Blot Mistro.sitting in the waining evening the thick black inkeased onto my open skinblotting out the blood and bruises.Staring at it there staining my handi thought i might disolve into a line or twoof words. Something deep like an oceansomething rivaling emotion.the ink spread like a black hillrising on my skin.I wish i could dissolve into a word. In wordslove is realhate can killpeople can push and pull and pinchand we need never move.In a poem you and i can exist.while outside it is the rain wipes my footprints from outside your door.
Suicide of a pictureMy eyes twitch along with the expressions on the TVleaving me mindless a moment in the humid afternoon.Where are the Thick full colors of Van Gogherotically stroking the deep canvas?Where is the Discontent of BukowskiSmearing his naked skin with sesame oil in the sun?where are my commercials my commercials my commercials?I move a little less I make a little less sensebut if you call now I'll play you re-runs re-runs re-runs.
One More Song for the OpressedOne more time, the chestnut leaves with dead dry throatsfall with a silent crash as the spider spins millions dead.And no one hears the song of dust when the dot com calls;Writhing suicide girls and burning boys.One more time, he presses his thumbagainst the slick thick back of the luminous beatleand it's legs spread out like grasping fingers on the glass,and his hands pull his hair down in a frown because lifeis that fragile, but the beatle smiles because the meekshall inherit the earth.
\\Allie//
i found a locket under my bed today.
not that that matters or that it doesn't
and who says i really have a bed but today i found.
NOW
i am just crazy and a little bit of ness.
It's eating that's believing.
but to most people the truth tastes terrible you know.