rebirth or something like it

it seems as though i can only write about you in the summer, it seems the only fuel i have, sweating skin sticking my clothes to my back, sweet hot melted chapstick, beach knees and dusk by the bonfire, we are all immortal in the memories, the cold has made me weak and listless, every night the episodes of tossing and turning drag me deeper down into a unsatisfying sleep, something resembling a car crash coma, or a failed attempted suicide. did you catch on that i stopped writing for you, when i thought it was golden, i was given grey ashes, you told me to pick them apart and build an empire, but how do i build an empire with nothing but ashes?

lol

wait till you see what the warm months and caked on makeup have done to me.

I've been torn down into resembling a shell of a girl, nothing hurts more than when your eyes turn

to me and you let out a sound of disappointment. I cross my fingers and laugh, but I really want to bite down on the leather strap and drain these veins, and fill them up with something more useful

i don't want your sympathy in any form,

theres no reason to crawl back to me on those knees that knock when you walk , I can see you've already been somebody else's martyr for the night, they are already raw and rug burned.

the summer i lost interest in all morale

i like feeling the hollow hunger of movement inside me

we didnt even have to have fucked and you would have been a dog at my knees

i cant control these actions when there is sweet substance involved

im not talking emotions and bullshit that comes from the heart, im talking fucking chemicals

do you have any idea how it feels to truly believe your heart is about to stop beating,

then there is the heroin that stops my shaking fingers from pushing the nails back against your headboard.

your baby looks like a fucking alien.

crawling through static

black caviar lungs. cocaine white skin. porn star red lips.

i am filling the void with you. 

the mother wolf of a starved suckling nation. 

our blue collar nooses don't satiate her

we need the TV static to drown out the moaned pleads of poverty to help us sleep

at night

and broad casted upper class lullabies

shaking in the sheets at the thought of a pixilated revolution

we expose human fallacy via single sentence updates 

theres some trouble in room 100

i want to spend valentines day in the room where sid vicious supposedly killed his girlfriend nancy spungen. The chelsea hotel in nyc, room 100. take me?

fuck it

i feel completely naked, even with all these scars 

hell

they were draining me with their gorgeous faces and the way their body language begged to be fucked up. Turning me on the sniffling late 1980's street punk nose barely bleeding barely breathing. fucking intoxicated infatuated with the taste of whisky as the photographers fingers went deeper in me and as my eyes rolled back I fixed my eyes on a crack in the ceiling of this underground club and for a brief moment i could of sworn i was in hell

untitled

theres a girl in the corner becoming a black hole as everything about you consumes her.

home is where the drug dealer is.

with a doll headed sigh her dress was torn from his crown of thorns between her thighs

when everything falls up into place unto the shelf of memories gold plated plastic trophies of bad decisions past who had colgate smiles and drove SUV's to their lovers houses while their wives baked them apple pies and bought them anniversary sets of golf clubs and hallmark patented emotions.

coldblood boiling

this nectar of fortune is yours to taste and figure out how to swallow. i hope it favors you

i am the animal

i yearn for the sinew and the lace, that composes your delicate frame. 

the ritual of defeat is to pray to your god.

but you

you dont breathe a word

i dream of fur matted with forest of blood i dream of waking you

we will never run together

a coward is isolated and destroyed

fake it to feel alive

fingertips that ache to touch the edge of your bed with such a sudden perversion to be cheek to cheek with you, wounded breathing, your laugh, muted by a milligram, the tilt of your head, awkward, I allow your forehead to fall forward, caught by my chest.

and you dont know me by just drowning in my eyes. you need to really lose yourself to crawl under my skin.

times square is burning. and the scene is euphoric, i lose myself in these bass lines and bottles of alcohol here, we were never meant to touch, i was never made to make it out of your bed alive.

peruvian lady, somebody's baby isnt coming home tonight

he said, " Do what you do best, swallow, and forget".

the way we think, it interferes with the way we breathe

my hands start to shake as the black horse lifts his head towards the north

my options are weighed and injected,

the great nosebleed to make me a martyr comes

and the tracks that i follow home, scar

them bones draped in a mess of makeup and chanel no.5 , the way you walk and place your hands on my face changes the minute you get paid to fuck. but even showing my insides, dosent expose me, nothing exposes this fucking mess like a needle and a headboard thats easy to get a grip on.

the smell of soil, the spilt milk on the kitchen floor, a girl becoming a black hole in the corner as everything about you consumes her.

wolves at the reception

Mirth, rolling papers, Old tattered books that fall apart when you pick them up and every fiber of your being feels like this could be the one to change your life, your muse with a paper spine and a dust jacket.

babygirl, you nose is bleeding

your god wraps his hands around my throat in the mirror

he opens my mouth for me, tasting like vodka soaked shaking fits and rug burned knees. take me home, my teeth are chattering, oil and honey, honey and mud.

this isnt me, im not mechanical.

whiskey and cigarettes

im pretty stuck on the idea of walking out your front door just to disappear. 

im currently downloading La Vie en Rose. 

it gets harder and harder to keep my hands off of you.

my thighs drip and release your offering, your communion. i kneel at your altar. the sheets have stained.

The Rabbit hole of Narcissim

reading camus, russell and various essays on anarchism.

party @ annex in nyc last night, public acts of lewd and drunken behavior. middle fingering the world and dirty bathroom stall confessions.

theres this boy. the end.

80% of married men cheat in America

the addicted

true love, just from breathing in,  snow white.

                                             and when it cuts, you fall neatly into lines 

CANINE TEETH AND COLD BREATH DEEP IN THE WOOD. THIS NEXT ONE WILL DRASTICALLY CHANGE YOUR CIRCUMSTANCES. I PRAY

the silver, the rosary

the white beech bark and the shadows. deep stains 

freezing water, no confession

i prey

wolves like me 

i will not stop chasing the bottle

until either of us in empty

trembling

unholy utilations

( they have caught your scent sweetie)

the human body has over 60,000 miles of blood vessels.

the average heart beats 2.5 billion times in a lifetime.

yearling

with wounds like yours i wouldn't worry about them scarring, i would worry about the reason for such self infliction with such a breathtaking reflection when you made a monster out of cosmetics and narcissism every time he took a glance at you, you smiled and put on more makeup.

requiememory

running out of breath your crawling back across the bed burning up with your tossed cigarette

when you lie its the greatest aphrodisiac for a girl like me 

pearls placed upon your powdered flesh, white as cocaine

your lust, the bakery queen

immeasurable

pinched pink for me

this is all to fucking savage

 

crawl

i am under any influence that is willing to twist its way up my spine 

in time, in time, you will turn black like these cigarette ashes

oh, deliver me

with your eyes closed you lead me down the crooked path

the wolves catch my scent

should we run from here, oh no, 

no, lay down

and while you are in her bed, redeeming yourself for fucking me, 

i am cutting lines with the virgin mother from 8th street

but somewhow i find you crawling back up those steps to my door like a broken down christ bearing his cross .

single malt rhapsody

and he crawled, crawled hot and hard, she rocked her hips and showed the whites of her eyes, he crawled right up under her skin and his stare grabbed her by the throat and choked her breath away into sighs

stop shaking, he promised, I will wind wildflowers into your hair and the gold spun valley will be our wedding bed.