Wake Me Up If You Know The End

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To the soft and equally hardened pitter-pattering of 3 sets of lazy paws at your door
To the unknowing if last night’s conversation ever happened

with the same momentum as yesterday
And the three days before and after that
coaching yourself with the same elongated locker banter
“Today’s the day”
“You run”
“You rise”
“You rally”

The soft, hardened pitter-pattering and casual whimpering at your door again
The detectives of SVU still parked at the perps house waiting for him to show.
Your lungs cackle and mellow,
Watching a distant fog roll in.
And yet its 91 degrees on a Tuesday, narray a cloud in sight.

Reruns and retreads of lifetimes play in your 90s era mausoleum of a room.
Doctor’s orders this time.
Tarantino, casual heist mean, hard hitting Mexican dramas, a handful hardoiled noirs, and a marathon through a tragically disappointing sitcom are prescribed.

Anything will do really.
Anything to keep you from waking to that soft, hardened pitter-pattering again.
Anything to remind you of a new day of her being gone.

Higher Things

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Along the trimmed borders of highways small and tall,

and closer to the shoreline where the oil liner reaches its mark,

The Chase begins.

Backlit sunsets yank back against ever encroaching shadows,

Waves rise to meet moments pulled across a stretcher bar

Destined to be imprinted with an abstract reenactment of your California hair.

Lonely screens grow legs and tango towards me.

That curious whip cream covered stare of yours shifting into its most untainted form.

A smile. At me. For me. The lucky dog that I am.

The screens draw in languidly, almost seductively.

Your face becoming clearer and further.

Your voice coming in with a static reverb that squeaks “stay”

And yet my eyes remain averted to the wind as the battle plays out ahead ahead of me.

The oldest one there is in in fact.

Sparks of shadows roll towards me on ice blocks & I cruise forward.

This ship can’t tip over again.

You won’t ruin my sunset today.


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I had dealt with it,
melted it,
buried it under
burning purpose,

but I grew to hate the apathy I labelled stength;
I missed your waterfall skin
I missed your hard drive promises (prone to crashes)
I missed your solar flare smile (momentary burning lack of time lapses)
I missed your event horizon memory (perfection for a second followed by cosmic prolapse)

even though it is agony.

Visceral, luminous agony.

But there it is, laid out naked;
and there is nothing in the end but the ever-vapid,

no rhyme, reason,
or flaccid time signature to
grant it emphasis
or meaningful inaction.

Only words and their cold
razor edges;

only an oligarchy of madness
replacing a patriarchy of unendurable sadness;
flip-flopping torment
in exchange for ecstacy-worship
and the cult of happenstance.

And yet still,

still I can’t live a beautiul lie;
and I can’t bury you in one night stands
and I can’t bury you in smiley-faced facebook posts
and I can’t bury you in cynicism
and I can’t bury you in god, knowledge or alcoholism
and I can’t bury you in art or agony or elation or loneliness or solipsism.

Portrait of a desolate animal,
alone in a corner:

Knees pulled up to chest, eyes vacant with unrest, trickling spickets of distress
and I’m choking
and I’m dying
and I can’t breath
and I can’t think straight, see straight, believe straight
and I can’t go on
and I can’t stop
and I can’t move
and I can’t not love you
and I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you so so much.

Realization of wanton horror;
that you’ll forever haunt my hallowed corners,
you’ll never leave my desire and I’ll never burn you with fire like the bridges we alit with matchsticks and ire,

and there’s only one reason I’m writing this
second rate
papier-mache portrait of pain;

so that one day you’ll stumble across it on your fucking iphone curled up next to him and all his fucking money and his fucking cars and his fucking religion
and I hope you realize for just one blink of eternity
that you played with

pencil shaving minefields
and time
and infinite hearts
and integrity
and the soul of a haunted man,

and you broke them all
you broke them all
you broke them all.


Willie Watt


Little Spoon (incomplete)

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Don’t you remember the comfort of the womb?
The place where you had the basic necessities of a healthy life,
Food, water, shelter, warmth and affection.
We are born the little spoon.
Then many boys and girls are told they can no longer be the little spoon.
They appreciate the warmth of the little spoon, because they are now the big spoons.
Supposed protector, human concave, the placer of the warm arm over the chest.
The giver, the rhythmic human body pillow, who contorts to the whim of the protected.
In some sense the little spoon in the relationship is ultimately the big spoon.
Maybe everybody is a big spoon, who sometimes feels like the little spoon.



Dad, did you know, if I spoke with an accent,
that familial title of yours, could be pronounced
‘dead’, and it would suit, for that is all you are to me.
Although air continues to fill your lungs
somewhere on this Earth, the one thing I learned
from your lackluster teachings,
is how family, especially our own,
is a non-existent formality, whose soul purpose
is to teach the young of lonesomeness
and decay. A dust ridden cobweb
serenades your heart with the wails of dying flies,
the trap of glistening thread, having once enthralled
my flailing limbs in its tender vice.
When copulation occurred, all those years ago,
it was not done in a fit of happiness,
but on the cusp of a spontaneous accident,
the membrane of your heartless self,
poisoning the egg shell I emerged from
in the moment it was cracked upon the frying pan.
You flayed me on the gas lit stove
on a daily basis, dancing across the kitchenette
with an invisible partner, the sound of tears
hitting the crystalline floor with a tsunami
of worthless dread, being the music
caught between your ears. Perhaps there was once a time
I had been looking for fatherly affection,
but the hand you outstretched to mine
was not out of kindness, and after my strength
discontinued in its waning struggle, I forced
my agenda to escape upon the psychosis
of your inebriated mind, and before you could
swipe at me with those arms of yours, like vines,
I descended into the underbrush, and until these words
filled the page before you, never had I decided
to ever again come up for air.


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Teeth forever rot
Bones break, heart slows, bodies fall
I swear, life is good.


- Suede Expression

Voices of Strangers


Comforted by the voices of strangers
who I adore.
They bleed through the earphones,
Exhibiting all the closet chambers in my mind,
Seducing me to honesty.

Summer night – the apartment is cramped
crickets roar against heat

Nancy Sinatra’s hums hush me.
NyQuil to my dysphoria, insomnia.
The boots are made for sleeping
Thank you, for bringing me hope on
Lover-less nights.

Lizzy Grant, thank you too
For all the orgasms you erupt inside of my
Your lips smack my ear drums
Your infinity fingers touch my neck, pull my hair, caress my spine,
Until I close my eyes, breaking down the walls
Taking me to the strawberry fields
Of my colorful consciences
With you, I’m aware,
With you, I’m alive.

Jim Morrison, lighting the carnal and spiritual fires in all my organs
Your reptile skin, sharp and hostile
Slithering on my pale torso,
People are strange, but you aren’t people
You are a door.
I sing the words you write, naked in the shower
Holding my hips, you slow dance with me
Into the lizard palace
And all the parts of my body become yours.
Under your spiritual domain.
I wash your hair with my mortal hands.

The voices of strangers-
Take me into a new tropic,
Where my dreams and the realities of my consciousness become


-Suede Expression

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