your god.

your "god" resides in shopping malls at christmastime.
giving out candy canes and collecting money,
(a portion of) which goes to a charity, and telling
the children to be good for Santa.
afterwards passing by a freezing man burning a book to stay warm.
thank jesus it wasn't the bible
and give it no other thought.

your "god" sits within his church or temple,
whichever is "the one,"
next to the girls who sit through an afternoon mass,
waiting for the alter boys to kiss them and sneak them
"the blood of christ."
with men who dominate their wives while their many children watch,
and the oldest heats up pasta,
so that her mother may ice her eye with their sunday steak.

your "god" lives within capitalism
and christian barbeques
and secret abortions for trophy wives
in the back of a shed where people go to take
(hits of marajuana)
away another
little
problem.

bowing to your "god"?
no, thank you.
i will instead battle the
unknown.
and leave you with
your pretty white smiles,
all pearly white lies.

"swollen-foot"

the oracle told me, told me
that you were going to fuck your mother.
you mother lover, lover, lover, love.
the oh-rih-gin-al.
mother lover.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle confided in me
that you were going to walk like a pidgeon.
you fucking cripple, cripple, cripple, oh.
ankles, oh, oh.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle confessed to me
that it knew about your fucked little family.
dys-func-tion-ohl!-ohl!-ohl!-oh!
dysfunction-ah-ah-oh-luh.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle, the oracle, the oracle-oh-oh.
what a genius.
blind as a white man.
the oracle.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle told me, told me.
that you were going to love your mother.
you mother fucker, fucker, fucker, fuck.
you son,
you son of a gun.

your personal ICE.

i never could save you.

it wasn’t that i wasn’t

trying hard enough.

it was just that you

wanted to make things tough.

on yourself.

on every girl who you’d have.

you, with your darkness.

the labyrinth that is your mind.

it seemed to be so sweet at first.

and the farther i’d walked, i’d come to find

that the monster attacking us was

in yourself, immersed.

who can fix all the broken?

who can help the helpless?

who can speak the unspeakable?

who can save the hopeless?

not me.

you, with your blue eyes.

cornflower blue like

homemade quilts that keep me warm.

like you used to.

who can fix all the broken?

who can help the helpless?

who can speak the unspeakable?

who can save the hopeless?

not me.

you, delving farther

into your well of lovers.

continually procuring younger and younger

bubblegum sluts.

pardon me,

nymphets.

who can fix all the broken?

who can help the helpless?

who can speak the unspeakable?

who can save the hopeless?

not me.

i’m happy now.

he doesn’t need saving.

and if he did?

he would let me save him.

you’re still not fine.

you say it hurts that we stopped being close.

which is heavy coming from

the man who stopped calling me “mine.”

you’ll try to come back with your white flag waving.

but i was never strong enough,

and you’re still in need of saving.

one month.

i don’t really think about you much.

not anymore.

we’ve both moved on.

i have him.

and you, well,

you moved onto her before

you were done with me.

and still,

tonight, of all nights,

i thought of you.

it’s been a month if you add two

only two days.

a month since you held me

and we watched the sunrise,

said our first and last goodbyes

a month since my last taste

of bitter sweet alcohol bottle mouths.

and i will admit, it hurts a little.

you told me you were sorry.

that you just didn’t know how

or what to tell me.

i’ll tell you.

an apology is honest.

you are not.

tell me to my face

that i’ve been replaced.

and that, dear, is all it takes.

i listened, just for fun

(the kind that makes your stomach

tighten up hard and beg for the sun.)

to the songs we shared

before falling asleep,

holding hands.

i thought you were mine to keep.

now, i’m nursing a rough

and raw face.

from another man.

from kissing him, and

lying under the stars with him.

but a month ago,

plus three short, short days

i was nursing a rough

and raw body.

from you.

it still makes my toes curl.

to think of what we did.

feet away from the bed

where i’m sure some

of your beasts have been bedded.

it really wasn’t all that magical.

neither of us could sleep.

we went at each other for hours

and your stomach hurt so i

rubbed your back, and kissed you.

when i got home, i realized my clothes

smelled like urine,

and whatever alcohol i spilled

all over my lap after the first time

i had ever kissed you, that night.

you went home.

missed church,

but had a purple neck.

