I’m the saddest man on the planet
dulcet zones become eruptions of death
memorizing vocal tones, or numbing distress
most ballads, hit home, requiem out of balance
such a synergistic release comes from, this basket of malice
ill have it to here – 22oz black coffee french press
sinning continuously, in her black coffee sun dress
anarchy is best dressed, brown leather lounge padded headrest
takes a village to raise a child, theres no one to raise it with us
pillaged through blades of grass, photosynthetic assortment
spilling your flask til its empty, blood served in a brass veil
vivider mass pavilion. mom kept the pictures of dad, still
photo album laminating. magnifying glass on an anthill
steel razor tandem. Dear, anybody, anywhere who has ears
in a position to translate. this ballad i have here
monochromatic morse code
willing to listen. put your phone down. stethoscope to a torso
I trot through universes i never knew that existed,
thinking of becoming perfect with you, seemed so delicious.
I press my lips against windows you’ve brandished
just to kiss what you’ve managed to touch
ive become calloused. and rough. galloping stallion tusk
and you vanish

fötter day

you can hear the…

suburbia chime, zirconia vertebrae. pearly white spine
glass thrown in stone houses, regular suburbia night
whirring, rewind. chronicled childhood in olive drab paint
monocle glass. wormwood and bottles of shawshank.
dissolute solitude, wanderer who wallows in maze
en route. delay for tomorrow. never promised today
virgin diary. anne frank. marie curie disease
tinture of rainbow, even if the distance is blurry to me
he, who knows the way to zihuatenejo.
furlough father. demand you to die when i say so
26 pesos what’s left in your wallet
lint and mothball, merryland. experiment omelette.
laundromat arcade quarter exchange
2 o clock shadow of death and follicle strain
these boulders were supposed to be gone when i got here
you shouldered me off. sunday morning penny loafer with frost
social commentary gabriel-lucifer talk
metamucil, retrograde. jupiter star
bolivian roast, oblivion, and a toast goes to mars
you hold my hand; but i don’t even know who you are
shout at me when indoors, but whisper weak when afar
im so close to eroding, skin growth, barely a scar
in my house; the big wolf. lungs pulse til’ exhaustion
i read a suicide note from the ghost in my closet
i dont know, if he knows if this apartment is haunted
by patriarchal pettiness, reminiscent negligent heart
maleficent maligned distant/forgot insidious offspring
with ammunition in their lips, that keep you off guard
feel the metacarpal love letters til your fingers fall off
once you step out the door, you hear the wooden creak in the floor
fell asleep at the creek daydreaming before
everytime before bed i hear footsteps coming from deep
and i hide in my closet, until they delete
REM hits me while I’m counting my sheep
counting rosary beads for every step wolf takes towards me
like neighborhood freeze tag, counting to 3
dysfunctional beings, huffing in suburbia breeze
i know that i know nothing is in love when i speak
into denizens, the medicine cabinet creaks
when you close it and i haven’t heard it in weeks
form bourbon, to curtains burnt at the seams
I’m so close to being the opposite of perfect, i scream
what emerges, a bird sits perched in a tree
what alerts him is
suburbia breeze


okay. okay

desultory genius. under construction. lost when unnerved 
nothing more bizarre than the absurdist themes conjured with words 

it’s almost perverted with how unconcerned I’ve grown as a man

flirt with death. skeleton slow dance. holding his hands

smile so they see it, hold smog in my lungs

breathe it out when the smoke clears. Simon de Beauvoir 

polished the earth that you stand on, apologies worth

sleep paralysis, demon passage. toss and you turn

I’m your most perfected distraction. go on as you were

cause I’ll never be anyone’s anything or something deserved 

just a deserted desert. destructive. berserk 

deconstruct me to dirt, I’m your diversionary malpractice

making inadvertent adversaries off these Shakespearean actions

the never intended directors cut. a roll of film wasted

the point of this, is concave. an oil drill placement. 

boiled blood painted roses, and the soil in my bones’ clay

another day, another doctrine. just shooting in my two cents

living tooth an nail through this truth is hell nuisance 

give me a hug. give me a kiss

give me a fuck. give a fuck about this.

oblivions done. an oblivious run-around crypt

there’s tragedy in the stars

who would’ve thought that losing resolve was such a lucrative sought after muse?
because true tragedy talks volume but the channels on mute.
channeling through galaxies having to move supernovas with raw: passion.
any intuition is an intuitive loss.
so superfluous, the way it happens; a dying sun sparks creative patterns.
tiresome survival at the cost of my madness.
theres such an interstellar sting, to the inner selfless kid that
finds himself in brink of that trigger of a dwelling sink.
theres a dimmer from the lighthouse miles away,
but there’s a vignette at the end of the tunnel that i wish that i could explain.
emotions bruised could consume you, in all.
alive, but numb in the same extraction.
elapsed time expands in this black holes chain reaction.
I blame my sadness, a loophole of unfinished business.
I love kisses when the suns dimming.
so dense, the fumes from the smog, allude to the fact that it’s useless;
come on. I came through from the fog, face to face with confusion.
help. my supercomputer doesnt understand how to do this.
interpret binary as separate emotions.
let the stars explode so i can say i felt the explosion.
let the radiation mutate whats wrong with me,
to reshape the relay of this indistinct prophecy.
instead? its controlling. extending its console;
for a better understanding of a severed lovers hand.
came up empty-handed, the stars in the sky have become so unenchanting.
people who know me, don’t even try to get it.
too depressed to write from my perspective.
alive, but dead. don’t prescribe the meds.
i wish i wasnt allowed to blink, so
i wouldnt lose moments, and still heard the sounds of them:
like, whats the point of sadness when nothing comes out of it.
a briefcase full of to-do lists with nothing to do.