National Neographic

this dead town
where the streets
are made up of ghosts
are lifting themselves
up into the backyard
of a black heart
with no hope for peace
but the sleep
you search for
doesn't really come
or, you can't call it slumber
but you can certainly name things
and rename things
and give air to
this bludgeoned mess
no, i have read this thing to death
and made much of the hysteria
of the moment
but generically,
moments are only momentary
never to be bled out again
until my heart runs cold
like the "n" word in the south
after all the delusional
affluent assholes in petticoats
and thick rimmed glasses
put down "Uncle Toms Cabin"
and pick up a hammer
and rebuild what they've
totally destroyed

The Girl With The Dead Dad

totally fucking destroyed
by your body
the wreckage comes to complete
drunkenness
when you speak
and you do so softly
like you are washing me
i cling to your
irreverent beauty
that no one seems to understand
but when we're drunk
and walking the straightaways at midnight
with you by my side
and your soft skin
masking the pain i feel
that is so deep
i long to kiss you deeply
but i can't kiss you deep enough
because that deep doesn't exist
outside of the "you" and "me"
as we've pressed onto the "oneness"
sleep deprived and dizzy with dillusion
as we've switched oceanic coasts
we quit drinking and started again
we screamed and shouted and fucked and cried
and we died just a little bit inside
how will we ever recover
from this love?

Let's Get Drunk and Play Worst-Case Scenario

i
am
clearly
unnecessarily
bitter
about
the
past

why
aren't
you?

Cheater

now at last i have an out
you have pinned me to the wall before
but never again
now he can fuck your brains out
i don't care
i never deserved this
now after i eat this hamburger
drink this whiskey
and take a shit
i can go fuck anything that moves

thanks, babe!

You Take the High Road, I'll Just Take the Blame

when all by yourself
in your worry
in the filth
that is your
naked consciousness
you rest in your
weary heart
while the rest of the world
keeps on moving
deafened by the transparent
way we dance and sing
ourselves into oblivion
but not you
you are at a stand still
untouchable in your mores
undeserved of all this wretched
pain attached to the
consequences of lust
you're above it all
and you take a stand
unlike the rest of us
against the greatest sin
of all

This Too, Shall Past

the days and the clocks that make up the years
will carry on and make their stamp on the unknown
and we will cling, or at least i will
to those old ideas that have attached themselves to me

and there will be arguments
and there will be good times
and there will be peace in the valley
for me, one day

but not here, not anywhere
but there will be moments of rest
there will be moments of laughter
there willl be moments of sheer drunkeness
there will be hours upon hours of fucking
and after the cum dries
i think at last
i will be alright

God Is In The Fuck

like a hurricane cutting through this mess
with truth and swells of ambiguous notions of love
turned on it's hinge again by the destruction of this drug
that has leached itself to my soul while i hide in the attic
of my mind

although, delicious in it's effervescent wonder
i lick it dry as i've tried to so many times
but the "fail" in your eyes is too hard to take
i wonder how long you would let your body break
before the end

strapped and tied into this machine as it rolls "ever onward"
like the soldier you were born to be in this mess of parentheses
to calculate and disarm the "fuck" in your heart
as if dreaming up a good answer to a hard question
would fix anything

Gerkhe

twenty years of pounding the pavement
under these street lights
drilling the emphatic hole
into the unknown
in this place we've both outgrown
to go the rest of it all alone

like the time you "didn't" drink
and I looked like a fool
or the times that I tried
but I could never tell the truth
we woke up 10 years later
feeling much older and abused
tell me now, friend
where is that fountain of youth?

just let it die

Good Conversation (or a New Heresy Reformed)

death to ambiguity
death to relativism
death to transcendental meditation
death to sexuality
death to perspectivalism
death to existentialism
death to post-modernism
death to neo-feminism
death to structuralism
death to post-structuralism
death to relativism
death to the pursuit

the fountain is much smaller
than all of this
it is much smaller
than the lie
the deceit is much bigger
than a whiskey on the rocks
and some good conversation

There Will Be No Wedding

no, I've already fucked this thing up once before
tried to capitalize on my own pain
did the pious thing
stopped drinking and called it the Holy Ghost
ditched my old friends for some better ones
abandoned my brother
kicked my boys around
so they would really know
that it hurts me
far more than it hurts them

no, I can't do this all over again
I have far too much blood on my hands
besides that
you just wont understand
when you try to satisfy me
and you just can't

We Don't Die, We Transcend

this perspectival delusion
that "mine" is better than "yours"
undergirds the death of the pursuit
the "eternal becoming" or rather
this "becoming eternal"
and the possibilities
wrapped up in texts
about love, war & forgiveness
and the deities we inextricably
berrate into the meaningless void
that is philosophical depth
and width
and breadth

to Berkeley's consumption of
the mind and the realities it creates
to my friends idea that we co-create reality
with his ambiguous God
to my need for Jesus to rescue me from myself
it all points to the pursuit
and how there can never be absolutes
until this struggle becomes
absolutely clear

at this point in my life, it has all become
a relentless game of
morality
and
semantics