In a haunted attic
Softened against ash covered walls;
Self-portraits of the shadows of ghosts.
Sundown on uptown.
The tongue begun.
Irreverence in the form of tear stained screams.
We rise with swollen glands
And crooked teeth.
Angels with missing eyes.
Automatons in single file lines.
The escape from today.
The scars afire
Immersed in the dark depth of pain.
Chaotic and frozen over.
A riot in slow motion ether.
Everlasting and transgenic.
The scarecrows and I.


Ends of rope
Tied effortlessly to goals
That tighten hands around scars on throats.

Arrays of murderous light.
An empty promise made
Through the haze of an addiction to destruction.
Always an excuse to remain,
Never a reason to have a spine.
Your core became a shooting gallery
For the lies you can’t give up.
Your friends…
Only examples of future ghosts.
What is it you think you’re being true to
When everything you are
Hinges on the approval of a world you despise,
Yet admire?

The ‘love’ that blossoms like cancer.


The jagged tree branches
Of broken promises;
Everything you once were to me.
An expansive silence;
An endless text of black infinity.
You charmed me with fear,
Scared me with connection
And became the Dead Sea…
Weighted and shamed;
Mirrored and blind.
The scrawled words left on crumbling walls.
A child’s drawings of a happy family,
Torn into an endless trail of
Shredded envelopes hand-delivered to a dead letter office.
Scream into your clenched fists
And wish for warmth and the violation of everything comfortable.
That nagging thought eating away at your ability to let go.
You know tomorrow this is all going to hurt so bad.
You know.

The Angel / Crow / Emergence

It’s not that I expected more
Than what I could give in return.

It’s not that the gravitational pull of the moon
refuses him any less than I can maneuver.

It’s that I mapped out my own pain
As a way to prepare myself for the fall.

It was the appearance of a bittersweet laugh;
A false smile that I adopted
Then desperately attempted to escape;
An intellectual manslaughter;
The fear of God hidden politely in a diseased embrace;

You do this

Fool’s gold and denial notices;
Shelter in place of home;
Crawl space;
Absence of light;
Avoidance of opportunity.

He takes a photograph
In the fog of a morning sunrise
And tries to imagine a parallel universe
where this dark boy
didn’t only exist within strings of binary.

Find me.

Rest and Reset

It’s a soft drug;
A subtle vibrato;
A steady hum
Beneath the surface of the skin.
It sooths
As skin begins to give way to pressure
That builds
From grains of salt
To vast caverns of hateful noise;
Constantly evolving waves of sound;
Bloodied screams from the tops of trees.

He reaches up;
He pulls himself from undercurrents to ozone;
Tears at the layers of soot his dried skin has become;
Flees the police;
Trespasses where forgiveness is nothing but a long forgotten memory;
Pulls at strings of hair as if cobwebs;
Drags a smile across his face
And tells himself
“I’m OK.”

I’m OK.
I’m OK.
I’m OK.

A Rebirth Of What Never Was

When there is nothing left of you
But a haunted shadow made of an absence of light;
When the stardust is nothing but ashes and dust;
When pain and heartache are the only things remaining;
When you’re sure you’ve been destroyed;
Left behind;

You have nothing left to lose.
You have no reason to remain what you are;
And no reason not to become

Something new.

Track Eleven

You are so secret
In your disease.
A mime trapped
In an invisible box.
I’d break you out
If I could.
(But I’ve got to leave it up to you.)
The nerve center
Of my emotional core
Keeps growing
And pulsing;
With nowhere to go.
So I’m slowly filling notebooks
With your name only.
It’s enough to break you down.
One day I might be brave enough
to show you.


Your goals
Leave sour faces
And track marks in the snow
Replace memories of darkness
Like fading smiles
In the glow of evening.

Shadow Wound

I believe
I could navigate the treachery blindly;
My hands bound with barbed wire
behind my back;
I need the beauty in decay;
An illuminating darkness leading the way;
The subdivision of emotion at a molecular level;
Letting go of our father, whose deceitful reflection sells us what we cannot have;
The lack of impulse control…

This yearning to constantly destroy and rebuild;
An anxiety greater than any work of art could ever claim to be.
For the daily routine is a deceitful treason
And my shadow an open wound.

All I want is home.
I want
Is home.

With automatic emotional responses left behind;
Silvering with wings outstretched;
Becoming whole again.
Complete within incompleteness.

Chaos Of Whispers

If we’re honest
we scrape nothing but
scabbed over cores
of raw emotional intensity;
A lack of want.
A yearning for emptiness;
A murder of crows
that renders the sky
shallow and useless.
A cover of bloodstains.
A protective exoskeleton of bruises.
A pained smile.
Cracks in a ceiling.
Darkness that stretches eternally
as rays of black sunlight.
The muted voices of millions.
A reversed drowning of self.
The inverted torture of a smile.
The beauty of suffering
when all else is numbness.
When sense of self
is nothing more than an empty bed.

If we’re honest
our eyes roll back
into our heads
as soft dreams replace fear of death.

If we’re honest
the tears of children
drive us forward.

If we are honest
we know that the silence forms us
just as much as we form the silence.

Secrecy has a way of destroying us.