I threw myself in the attic
caffeine and nicotine
and every attempt to mask
the way that I feel
I'm crooked and nervous
and leaning towards a crash
but I look stable
so if you climb on board for another 30 days
we can get an apartment in Nashville
maybe thats just it,
the rest of my days on a farm
or in a cage
or a room with bars
where they can tell me what to think
throw me in the river
or the dumpster
sweetie says I look like batman
caps and rags painted black
when the grass is blue
when I'm kicking the ground
and my toes are battered and bruised
and I puked down the vent
into the basement
a safe place 60 days away
from the last time I got the might
to climb up to the roof
She's so pretty,
I'm just post acute
post equipt
nothing but shit
and 21 more years to lose.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Maybe its just the addict in me, but I finally have a relationship with my parents, and I can finally sleep in my bed without thinking that I'm going to die in my sleep. With all of the little things to be thankful for, I still want to get high. There's a pressure in my forehead-- most likely my sinuses; that bleeds every morning ungodly amounts of blood. This is from snorting speed and benzos on a daily basis for a few months. I used to snort cocaine too, until I would just shake in my bed and whisper, "dear god, please don't let me die. Please god, don't let me die." I never capitalized the whole "god" thing in those days.
Today, I have to think its because of god that I'm alive. I have 62 days clean on my 21st birthday, which is today. I can taste the sugary dissolve of amphetamines on the back of my throat-- the taste of salty, chemical cocaine and ephedrine against my cheeks-- biting capsules of adderall and drinking sambucca or wine; whatever is in the fridge or cabinets. I would time it by my father's watch alarm, "six beeps at midnight. Open the cabinet, take the bottle--" luckily, speed makes you think a thousand thoughts at once, and even writing this I'll admit that I'm shifting back and forth in the chair, thinking the nights I'd feel my chest ounces from exploding. These don't distract you from the mission-- the mission is to get high. We don't come down, musn't come down now, and if we were to come down, it would be through death. And I imagine dying is the best high-- DMT or whatever is released, endorphins or however they're called scientifically-- to produce the best high.
When I over-dosed on Ecstasy, I most likely had a panic attack. It was like watching my life as a ghost-- fluttering in and out of consciousness. Trying to pee, trying to sleep, trying not to sleep before I took my sweat shirt off. There seemed to be a few hours of green screens and "do overs" before the director yelled, "Game over." At this point, I blacked out completely. My body had an orgasm and the entire subway in my ribs stopped running. There was no vibration against the tracks. Then suddenly, it was like Timesquare lighting up from a black out-- the carousel, the marching band-- it all started playing and lit miraculously.
My leg was shaking to the melody. My brother was punching me violently-- pouring water on my face, and making me sip water. I'm not sure if I was sitting up, but I remember vaguely not wanting to die again, and I couldn't piss. I blacked out again on the way to the hospital, and again in the hospital. I couldn't piss on my own without the heart monitor going off. My body temperature was too hot, my heart was pumping too hard, my lithium level was too high. My life was in the hands of a recovering addict name Chuck. I hated him, and I resented him.
A little girl suffered from a fever of a different kind in the bed next to mine; seperated by a curtain. They gave her a lollipop. My lollipop never came. I did, however finally pee on my own. My father watched me in shame the whole time, reciting," Why would you do this. What made you do this. Who were you with? You're done after this, you know that right?" I wanted to believe him, I thought I believed him too. I knew though, if this didn't kill me, nothing would.
Today, I have to think its because of god that I'm alive. I have 62 days clean on my 21st birthday, which is today. I can taste the sugary dissolve of amphetamines on the back of my throat-- the taste of salty, chemical cocaine and ephedrine against my cheeks-- biting capsules of adderall and drinking sambucca or wine; whatever is in the fridge or cabinets. I would time it by my father's watch alarm, "six beeps at midnight. Open the cabinet, take the bottle--" luckily, speed makes you think a thousand thoughts at once, and even writing this I'll admit that I'm shifting back and forth in the chair, thinking the nights I'd feel my chest ounces from exploding. These don't distract you from the mission-- the mission is to get high. We don't come down, musn't come down now, and if we were to come down, it would be through death. And I imagine dying is the best high-- DMT or whatever is released, endorphins or however they're called scientifically-- to produce the best high.
