free market

 

 

it’s not the statues
we can build some others
it’s not even the piles of rubble
not the blood spilled
it’s not the cries
or the traps
or the gutters

that’s not what’s sad

what’s sad is the emptiness
the neglect
the fading of hope
the muffling of roars
the dimming of dreams
the loss of a cause

it’s really not the death toll
those are statistics
it’s the death of soul
the vanishing of passion
it is the victory
of logistics

what have we become
we are so used to violence
that we choose silence
because we are numb

we live in a world
where even if we
tried to unify our voices
all of us
the damned
the robbed and
the bitter
millions of us
uniting as a force
we still wouldn’t beat
the one percent that
owns our destiny

it’s the ugly truth
billions of us
helpless and
under the mercy of
who owns the most stacks
of papers of nothing
that we made into
everything

it is the heart of the problem
and the root of all evil
we have just become too distracted
by our misery
to see that we gave all power
to moloch
in the name of
liberty

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nonsense

 

it’s a crescendo
the urge to write
to spill the poison
from my soul

i felt it build
all week to eventually
puncture my bubble
of apathy

humor me

being present
is toxic
and it has made me
sick

i’m floating above the city
again
i look at everything
like an outsider

i don’t have roots
in this world
why do i not
belong
here

i couldn’t see today
my vision has been clouded
by rain
recently

my demons have families
now
and they inherit
my torment

maybe i’m crazy
it does cross my mind
maybe i need help
but maybe

i’m the only sane
person
in this god damned
shit show

god why do i even try
when
my lonely is better
than all company

i just want silence
for a while
i want to sleep
well

maybe i need an escape
from all the pretense
and the giving
and the living

or maybe
i’m just as dull
as all the real evil
and all the imaginary good

unruly

 

i still remember when you
dug your claws in my chest
and filled my lungs with warmth

i was drowning in shadows
i was a drop of ink
when you gnawed on my flesh
violently
until i bled the darkness out
and was filled with light

i still think about you
because you ignited my spark
and now it won’t go out
making my fires collide

do you see the red thread
running from my pinky
to yours
it’s tangled
it’s a mess
it’s an inescapable force

i still have scars
where you cut
i don’t know if they’re
a fond memory
or a brand

we missed our chance
didn’t we?
then why do i feel
god
shake the ground
so we fall into each other’s arms

are we a duprass?
tell me are we
a karass or
a granfalloon

it’s the gibberish again
god and faith and love and
the universe
things we believe in
to make sense
of this dumpster

i’m afraid i’m falling
into the darkness again
and this time i’ll have to
ignite myself
on my own

Of Wars and Ropes

 

Why is this so radical?
This tug of war.
Drop the rope, macushla,
and tie it around my wrists.
I’ll sit still if you let go,
cross my heart.
But you don’t let go and
I pull harder.
Damnation.
Let’s roll dice instead.
Leave it up to luck.
Really.
I’m tired of giving you suggestions,
you need to admit that you love the war.
Maybe then I’ll do too.
You never listen.
I just think there are better uses for ropes,
ma puce.
You better listen this time.

And then he said it’s looks like that, that started wars.
He called me Helen.
“No,” he said, “your eyes would have erased the Greeks.”
Then he started listing:
religion,
mutiny,
sin,
hell,
death.
He was a smooth talker,
who happened to like shiny things.

You started this war, you better finish it.
Foolish man, did you think you’d walk out unscathed?
It’s funny how you don’t want the war to end,
you fell in love with the pain.
You’re bleeding and we can all see.
Surrender.
The white flag is looking at you expectantly.

gesso

 

my sunflower
i am vincent
you were bright
my happy pill

my lily
i am claude
you were calm
my silent storm

my ballerina
i am edgar
you were music
my favorite rhythm

i paint you
over and over and over
but no canvas
can ever
capture you

bittersweet

 

you are bittersweet
like the apple piece stuck
in snow white’s throat
like an unopened
goodbye note

everything looks gray
and feels bland
everything is watered down
like the memory of remembering
that old street in your hometown 

there is no fire
there is no snow
it’s all 25
degrees
it’s all comfortable

the switch is off
the switch is off
you were too late
i hate i hate i hate
fate