Statistic

Don’t worry your pretty head

With the light shining through

The drain collects everything

And carries it to the other side of town

Gets purified, pushed back

Then you drink yourself

They were nursing their

Dipsomania, cannabis enthusiasm

In the closeted living room

So noticing wasn’t even

In the big picture of things

And the neighbors might’ve heard

But then again, they never hear

Your lover was your friend

Locked in himself, on fire

But he swallowed the key

And poured the gasoline

He’s cooking like the barbeque

But what matters is

He feels something

And that’s a situation

Even he’s clueless about

And like the approximate

85 other Americans

Doing the same blasted thing

Every day

You’ve become a statistic, too

Divisions

1. Lists are the tops, in the summer waste, when Satan dances on the earth.
2. Only a few feet away, the bikini-clad blessings are a dismal blur.
3. You can't swim worth a damn. Stop kicking.
4. But it's not summer. It's spring.
5. Its afterbirth makes you ill. Don't accept it.
6. Count to ten, pretend winter will bury you.
7. Don't be sad. You've always been cold in spirit.
8. It's a variation of drowning. Stop kicking.
9. The blessings have disappeared over the curving horizon.
10. Satan is dancing on your stiff chest. Do lists even matter?

Cobain

Congratulations are in order

How terrible I must feel

You were the line and border

With collapsed veins, so ideal

And always more to reveal

Finally, that great escape

That gave the world a little shake

Salutations for a martyr

How the skin rotted, but first, peeled

You made this seem like a brief disorder

I’m talking about the fucking wheel

Immortality is firmly sealed

That love of yours, what was its shape

That still keeps the mouths agape?

Privates

Move on with your left hand

Stretched out to what’s ahead

And the other, grabbing 

The past’s privates

I'm Back, I Guess...

Yeah, I'm back. I'll be posting tons. Hooray.

Hiatus

Hey, to anyone who cares: I won't be posting anything on this blog for a long time. At least until someone actually comments on any of my posts.

McMurphy's Law

What’s the point of

Lobotomizing myself

With a sturdy, worthless pen?

Pencils break too easily

As does the mind

Every chance it gets, it seems

So the point, I reiterate,

Is the inky tip

Going under my eyelids

In for the kill

Goodbye, everything