When I over-dosed on Ecstasy, I most likely had a panic attack. It was like watching my life as a ghost-- fluttering in and out of consciousness. Trying to pee, trying to sleep, trying not to sleep before I took my sweat shirt off. There seemed to be a few hours of green screens and "do overs" before the director yelled, "Game over." At this point, I blacked out completely. My body had an orgasm and the entire subway in my ribs stopped running. There was no vibration against the tracks. Then suddenly, it was like Timesquare lighting up from a black out-- the carousel, the marching band-- it all started playing and lit miraculously.
My leg was shaking to the melody. My brother was punching me violently-- pouring water on my face, and making me sip water. I'm not sure if I was sitting up, but I remember vaguely not wanting to die again, and I couldn't piss. I blacked out again on the way to the hospital, and again in the hospital. I couldn't piss on my own without the heart monitor going off. My body temperature was too hot, my heart was pumping too hard, my lithium level was too high. My life was in the hands of a recovering addict name Chuck. I hated him, and I resented him.
A little girl suffered from a fever of a different kind in the bed next to mine; seperated by a curtain. They gave her a lollipop. My lollipop never came. I did, however finally pee on my own. My father watched me in shame the whole time, reciting," Why would you do this. What made you do this. Who were you with? You're done after this, you know that right?" I wanted to believe him, I thought I believed him too. I knew though, if this didn't kill me, nothing would.
Detox took me to Florida-- ugly, flat and mis-shapened like an untimely period on a dotted faced pre-teen girl. I fell in love with blue moons and attitudes that dropped r's like jaws. They all had their ideas about God and politics that weren't much to think about, let alone to change my opinion. Rehab was a lot like a hotel, only without drinking.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I drank a glass of whiskey every night to fall asleep. I thanked the clouds that missed me-- burly smoke that choked the grass and the leaves, but not me. The Social Contract had no dotted line though if it did i'd jot and sign, to give this house to the phantom who deserved it a bit more-- dredful at night and mazes of doors.
I stayed fast away stacked away like papers, closed windows so as not to blow away, yes, even the hated maiden of fourth street would be safely kept if I were not as spent, as to be fondling jars of change that were worth not a cent. Or the things to be said that just float in one's head when you're passed out on the floor tugging at sheets from the bed--- wide---
but I drank my glass of whiskey, and could not fall to the dark. The basement had a hole in the floor, and boards were in pieces and parts around this drain-- facing it, a whole world of mirrors and trinkets from the vain, to be stuffed down the middle floor's heart or to be flung to the wind to swim like karp.
I was up and awake, mad with anger, pouring a drink as out the dark sparked a wink. A flash? no, rekindling ash, the cigarette's not completely trashed, as I searched the tray to take final drags, I'd not had one since quarter past, one or two, and the clock said "20 2's"
I assumed, "2:22" seemed more like time's path.
Dull in the night's hung molecules of anti-matter-- voids and sad words that disappeared into the erected nothingness-- clang!
My glass? My tray? My window or mirrors or things to keep vain? No, God's had no presence it was Cerberus' works, as the bottle had thrown itself 'gainst the lip of the drain.
Dear me, no sleep-- no peaceful night's sleep. No horsetail's silica to keep the frequency down-- Flashes of light grew louder, and I grew madder-- mind control and the government had its tracks set on me-- yes, they had wired my cellar to dab tabs on me-- they had taps on me, bloody fucking son of the enemy; what could they want from a man pushing 20.
The glass? I'm not of age, but I drink of the flask that was past from my father and his very dad? The one that bore blood when they were gone from the war, and the world war before he was taking for less in a land where forests and jungles replaced flags raised at half mass?
More light lit like a night light, though I had no outlet, just candles full of wax, burning in copper, sat clear from the stacks-- the paper, ah me, the papers must've been confused as a crook's book-- some cook book of schemes to plague liberty's entity.
