God in a red fannel.

Hes got time on his mind,
breathing those fruits and strawberry vines,
hes a farmer from way back;
that rain and shine.
and hes got wind in his shirt,
flag like, caked dirt,
hes that spirit that's in the earth;
what mighty mirth.

theres nothing quite like licking your lips and letting the wind slowly chap them into cracked and hard surfaces thatll break later on like long sentences without punctuation.
wind doesnt take breaks or stop to say hi or have anyone it cares for but the wind and thats fine with with the wind. it only stops when it wants
carrying on in uniform and disuniform fashion,

i want to be the wind,
blowing here and there without passion,
just percieved force and nothingness.

youll find,

as you get older your heart starts to hurt first,
a little bit later your legs and your joints will follow.
wisdom, youll find, is not the offspring of grey hairs,
rather of calloused hands whove done alot of loosing.
youll start off young, a flower bud.
just dont bud, flowers dry up and grow crunchy brown in the fall.
before they die in the freeze they are bitter, and aged, and lonly.

donT You evEr wake.

I got My tAiL cut off As i flED fRom mY beD.
its OK, ill just get you aLl TO cut your Own OFF as well,
its in My own interest First, but yOur bounD to bEnEfit fRom thIs Crass sElfishNess.

train of thought, first thing that comes to mind.

the Square route to a butterflies wing.

I am alone, and I am never going home.
all my thoughts will revolve and circulate quickly.
like merry go rounds. like children on the horses,
smiling real big, real wide because its their birthday parties and they are happy and they are in love with the girl three horses in front of them.
they smile.
and they shriek alot.
because we express all uncontrollable emotional thought with monosyllabic grunts and twitches.
'
look at him, shaking his knees like that, like an older man pissing for the first time in a long time and holding the handles of the handicapped bathroom with his left hand clenched tight as tho he were a a young man. hanging on for dear life, hunched over a urinal taking good care not to get any drips on his clothes.

all my thoughts will circulate just like that, eternally, helixically, continuing to invent new words atop each other to form a strand of artificial DNA too abstract to perceive. you could craft a glove to maybe mutilate it, move it about and mesh its shape to your desires, but that would take too much work. too much money and if its not abstract enough, too much love, i guess, who would know? not i, not i says that man in the corner, reaching for a cigarette, pulling me outside and away, wasting my dollars on lusts that will kill me. i am not a pleasant thing to be, i am not a pleasant thing to see, what kind of a creature would make me or love me? i am not a good thing to be.
live in the balances, experience omnipotence, we cant fathom or conceive it, there is no conception, beautiful conception of two things becoming eternity. but i have no half. no, i am not a half, i am a quarter or less, and i need that piece, i am i shard of a mirror and i need my mirror so that someone might look at this thin mess of love and blood and cigarettes and say, this is pleasing to see, i see not them but me. but that never happens because i am a shard of glass and when people look at me they see a shard of glass. waiting to cut someone, not reflect their beauty or love or hate or zeal for life, or cures or crimes. mess of a man am i, tying like a secretary at a meeting, taking down each note mentally, like this is important. it might be but who knows.
wolves die when they loose track of their pack .
so than shall i.

Your Winding Self.

Slither like tectonic plate above tectonic plate,
Earth shaking and quaking, It's mind so irate,
Looking for someone to waltz out and in with Him.

God's real name, it should be "infinite",
Everything rabbit trails twining together,
I've never seen a snow globe tell me its all that exists.

I'm going crazy, I know that I am,
I'm a cat claw that cat will one day pull in
To a body that shakes and it quakes as it's suffering.

You don't think with your head,
You think with your body and bones.

Your heart isn't lead, nor is your body dead anymore.

All the creatures you've named,
You know why they're named.

But you don't have no clue,
Your own name might just mean "shit and grime man".

I've bee living in atrophy, his grubby old man hands on me,
And I just want out.
My mind won't stay still, quiet itself in the way that it will,
It's so loud in my head, and on Easter I'm just wishing for death.

But you've been bringing me home.

To rest, a selfish head on your bed, and hold me like we're both in love.

Hate and Hopeful Songs

My lover has a loud cat.
Her claws break the skin of my neck,
They leave tiny lines and red stripes,
They have ripped through the very thick.

Our gates we call breakpoints,
Those doors, they're no walls.
They burst gushing bloody red floodgates,
Giving way to the slight of the claws.

Her shriek is a singly pointed, doubly deadly nail,
It shoots from its scabbard and into my ears.
She is a loud cat, a painful falling hail.
My lover see's, and she pity's my fears.

She will garb me in iron mail,
Or, she will trim those frightful nails,
Or, send her quiet to the night.