I found it strange
When the world didn’t change
The few that knew you were shifted
Yet everything else kept moving
But now it all seems so stale
I never thought I’d be the one to lose you
Full of life
It should have been the other way around
But I guess the world had other plans
Or maybe you were just too much for it
You were unlike anyone I have ever known
And maybe you were a threat to this insanity
We run around calling ‘society’
I still think about the conversations we’d have
You so certain in yourself
So god damn certain you’d be able to change this place
And you had
You never thought it was good enough
But you changed everyone you came in contact with
Whether you knew it or not
You were genius in your words
I couldn’t come to terms that you were gone
But I have come to accept reality
As much as I tried to erase this event
I’ve seen too many go down that unhealthy road
Of non acceptance
So I’ve made an agreement with the universe
I will accept that you are gone
But I will never forget how you’ve changed me
And will always remember the last thing I heard you say
It’s like you knew it was our last conversation we would ever have
I don’t like to think of it that way
But you always had a way with words
made in the context
battling for supremacy
that defies description.
I remember my crippling fears
in the afterglow
of unconscious battlegrounds.
Videogame ultrasounds, and
with bulwark banalities.
Transcendent minutiae, and
we choose the outcomes
without understanding the finality of our actions.
waiting for the world to burn,
I took the lessons you taught
but only after you were gone
did I turn it into action.
You’re the least expensive
I ever developed,
and maybe that’s why I got addicted so quickly,
even after all the cigarettes and whiskey,
I’m still trying to replicate
to yellow brick roads.
Snort the kaleidoscope, and
chalk it up to a lesser version
of systematic misuse.
Just smoke the damn cigarette, darling;
nobody wants to hear about your daddy issues.
Imbibe the poison, and
select a delusion to foster;
we’re a generation without God, so
we all grew up in fatherless homes.
Saturate the addendum
in nuclear ambrosia, and
barricade the enclosure.
You’re a page full of ellipses
in a book about closure, and
I still remember the way we fucked
fucked each other over.
We’ve bolstered our immunities
to the precipice of disbelief;
and you look at me with malice and seethe
as I write, “dear Alice,
Wonderland ain’t all it’s cracked up
We’re all just drinking and smoking and pretending
as we await
an apocalypse of endings;
but I’ve got a front row
to the gun show, and
I could use a
the lights have become
the effervescent act
the future without you
Tourniquet tightened in accordance
Abhorrence within lungs,
reveling in punk-rock forest nettles.
When the dust finally settles,
if you see me from afar,
I hope it looks like bottle rockets
and shooting stars.
take you all the way
if I could.
If you’d let
High as Eden and whiskey-tinged.
Ego singed and naked.
Cloudy sky obscures
Cut the ribbon and watch
Asymmetrical progression retrospectively candy-coated
and classified as parabolic
scored to lo-fi
I say: “it’s gotta be more than a photograph;”
you say: “take the needle off the phonograph; ignore the mirrors long enough to take a breath.”
Your ghost is all I’ve got left, and you say: “give it a rest, baby;”
but it’s hard when
I’ve been such a fucking mess, lately.
Call me crazy, but
I’ve become convinced
majesty and apathy
in roughly equal measure.
I ever made on
Two days outside obligatory parameters, and
for the final stretch of tarmac.
Everything is slower. You notice
you didn’t used to, like
the desert grass
wilting under triple-digit Texas summer, or the ink making neat urban hieroglyphics on the page, or the herculean contrivance it takes to not look someone in the eye when turning that particular corner. But, of course, she didn’t look at you, and you were too afraid to run up to her and grab her arm and say hello, and now it feels like that one moment of cowardice and indecision has caused everything that
Sober, it all feels like puppet theatre. Like, if everyone would just slow their heart rate for a minute and look up they could pluck the strings out of the air, severing the tendrils that connect subconscious algorithms and logarithms and synaptic electricity to the body without their consent.
Sober, you wonder when last you weren’t a plaything of time and kinetic energy and reflexive ego; when last you made a decision unbound by automatic processes and instinct.
Sober, you realize how much you still love her, and how there’s nothing you can do about it now the cards have been dealt and inevitable hypnosis has become indelible beyond the veil.