These papers though, were poems, and little one lines for the love of my life who disappeared from the tyrants and high time doctors who shrunk heads at the hospital-- she escaped, I sat for the harder course of 8 days, reading the notes that she wrote and left at my feet-- "I'll kiss your cheek before I leave, I've kissed your lips many times and I'll kiss them just once more. Love forever," the name of some whore. No, the name of the cure from all of life's pain and digital age--
Thrashing the hall burrowing smoke came rushing inside the room where I hid oh, or the room where I hide? Present or past, soldiers footsteps were rushing to flank me-- to skin me, waterboard's and take me, erase my name and feed me pieces of the paper's that conspired--
The smoke turned to fire, that danced around me, present or past, the roof fell to ash, snowflakes of nuclear's age to create the "snowball effect" so I flung myself towards the drain-- wires and full cups, spirals and spirals-- blue at the tip, tailing and trailing, by inches it missed--
"What do you wish! I conspire not, I am the son of a murdered man's son who was murdered as well in 1971-- and the flag as his cloak hangs by a rope on the pole near the path that leads to the street. My energy is man, not liberal nor fiend."
Digital sparks lit the drain beneath me. I stopped red in my tracks, dead in my tracks and lay white as a rag. the wind blew over an entire tree's stack turned to paper and ink namely "The Social Contract." To some men, words are to be admired-- but the men who are tried decide to will great words to fire.
I stayed fast away stacked away like papers, closed windows so as not to blow away, yes, even the hated maiden of fourth street would be safely kept if I were not as spent, as to be fondling jars of change that were worth not a cent. Or the things to be said that just float in one's head when you're passed out on the floor tugging at sheets from the bed--- wide---
but I drank my glass of whiskey, and could not fall to the dark. The basement had a hole in the floor, and boards were in pieces and parts around this drain-- facing it, a whole world of mirrors and trinkets from the vain, to be stuffed down the middle floor's heart or to be flung to the wind to swim like karp.
I was up and awake, mad with anger, pouring a drink as out the dark sparked a wink. A flash? no, rekindling ash, the cigarette's not completely trashed, as I searched the tray to take final drags, I'd not had one since quarter past, one or two, and the clock said "20 2's"
I assumed, "2:22" seemed more like time's path.
Dull in the night's hung molecules of anti-matter-- voids and sad words that disappeared into the erected nothingness-- clang!
My glass? My tray? My window or mirrors or things to keep vain? No, God's had no presence it was Cerberus' works, as the bottle had thrown itself 'gainst the lip of the drain.
Dear me, no sleep-- no peaceful night's sleep. No horsetail's silica to keep the frequency down-- Flashes of light grew louder, and I grew madder-- mind control and the government had its tracks set on me-- yes, they had wired my cellar to dab tabs on me-- they had taps on me, bloody fucking son of the enemy; what could they want from a man pushing 20.
The glass? I'm not of age, but I drink of the flask that was past from my father and his very dad? The one that bore blood when they were gone from the war, and the world war before he was taking for less in a land where forests and jungles replaced flags raised at half mass?
More light lit like a night light, though I had no outlet, just candles full of wax, burning in copper, sat clear from the stacks-- the paper, ah me, the papers must've been confused as a crook's book-- some cook book of schemes to plague liberty's entity.
These papers though, were poems, and little one lines for the love of my life who disappeared from the tyrants and high time doctors who shrunk heads at the hospital-- she escaped, I sat for the harder course of 8 days, reading the notes that she wrote and left at my feet-- "I'll kiss your cheek before I leave, I've kissed your lips many times and I'll kiss them just once more. Love forever," the name of some whore. No, the name of the cure from all of life's pain and digital age--
Thrashing the hall burrowing smoke came rushing inside the room where I hid oh, or the room where I hide? Present or past, soldiers footsteps were rushing to flank me-- to skin me, waterboard's and take me, erase my name and feed me pieces of the paper's that conspired--
The smoke turned to fire, that danced around me, present or past, the roof fell to ash, snowflakes of nuclear's age to create the "snowball effect" so I flung myself towards the drain-- wires and full cups, spirals and spirals-- blue at the tip, tailing and trailing, by inches it missed--
"What do you wish! I conspire not, I am the son of a murdered man's son who was murdered as well in 1971-- and the flag as his cloak hangs by a rope on the pole near the path that leads to the street. My energy is man, not liberal nor fiend."
