The Past Is Imposed

You were shocked so apparent ivory white
Because you saw a fresh face and I was pixilated
My fate present to those not available
Holy latin men of misspent theological speculation
Set out a bed of roses ridden with thorns in which I could
Bury my soul in remorse
That horrible flavor of taste known
The flavor seeping and seductive which might relieve that burning (doubted)
Percussion of a citizen
Civis romanus sum he protests as the hornets swarm his parade of opinions
His soul ripped open to
A God bewildered by honesty
In a world entirely enticed by the muse a society so apparently
Built on the MOMA
A mother mischosen and a virgin no longer
Her conception most concentrated in that logical peal that
Shatters thought and brings the thoughtful to their knees
but leaves your love so free
Whether in small town meadow
Or abstract new york ghetto
That child of Europe just runs in circles
Wounded and crying for a parent who will never come
To the soul still captivated by her result and loss
A feminist ephemeral that draws on the death of third worldlings
Simple minded fools in form
Lost bodies on display
In their prejudice and innocence

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