I want to be great and I don’t know how to be anything other than average.

I wish that I had written this.

(Source: angelicaalzona.com, via rararas-putin)

Our sweet nectar,
Pouring from the foaming mouth of gods,
Mixing with the oil and wine stained
Sheets that hang from the couch,
Like vines on abandoned temples
Where men worshiped in secret.
Who can speak of such things
With inapt tongues, heavy,
Seeping through the brims with
Intent and sullen sneers.
My lifeblood is sweating through
My innards…swearing with incontinence
And I am here with smeared makeup,
Eyes dreary with a massacre on their wake.

I need to lose myself in the crowds,
Talking and spitting fires through their nostrils,
Misty and hazy and I can forget about my mouth,
My nose and my skin. I can crawl into the shell
Of society and be peacefully ignored. Their thoughts
Will become my thoughts and weigh me down
Into the banks of the river crawling behind my house.
I’ll sip tea with Ms. Wolfe and we’ll converse
Of the friends that we left behind and the children
That we were never able to conceive with those
Who were worthy of our passion, the Bacchic feasts
Of old that sent women into frenzies and tore
Kings, limb from limb, gushing from the fountian’s
Foreknowledge of existence and turmoil, edging
About the rings of maddening folly with tinfoil and secrets.

These anti-smoking ads are getting offensive. When are we going to start making anti-obese ads? Never. Fat people can do whatever the fuck they want. What about those kids who are too skinny? Whose going to tell those skinny kids to eat?

Yeah, I know they aren’t the same thing. I DON’T CARE!

The time away from you feels like a waste.
It is obscenely violent and full of noisy emptiness.
Everything is clearer when you near,
The world seems to be so less heavy,
So less empty
And more full of value.

I think that
I’ll drink
Until I don’t want
To make love
And I’ll masturbate
Until I can no longer
Cry. And then
I’ll drink
Until I can cry
And remember
My toilet
Is more than
A cum dumpster.

Sleep was wasteful. It’s never what we want it to be and it craves
For our attention. Sure, it’s rest but is that enough when the world
Between my eye lids is screaming in obscenity, rocking back and forth,
Mad with indecision and decay that can’t be ended. Sleep is the next
Step, the final place where her mind is jammed and cracked,
Shattering teeny-tiny pieces to be picked up and handed
Back with the expectation of transatlantic solitude.

No, we aren’t here with the dreams.
Man, we are here with the eternal,
Sticking pins in its memories to remind
Ourselves of what is fading.
Let’s remind ourselves of the death,
Sticking close like Papa’s sweat and eyes
When he stumbled back from work,
Too drunk to smile and too tired to care
For the next few words were crushing hanging
On her head and haloed  hair like a thousand
Angels shaking while they cum.

These beers are anger in my gullet and these
Fags are ridden with ecstasy that just keeps
Pulling and pulling but it’s better than that mind
Fucking sleep that I’m tired of. Jesus Christ,
I’m tired of it. When is the gnawing hungry rabid
Searching in my cock going to step away and laud
Us as the victor? He can’t keep this up. I’m drowning
Him in booze and Bible verses every other night
And he’s bound to finally call a quits before
He’s tied and gagged with screeching
Quill pens and leather exteriors.
But so says the dead and these are the terms of service.

There is more than one beast
Devouring my soul
From within my stomach.
Even now, I do not know
If I am merely a meal
For their appetites
Or a fool who
Has mistaken ideas of hunger.