Digital sparks lit the drain beneath me. I stopped red in my tracks, dead in my tracks and lay white as a rag. the wind blew over an entire tree's stack turned to paper and ink namely "The Social Contract." To some men, words are to be admired-- but the men who are tried decide to will great words to fire.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
the suspense is worth
hot tea, a white tee
suspenders
and dreamy we stand
till we sit
laugh at the fan
and i can't feel my hands
or my veins or the shit
will kill me someday
but i hope its tonight
where broken tongues
are twisted and dumb
relaxed-- relatively speaking,
wonder from the wisher,
well from the spells
and my soul in the picture
lashes in the flicker,
doubtful, black cap
black cats
relaxed so
tell me secrets
or keep them
with pictures of me
pale skin to green
contrasting "he"
doesn't get wiser
he only gets older
a kiss on the hips
bliss lips
on her shoulders
hot tea, a white tee
suspenders
and dreamy we stand
till we sit
laugh at the fan
and i can't feel my hands
or my veins or the shit
will kill me someday
but i hope its tonight
where broken tongues
are twisted and dumb
relaxed-- relatively speaking,
wonder from the wisher,
well from the spells
and my soul in the picture
lashes in the flicker,
doubtful, black cap
black cats
relaxed so
tell me secrets
or keep them
with pictures of me
pale skin to green
contrasting "he"
doesn't get wiser
he only gets older
a kiss on the hips
bliss lips
on her shoulders
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Deep in the end of seas,
they say there's more than women,
the gravity of all them,
will make it way more than a womans
worth in gold
Deep in, the sea
the gravity you pull on me,
deep in the sea
deep in the sea
where every want turns into need
deep in the sea
Seesaws and silverwear,
before silver turned tarnished
fuseless colorless flares;
responding on instinct
responding on instinct
tarnished and torn,
before
we were ever warned
the land was diseased
Deep in, the sea
the gravity you pull on me,
deep in the sea
deep in the sea
where every want turns into need
deep in the sea
they say there's more than women,
the gravity of all them,
will make it way more than a womans
worth in gold
Deep in, the sea
the gravity you pull on me,
deep in the sea
deep in the sea
where every want turns into need
deep in the sea
Seesaws and silverwear,
before silver turned tarnished
fuseless colorless flares;
responding on instinct
responding on instinct
tarnished and torn,
before
we were ever warned
the land was diseased
Deep in, the sea
the gravity you pull on me,
deep in the sea
deep in the sea
where every want turns into need
deep in the sea
Monday, November 2, 2009
well i sorta got to thinking
and thinking got to wishing
i got wish myself to bringing
sad luck up to a charm
and no one here was willing to go,
brought myself to chicago
down down down
arlington hostel
the parisian apostle
pushing the pedals to me
cause i was sad and incomplete
the aussie kids are buying me rounds ou-ounds
can i kiss your hand
how about your cheek
my german is a little off,
and she doesn't understand,
she doesn't understand me
in love with every girl that i see
the bus didn't bring
and the drunks didn't wish me.
very well--
i've been thinking
i'm never gonna find myself.
and thinking got to wishing
i got wish myself to bringing
sad luck up to a charm
and no one here was willing to go,
brought myself to chicago
down down down
arlington hostel
the parisian apostle
pushing the pedals to me
cause i was sad and incomplete
the aussie kids are buying me rounds ou-ounds
can i kiss your hand
how about your cheek
my german is a little off,
and she doesn't understand,
she doesn't understand me
in love with every girl that i see
the bus didn't bring
and the drunks didn't wish me.
very well--
i've been thinking
i'm never gonna find myself.
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