Caustic Familiarity

Let’s assume im coming down…coming down. The amber glow of the virgining day invading my space. my sanctuary. the light segmented by the half-drawn curtains spill across your half-drawn body. and it’s dark. Indigo. The night is over. Rest my head upon which i rest my hand and i sink into the fibers of your carpet floor. I am ill, weak, tired yet unable to sleep. The trace smell of whiskey coming from my breath–no….from the bottle inches away; a monolithe of depravity from the vantage of my eyes, perpendicular to the floor. and i just lay there and lay there and lay and there and there lay watching as i sit up. Warmth texture and weightlessness and im back….Back wall creme white, textured with variations of purposeful imperfections. A picture crudely mounted of mountains surrounded by a gold frame mounted on the back creme wall. I stare and look to the farthest mounted…thesmallest mountain. Is that the furthest point of creativity for the artist. Rather, was the perameters of the rendering the extent of the artistic vision? Or was this a glimpse into an entire universe.

Dead Poet

I found myself, yet again, bargaining with the god Dionysus to give me relief from another hangover. It was mid heave, clutching the porcelain receptacle that I became aware of my mortality. I considered the state of my liver. My present occupation dismissed any former notion of, “There are REAL alcoholics who will live to see tomorrow.” Then again i gauge true alcoholism on the most deprave act of jackassery accomplished with the aid of this elixir. I drank to write. Truest honesty. Further, I only become hungover when i drink and write. I write alone. I considered quitting….     how can you be a happy writer. doesn't exist

KD

This girl sleeps
Intoxicated by last night's dream
She chases something she can't conceptualize
A stalwart woman, but she has a soft side
invisible to the undiscerning eye
A gorgeous sadness one dares to rectify
An act of agression
for her protection
Reclusive traits secured in a spider bite
But she's breathtaking in the wild
treating each derision with an unabashed smile
She's beautiful distruction
contained by none
not even her own

buoNaClandestinita

Like salt dissolved in water

invisible to the eye

its presence known 

only by the brine 

as it touches your lips.

Poison together

But when the latter

Changes state

The other 

Remains

Regaining identity

Separate its substrate.

Malaise

Im hurting myself badly
by not addressing these things inside me
that rot away at a nervous soul
Put on hold until my mind can be clear
Again
Is this death?
The transcendent soul numb,
cynically deprive of value
for these wonderful things
memories
I am tired often
I look for answers in my dreams
what am I neglecting
These flames tearing through the building
opening the sky on a starless night
a light in the dark
The void of preserved night
Pain seems too trite
to appraise this derision
but i aspire, nonetheless, for a brighter dream
For now it is that house on fire
To give my direction a destination
before it pales with time
extinguishing itself, spent of fuel
And i am lost until sunrise
Though it may be far too late
for these things inside
may have already rotted away
leaving a pile of ash
where my home used to be

youth wasted on the young

I think the traggedy in growing up is not in the wasted time of the "whatifs..." We did all that. OUr deriliction derives from a belief that we skipped the trantamount verses of youth. THe greater tragedy is that we did those among myruiad things yet forgot them; promissing to ingrain them into our life yet unimportant, left our minds fleating and never to be regognize. sad is the adult. sad is it to ruminize on what we have accomplised and forgot what brought us here/

Chaser

It didn't feel real
It didn't hurt enough
To convince himself that his desire was attainable
sadness
The achievement was the requiem of the pursuit
His life work was not to attain but to
chase
never will he be as sad when dreams become fruition
His purpose--as dictated by his host--was the personification of that
Perfection
Alas, consuming lust hoped that a misplaced decimal
or a glaring oversight immortalized his love
she, the ultimate puzzle
an untameable woman whom spouts scorn and ridicule
at the the slave to her sirenic mystery
But when the algorithmic key

abrogates the enigma

you know She by name

"There is nothing more i can give my darling; you're complete"
But leave your creator longing
begging for some reason or flaw with his design
to discredit the hypothesis
and bring his reason for life
Alive