Pilgrim's Neurosis

Theres a product (for you)
Theres a portion (for me)
There is visible distortion from the fading static glimpses seen through a storm of crushed debris
Crossing a blighted landscape of women with open chests
They smile fiercely while their ribcages glower in the
Sand storm of that benighted landscape where naught will grow
But worry and waste and cynicism
Their breasts drip constantly acidic seeds that plant in the barren golden dust
And make screaming modern infants who are deformed and pitiful
Who cry to their father who is four thousand industrial pistons firing steadily
Through the desolation just over a dune I dare not cross

Funny Story

A drinker of ashes they would have never known me as
As I confidently lifted a tainted glass
Of course my penance was accidental
No profit incidentally
I was drunk merrily
For a change of pace
Probably for the eighth time in the week

And I always say I’d rather be drunk on the ashes of saints
But when push come to shove it’s rarely from above
Something in my sternum presses out and makes my stomach cry
My head crack and my heart strain
And I jerk off and remember I’m lonely again
The bottle always empties (and I remember)
The cigarette burns to the filter of my fingers (and I remember)
And the caffeine sustains me in between (I very rarely forget!)

If I were only material too
If I’m just nicotine and vodka
Will I be emptied?
Or can I run to the point of it all
My baggage in tow
Is there a way home
Should I bow at my childhood bedside?
And drink that new bitter cup of faith
Mixed with the ashes of my favorite saint

schooling

University of Connecticut police reports indicate sketchy results from a recent revealing show brought upon those gathered that evening
An umbrella of protestant tension was mentioned
Reports are sketchy and the ink was smeared
The university claims no responsibility
for their students tears

The End

Its kind of amazing he thought they'd notice
The burns on his hand from the lit tobacco first
To hint towards burns less visible
But everyone defied the axiom
Their smiles and anger a half healed surface
On the fourth degree burns the nicotine stains could have betrayed
He was excellent at hiding for he was a thief who half wanted to be found
To be stripped in the town square for his crimes
With the rest, with everyone
Naked and crying while the hangman was moved
And removed his cloak to join the rest
Stepping off his creaking political platform
To find rest among the wicked

Rest among those despicable wicked selves he knew
he knew so well
he knew the in and outs of that soul
Warmed by their fiery felt feelings
The envy and hate of the normal and average was a comfort at that point
He realized his judgment was a double edged sword only when it fell from his hand and clanked on the planks
His half healed heart tore open from the force of it
and all his thoughts were laid bare in a pageant they all wordlessly watched
with gasped faces and knowing nods

their faces shown the blue night-light of stars that made him smile as a child

The Soldier's "Sober" Conclusions

I can only guess and hope they’ve felt something like what I felt
That caused them to do what I fear I will
And its generational but the generation is faulty its littered with discarded genes in thoughts that were excised by righteous men among the failing
My family’s health slipped through that net and I’m the result a man who can only absorb and type so much and all he’s good at look at what he makes he cant absorb as fast as some but presumes to ascribe faster than a prophet
What a sick shitting little flea of misbegotten misery that little flake on the shoulder of atlas thought he could rest
On his families laurels
On the worlds shoulders
A tipsy, weighted crest

The Soldier Marches to Moscow

Stripped of profusions the pink ones illusions drifting from my dick now sullen and sick with satisfaction grim pacific thought left wasting on the ground of earth erected held by a shaky atlas distracted by harlots on the left and maidens fair that are free but never seem to be drawn what a surprise
caught up in a net of thought whose illusions were wrought by the same blood alcohol content that’s pressed through the same generations my grandfathers deaths liquid obliteration in their thoughts

A silly sad soldier who drinks stolen rum
And tastes poetry on his tongue
Stumbles through lost and locked buildings
Mercantile and meaningless as him
He counted up the nights straight he had stopped in this town
The faded edge-burned nights that trailed off into his dreams about women
Some he’d met and some he would after death
Both were nicer in the haunted corridors of his mind though
And he had gotten used to that
One night inside a dank room fraught with electric worries he could only half identify
It was a morning never mind just enough light provided to show
That he had reached to stroke the face of a new love
The thought being the most pleasing he had in many years
The type that to remember gets you misty eyed but you only know its cuz you thought about so much

You sort of wanted to cry to it
He probably would later on from a barely related cause

But that thought…
Her skin felt rough like cotton sheets as his hand pulled away from his pillow
She smelled like his bed
Because she was
And he probably said nothing, didn’t even grunt
Because no one was watching