140

139

he left the lights on,
with his belt he tied together my arms
and said through a smile,
'I want to do you some harm'
and smiling back, I felt it
I felt everything
and everything felt so much more like everything
behind that blind fold
not seeing, just feeling, barely breathing and hearing
sounds outside, rattling trains, passers-by
can see excitement climaxing
on this white bed lay my head
hugs my legs, he kisses my ribs
and no one knows where we are .....

138

You used to inspire my poetry.

Now you just inspire me to vomit.

137

Fuck Yeah Peter Pan

136

Wasted time, wasted space, wasted hearts, wasted place 
You can't know what you're wasting your time on until you damn well wasted it. 
It seemed like a new place with all those overwhelming things we needed to consider.
Dish soap, new towels, cups, dishes. A spice rack. But before we knew it, the toe nail clippings were turning to dust.
Dust like fading blossoms we saved from outside and arranged terribly in tiny winter vases.
We could have flowers in the winter, unnaturally so. But it was natural to miss such beautiful things, and, why miss them if we had means not to? How simple the analogy of a flower pot - contain the uncontainable, a round girl stuffed in stand pipe pants.
Rusty jar-lid jams preserving plastic fruits to spread thin on stale toast.
We could simulate the living, in perforated life boats,
sinking, swimming sharks fin, a chance to win supersedes that it's danger there too,
but lest a tranquil tiger sleeps with a lamb.
You can't know what you're wasting your time on until you damn well wasted it. 
Wooly flowers could be undusted, jar jam lids unrusted, but in dust there is a faded beauty,
grey matter - a familiar mystery - not quite the clarity of white,
not quite the final period of black, but grey....
like the ash from a cigarette made beautiful in its own light.
But just yesterday I saw you kissing tiny flowers,
but then you stopped and turn to cry,
cause everything tiny and dusty and beautiful,
like you and me, was born to die.

135

134

Swing high
Swing low
This love gives me vertigo
But once I'm up there
I can't not want the high
That feeling I'm so close
To the grey and orange sky
No cares in the world
Nothing can touch me
When only the birds and the clouds are above me
And in the morning
Days start with coffee
And end with wine
And in between those sips
I'm feeling not fine
Cause this life its not mine
It's a byproduct, refined
Like white sugar
That's bad
Like white bread
Don't cut me off a slice
Even though it looks nice on diner menus
It's crusted and molded and bad
When you shine that fluorescing light on it
It shows the truth
Nothing but
Pasturized partygoers
My love in a valley
of death
In a shadows light
Dimly lit by the moon and a million stars
Illuminating slightly
A toe in the dirt
A finger up her skirt
A missing button off his shirt
Whoops
Sips spill, ends thrill, looks kill
But these cigarettes faster
The grass is greener on the other pasture
But they tell you it's not
So you won't go look
But I will , I will
Fuck the pain, fuck the thrill
Have to keep my head clear
And not sit in your swing of comfort
Rock me baby to and fro
You know that's where I want to go
But I'm looking down and all around
And I'm telling you I'm jumping off
And you think that I wont
But I will
And I do
And one day I'll pass by that park of buried memories
And whisper to the grains of sand that
I did

The bad news is time flies. The good news is I'm the pilot. And the best place to be is somewhere else.