ugly, a whore’s signature.

but you promised, you assured

me that it was fine.

you looked like you’d been attacked.

you had.

but then again, i suppose that i

too had been.

it has been a month,

in two days.

and i miss you a little.

not enough to want you back.

because we both have

what we were looking for.

for me, i have honesty.

i have a nice smile,

and gangly limbs that

have the tendency to

pull me towards them.

and you?

i’m not quite sure what you have.

or what you wanted.

only that it wasn’t me,

and for that,

i think i’m a little glad.

i am soon to light up

the last cigarette that

will remain the finality of an addiction

until, of course,

i get my groping hands on another.

all we did was fight and kiss.

the latter is all that i’ll miss.

goodbye, friend.

i’m so glad we saw the end.

you're the very character of the book you borrowed. (dorian gray)

you’ve dug your own grave,
dorian gray.
you’ve found release,
so bittersweet,
lying on the ground.

flowers and lovers and chocolates
all fade away.
the hate that you bore yourself’s
fermented and is here to stay.

so pour, pour, pour
a little liquid for me.
doors, doors, doors
are closing rapidly.

you’ve dug your own grave,
dorian gray.
you’ve found release,
so bittersweet,
lying on the ground.
you’ve cut your own way,
d-dorian gray.
on this path of life,
now you’ve ended your strife,
and i’ve nothing to say.

the piano interlude has just begun.
for once your mouth is shut…
you’re choking on your own blunt tongue.

looks were exchanged between us today.
you rejected my smile and turned away.
could it be that you were full of hate?
or are you just afraid?

you’ve dug your own grave,
dorian gray.
you’ve found release,
so bittersweet,
lying on the ground.

we’re cutting up your picture
and burning the b-b-books in your house.
we’re the people in charge of feelings of shame.
with kerosene we dousedousedouse…
your paint peels off in flames.

you’ve dug your own grave,
dorian gray.
you’ve found release,
so bittersweet,
lying on the ground.
you’ve cut your own way,
d-dorian gray.
on this path of life,
now you’ve ended your strife,
and i’ve nothing to say.

i’ll sharpen my knife
to come after your life,
d-dorian gray.

fight three.

is that it, then?

people talk.

they always will.

but they aren’t helping.

poison spreading.

i haven’t gotten my fill.

my fill of you.

of being touched.

i’m telling you,

i haven’t had enough.

you’re not the first.

and not even the last.

man I’ll walk the wire for.

trust is a thing of the past.

you’ll destroy me?

don’t make me laugh.

i’m the one who’s poison.

i’m more than the fury hell hath.

you cannot deny

that between your body and arms

i fit like a glove

my heart can live with harm.

just let us be together.

for one bright, shining minute.

or maybe even two.

and all the hurt will be

is worth the resonant finish.

fight two.

your words aren't eloquent.
they clash with mine quite awfully
like teeth gnawing at other teeth.
lips that don't fit like puzzle pieces...
..like ours do.

i can't bear the thought
of you leaving me.
because there's a place in my locket
where your face should be.

you've blurred my vision with tears
and i've thrown my body on a pyre.
with over-the-counter catapults,
that make me dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.
your presence sets my senses on fire.

i can't bear the thought
of you leaving me.
because there's a place in my locket
where your face should be.
i can't bear the thought
of you leaving me.
because there's a place by my side
where your body should be.

all of this talk of "better off without"
and your cries that i will be
"destroyed without a doubt"
remain futile attempts to keep me away
because of your fear that you'll wake up someday
and everything will be gone.
rotted.
father and father and father away.
your uncertainty is a league long.

i can't bear the thought
of you leaving me.
because there's a place in my locket
where your face should be.

teeth. gnaw. teeth.
lips. rot. farther.
puzzled. puzzle. piece.
dizzy. body. doubt.

leaving. gone. without. you're leaving me without

even a letter?
“Dear Whoever:
i promise you we'll be together.
not today, i don't know when,
and i'm sorry, but the ink of my pen
is drying.
so quit your crying.
i could be lying,
but you know
that i can't bear the thought
of you leaving me.
because there's a place by my side
where your body should be.”

signed in your hand,
but i think i'll be damned
before i let this end.
this is my own letter
which i will never send.