i looked through my phone and read all the half written text messages that i wasn't drunk enough to send and i look through my notebooks and read all the sloppy words i don't remember writing and already i feel like a has-been.

     -put yiuuor body here and let ur skin blend wooith mine

and i wish i could affect you in some way like waves against rock, not strong enough to hurt you but i might change you over time, but i've had those thoughts before.

     -and our favoritee song came on,. the one we danced to everyday dna you claimed to be too drunk to dance buit i knew, well i know, it was because she was therree too fuckkasdaf you went and i dunno fuck it wfdrvdasf


and i wish i could stop attaching new feelings to old memories like tacks in a photograph but with so much time to think i'm unsure how i'm suppose to feel. it lingers in me, through my clothes and air and skin and directly into my veins like the smell of nicotine.

     -i think of you on top of high buildings and when i lookl iont a jar of raspberry jam and i wont even remembermer what this fucking night (and iothers like it) loooked like toimrrow but i will never forget the colour of oyr hair and eyes and dress for as longa s i livbe green and blonde and blue.....,.,.


and i actually don't know shit about anything and i don't know why i bother writing so often (it's made me a shit writer) but thats just the anxiety talking so i'll have one more drink.

     -i crave your thoughts and wonder about your h e a r t b e a t  and its soft rhythm.

romantic terrorism

i try to formulate elegantly through a set of typed words that the end of your body is only an end in organ - because your symmetry and perfectly-flawed self are endless but leaves me no less breathless.

christmas wishlist

 it's fucking cold out and shit, so here's my christmas wishlist. I'd prefer the black one, but honestly guys, i'm not that picky. other acceptable gifts are as follows:

-cigarettes
-bob and doug mackenzie action figures
-beer or mittens
-no just beer
-wait maybe mittens too
-cigarettes
-you
-you naked
-or one of your friends
-but mostly i'd prefer you
-still naked though
-cigarettes

this is all i got for now, fuck it!

how different would it be to live somewhere without the snow. to live in texas where only desert marks the seasons but the desert is dead and never changes. and when there is growth it has horns and spikes and clings to life under rocks, between rattlesnakes and toddler beauty pageants but i'm sure the barbecue's are wonderful. or perhaps vietnam, remember? when the french built those delicate old houses that belonged sur les rues due paris but were hidden in the jungle far away and solitary; and you were so fascinated when you saw it in that movie once. well they were still wishing for empires which thawed and melted away so snow probably didn't matter. or maybe out at sea, where the winter still comes but the snow falls and hits the waves and, like so many other things, will leave no trace in the ebb and flow. the flakes would only stay on the deck and the ice would build up on the ropes and rigging and it would be gorgeous but scary and as the water reached my ankles and the ice became too heavy we would slide beneath the waves. well i would still watch the snow fall and wish for the coast and the prairies and the pines and you in that bed of mine.

maybe it's something, or maybe it's nothing

she was beautiful like a demolition
and that is the only way i can describe it.
and i tried to give it my all
and well,
i think i did
but it didn't do anything for me
i've been seeing her ghost
with every shift of season
and if i had known that i would end up bleeding
curled up in our old bed sheets, reading,
i would have closed that wound
long ago.
and i know that she's at home
or maybe not
and i'm everything but on her mind
not my hair or skin or eyes
so prove to me things will get better.
and goddamn it i don't mean it
i hope i don't mean it
and surely i'll lose sleep over it.
but then there are these things
that seem to change everything.
but for now i'll wake up
wash my face and brush my teeth
pouring nearly empties down the sink
each and every morning
to start these days again.

sometimes skulls are thick
and sometimes hearts are vacant
and almost always words don't work.
we seem to accept the love
we think we deserve
but we should know better.
maybe it's sad that those are all memories now
but maybe it's not sad
because it must get better,
must it not?
i suppose the mistrust of the future
will make it difficult for one to forget the past
and if you wonder how much love i think you deserve,
well honey,
just count the snowflakes
and count the waves.

that's how you look to me

if the whiskey doesn't kill me
along with those memories of you
than what the fuck would?

the minutes went by on tiptoe with fingers to their lips.

november twenty-second, 1963.

"Oh Jack! What have they done, what have they done."
                                          
                                                                        - Mrs. Kennedy

there's twenty-four parts in a day that divide me from you

don't hide your face in your hands
like your eyes face trenches
there's gotta be a place for us to go
the skeletons of trees are signs
who's mind will mend mine
I guess I was just an antique
cause you sold me for dirt cheap
and I suppose they all know
that dime-a-dozen price of mine
so who would respect me
beyond being just a novelty
I light my smoke
inhale and exhale
and sure as shit i still feel paper frail.

accidental cigarette burns

did you know that it snows in space? just above certain planets at certain times the snow will appear and fall just for a bit and its actually quite a beautiful thought. i marched to school through the those big snowflakes that tumbled and swirled like they were afraid to settle and i wondered why i chose to wear these shoes which now look more like snowmen. when snow like this falls it changes the acoustic properties of the world around you so things sound different especially late at night but you have to stop and listen which you probably haven't done but now i hope you will. my cigarette heats the air and burns my lungs and i should wear another layer but it doesn't matter because it will still be damn cold where my fingers used to meet yours. i search the snow for your footprints like maybe they will resolve thoughts which i do not know how to say. on that subject i am coy and fidget in my gloves which have been chopped fingerless and thus won't reach their full potential, and maybe they wish to or maybe gloves and scarves and toques don't make wishes i don't know but i know i do. and i'm already aware that i will saunter right past the school as those familiar words and thoughts clatter around in my head because sitting in class on a day like today seems like a waste, i'd rather write and eat honey with a spoon and burn accidental cigarette holes in my sweaters. and i hope that tonight when i walk home very late you'll be next to me and we can stop and listen to that snow and we'll keep my bed warm together and we won't miss summer. did you know you can hear snow falling underwater, like millions of tiny pin drops? it's actually quite a beautiful thought.

is this stuff really poetry

"I'm actually really content now."
"What? Fuck off, but you still write poetry."
"That`s called a paradox."