & six sense—the same price as your misshapen cardiomuscles.  or that one time i went skydiving with your ego, crashing dead autopilots in the middle of the ocean. my pulmonary vessels sunk as phantom limbs stretched towards the maudlin dreamcatcher hanging over your gallows bedpost           the knots in my noosestomach           tied tight strangled my ideas &       

Drinking your Finnish slime taste as salty as teardrops, which flowed but moments after I turned left & left- turned to passionless stone- my mouth to a used vacuum (its puppeteer-now satisfied, forges the future) turned me on yet neglected to unplug me from the wall where I re- turned two lines later. Drinking your Volcanic ash, (Mt Vesuvius tastes better) your magma, it still lingers.

i am the vice president of virtue, clenching the dear populace with acid reigns floods fall from the enrapturing heavens, i am (the) sin king. strangle the rain,bow down to me. drown for me. all hail the me! all sleet the me! all snow the me! sacrif ice weather you want to or not i am your god; blasphemously i am

god sways his gavel boycotts the Devil blindfolds the Rebel cuffed to a bible his whiplash neck swung around each shoulder hung head chained to the clouds yet no angel among the clavicle twins shrug; constrict (lungs) the serpentine demons unbutton their tongues:   a banquet   for Bastet   rapacious   voracious   a sacrifice   of scythes   slice twice look what the black cat dragged in: the Rebel— hellbound & gagged in Pandora's Dungeon   {entombed in doom   glued sin to gloom   nude skin, dim room   filmnoir saloon}   the mummification      of a mistrial enter the atr ium: torture chamber of

Going off medication is like riding a bike. The doctor holds tight to my handlebars and lowers my dosage. The training wheels are off, and oh hey, look at me go! It's like flying but not, and I'm doing so well but then there's a horrible accident and I'm somehow upside down at the bottom of the sea with both wheels still spinning. "Help," I say, and my doctor pats my head, puts a band-aid on my knee, and writes a note on my chart. I've balanced by myself for months at a time, but I always end up hitting a fucking tree or falling off a cliff or something equally catastrophic because I am a catastrophic person. Except that is an exaggeration