Bound

And I’ve never wanted to die like this before,
to feel the world falling around me-
Shatter it into pieces, take away any chance of happiness.
Because I would rather only feel the pain,
than the glimmer of hope light up inside.

Maybe you believe this is an exagerration,
but I can’t ignore my past or deal with it
There was too much pain, too much feeling
That there was nothing beneath my skin.
I can’t stand to be used again,
but if that means being with you then –
Use me. Use me. Use me.

Fragments

everything is falling apart – the shackles at the seams.
I can’t seem where to stop, find myself somewhere in this room.
Is this really what existance is, some sort of biological reaction?
Isn’t there something more MAGICAL to it?

We need to learn how to espace, maybe look within from outside ourselves.
And how do we do that? With insufficient harmful aids, or just time?
It is here where I become confused – quite lost. Can’t understand.
Things pass and float through my open mind,
and I still can’t find where I am.

Cid

(my friend and I being a little tripped out).

We have trapped ourselves in an web of unconscious frequencies. Maybe Kesey was right; the psychedelic movement just can’t go any further! So why not take different routes instead? Lets take the scientific-pyschedelic road, perhaps the Harvard boys missed a number of points necessary to the stages of multi-being.
So in a ‘destroyed membrane’ we will explore, hoist the sails we’re going as far in as we possibly can….

….Ever since the history of civilization one is conditioned to react in the ways that are deemed acceptable by The Mass. Upon expanding your mindset, you open up the doors and unlock many unknown compartments to not only who, what you are but also of the looming world about us. If language had never been discovered, or started, then one might be able to ultra level change their brains with exuberance, foundacious luxury. If you don’t deafen the fox, how will you get past the gates?

Filling Broken Tiles

*Warning: Rant*

Tiles that construe a madness of thought, provoking the tight jawed revolution that peers over distant edges to manipulate the deep process of impact dwelling like those preserved tin cans pushed feeble attempts on legless chairs – floating through a moral code that I am no part of. Who do you think you are? Aren’t we supposed to spend these wasteless hours daunting on those simple words and sounds that bring us at a strange tone together? Why are you still here, for the sake of what we are and to become in this yellowed reality, where photographs extract themselves from film that (BREAK)

never really existed. And as this is where we find ourselves today (when the tide creeps in through our open bedroom windows; the concept RAPES our coherent thought), we are left BLOODY, BRUISED, and quite thoroughly MISUSED…do they understand that we can never forget those singe-ing touches that come back to us every evening as hot tears fall relentlessly? Do they understand that pity is NOT what we ask for, as our mouths form no questions of that manner…And one day, we will be like a strong army, easelessly marching onward with teeth barred determination!

The Traveller

The trees are blessing grounds,
leaning wayward branches down
forward through our sounds –
of pleas to get out of this town.

Shade falls in black stripes
that cover our lies tonight,
As we squander through types
that will lead us to the bright;

Passageways open suddenly
And we tumble down them,
caressing the slight of to Be.
We will be left to condemn.

I feel my body now numb,
lost within a tumult of itself.
To the winds I now succumb,
with or without yourself.

Catapult me through this plane
And I promise not to come back,
and I pray to keep this sane
But it is patience that I lack.

Tweed

For first sight its a bashful experience strung out with strangers from the same place and the times are incoherent to those participating. A together collectiveness is dreamed of in the lonely basements of heads that are filled with adventurous details and no way for them to paint themselves like the clouds on the sky…then this grand opportunity of greatness and windy chances rushes past and so it is grabbed selfishly. A crazed sensation delves itself through punctured wounds and dripping saliva as the dusk breaks into itself and creeps upon us another new day that we are to be graced with. When the sun will rise again it will be known, it will be shown that here was a great place at a great point in time. Time the vigorous enemy that falls over tired lids that pry themselves back open again to get a glimpse around itself and tries for the brain to recollect the little cells it has left. This is forever youth. The old man with the swollen belly and a beer trapsed under his breath is youth here – for it is all the same and we are all connected through a vein of self destruction in the most positive of form.

Stream of Conciousness on The City Bus

@ the 7, 115
what’s the trailer for?

houses that look like
impoverished dried up cottages repeated.
the BBQ’s strewn
out on the porch.

215. Ford. demented tree.

All these Volkswagon’s urge me to get a hippie van.

swings on front yards
– if someone steals them will you
wake up?

trees with 7 roots,
people with three legs?

cowboy hats, leatherboots, curly hair, pink shirt, jean jacket, HICK

KIDS ON HEATERS

houses by the owner beside graveyards by the beaches, make dirty runoffs?

Heartache Blows Youth Away

ties from burgundy carpet rugs
my back is burnt just as bad
as bad as the burns you left beside my lungs
large flakes feel like chalant dates
times that pass through broken vases of candy corn
just because Halloween is our favourite holiday
we get to wear a mask over our disguise.

I feel like I’m falling through the holes you’ve created for me.
just to avidly kill the difference.
in me.
so we turn the clocks like waves of electric failure.
go back, to the beginning.

the walls are redefining love
in love with closet doors
only to put a rounded coffee stain
on the ripples of today
how much time do we have left
in our couching youth of lame
swirl around this basement out of a sitcom
these friends are substantial.

it is because the butterfly
she walked out of the complex door
lined with DVDs and uncertainties
I’m afraid of commitment
from the socks on my feet
to the sway of the bedroom door.

the tear between my blood and skin
flattens itself to drown in old days
the ones that smell like molded opportunities
freeing from the deeper inner intensity

to go back
go back to junior gumballs of lit candles
burgundy snatched these chances
kissed away the future with thick smoke
red lipstick left on cigarettes
dancing in the light of gross

the walls are rewriting hate.