.

My friend won’t talk to me,

He’s only sending me prank texts back,
But if I had the chance I’d ask him if it ever feels like
The only tools on earth
Are the ones he doesn’t have,
Like he’s giving nothing
Toward the forthing of the crown
Of beat music,
Highlighted
Steamed and mashed and
Given a name
Not even trying.

Standing there, you’re the attack of my

Slogans, pierced
Red hot
Under posters.

Mike, it’s funny, when me turning on a Walgreens girl hurts so bad

To the old grey man in the old grey hat who’s seen it all,
.
His sun’s still shining but his eyes droop down,
Where do we turn when all our innards is what we have left,
.
And oh, this day, this clowning of the sensitive,
The oblong struck by Wednesdays’ circumstances again,
.
To feel that we’ve left them here in the cold to starve,
Time only granted sovereign dewing on the chaste bees.

And

It
Stands in the mercenary
.
Town and maybe this time it gets
Those little
.
Nuclear rods like Homer Simpson.

I’ve been wanting for a long time to get into the art of volcano maintenance. You look into it, it blows your face up. You look into it, someone wonders what you’re doing, you HAVE something, Hey, Um, Excuse me, Um, Sir, Um, HEY SIR!, See, you don’t understand, the dying light crucified me into this CIA Freemasons phalanx and Well, I’ve never looked at the inside of a volcano.

Hey, it makes perfect sense. And it was really never my intention to think this, but people in fact take such PRIDE in being stupid that it’s impossible to mistake. And by stupid, I mean, they make no attempt whatsoever to be virtuous, and take no visible or apparent scruple at exhibiting simple, forced id dominance over others. In fact, this is even a paradigm, by way of this Billy Pilgrim thing. Trust me, I know way more about this than I ever intended to, it’s entirely depressing. And the overall could thusly be said about the year 2015. We killed a bunch of Iraqis and we can now take pictures of Antarctica, and people are bored by penguins, penguins do not GIVE THEM PLEASURE.

I was fishing,

And the knot in my head exploded
Into dying light
As I fashioned
.
That
All these little fish
Were waiting,
Were
.
Mobile unto being
At my beck and call,
.
And just as the druids
Danced before dying,
.
I’ll stand before the flood
Like a fly loosening up
For its own mortality,
Seeing true colors and
Remembering.

I was flipping through the dictionary

And I came across
.
The term “strawberry blond,”
And I thought,
No,
That’s
A shot
.
From a doctor
That I don’t need today,
.
I would not let
Her into my pizzeria
If I owned one.

It takes

All kinds
To move the world around,
.
Docey-do we go
As the sun envelops
Injecting narcissism,
.
As we hurdle
Into conflict,
Nothing promised as we
Lay out battle’s blueprints
On picnic tables under rainstorms,
.
Perfection itemizing,
Convalescing by our feet.

That there are no morals

At the end of the day,
.
The money will always sit inside the bank,
And the gravestones will always reflect out
Matches,
Opportunities,
Soothsayers of truth and most of all,
Things left undone.