Wine index;

February is the month of Nothing

March my very way to the Liquor store

April is nearing, 

May I finally rest my head.

Pinot Noir

Cabernet Sauvignon 

Merlot

A good nose on this one.

I’d pause from a meeting today to find that my droning life is starting to get unbelievably boring. 

This gross need to be relevant and famous is a wondrous drug that won’t leave my damn fucking head. 

God. 

I think about the devils and angels. I think about the artistic prose, and how I won't do anything without it. 

I’ve got a published mentor now, so that’s got me thinking there's a chance I round the edges off of my heap of shit index and do something that’ll get me the wondrous gaze of a taller brunette. Neither mine or God’s eye will interrupt my sleeping and dreaming mind. That is why I do this. 

Is that why I’m doing this?

To be in a fucking magazine…?

To be revered?

No. 

At the end of the day, when I curse the man who pays me, when I torment the stupid walking vagina, when the fat man sings after i've stolen all of his money away– 

This putrid tortured world will hear my voice and resonate with it. I need English badly, I can’t seem to grasp it. 

I want a revolution, 

I want to be androgynous.

I want to dig up bodies and steal the gold. 

I want no justice for those who deserve it. 

Life is fucking hell, Life is so fucking hell. 

I want to burn all the self help books. 

I want to burn all of the bibles and that will be that. 

Revolution, in French style. Over a skyscape birthed from the bible and Michelangelo, firstly fashioned and grim, in my own gothic way. Sky rats, bugs, all cascaded in my town. ME. As the rightful owner of it all. 

Full bodied taste

I thought about sleeping with a friend this morning before I rose. 

I’d spent my morning breathe talking to her about how she’d fit with another man, so elegantly ‘not-me’

But frankly I hate for that to exist. 

She is poised and quiet, she’s like a little junky that ran away. 

I’d imagine the time when we could finally say to each other that nothing else in this world mattered, and this bed, The one we made love onto was where we belonged.

And then I thought about the gross

fascination of hating her months from now,

And cascading lies I would tell to keep me from going on dates or doing anything with her.

This hopeless feeling is the one that started my Tuesday. But surely before my closet and my mirror, I’d start to think about myself again and now, the anxiety draws quietly from my mind.

And publication and shooting guns and drinking myself dead is the forethought of my mind and isn’t that quite beautiful to some lonesome degree?

Six year vintage

God, blood is a wonderful thing. 

I am disgusted by the thought of it,

But it evokes this waking eyelid widening and enshrouded feeling that losing too much of it can send you down.

Working in this sanitary place, watching these crying old ladies pass me with terrible news. 

But these clustered minds that fear losing loved ones, scramble around the plains of uncertainty and wait for the inevitable doom.

They are distracted all waking life by ways to get rich and escape only to have the plan soiled by the undertaker. 

They let death hit them like freight trains and they pee themselves at the sight of ghosts.

Graveyards are places for losers and the winners yell at Walmart.

I am confused because I want to play music that embodies my writing. I want to go outside in the day and stay outside when the moon rises. I want to do this to prove something to myself.

That I am this illustrious and self deprecating writer that is tortured by normal life and hates the world.

But the soul asks me to play more into this deathly haunting man I want to be,

Cramped inside a room with absolutely nothing to dine on,

To die if anyone says no.

I would just wonder why the birds flew by.

I would just hate to see them land or to see them go.

I remember things from when I was five years old and stupid. 

That has to be something.

Tannins on the blend

When Marrow turned me down I shut the writer off. And then he came back with new ideas. He came back like an entity who needed me more than I needed him. 

And the ideas I’ve had are terrible. 

Because I’ve seen the devil recently. And the devil is all over my mind.

The judgement, my impurity to God is something nobody wants.

I had spoken to my cousin on the manner and I quite often talked to the amulet wrapped around my neck. 

He is here, and I am not mad for saying so.

This world is a place that exists for hurtful and nasty things to be said,

an infinite gambling machine that churns luck and lies 

It’s Friday now and I feel dead.

I feel as if the world has won and I’d like to drink wine at work. The wine that I sip tonight, 

Please, let this writer give me my message. Let something yell these Money Words into my head to type later on at five,

I do it so desperately at five, with no ambition or drive. Cursing the Job for taking the inspiring hours of 8:00-5:00pm away from me!

But let these bygones be bygones as I imagine the old bag with no clothes on. 

She’s ripe and ready to die and to love.

I wanted a sweater today that was black and omnipotent. It would look good with a rose pin,

But I realize that I want to scratch my face out every time it looks at me in the mirror.

I feel vulnerable now,

So salaciously vulnerable,

Now that these things ask me out to dine,

I want nothing of it,

I want to be alone where I’ll be unseen by women and men because I look so goddamn weird amongst them.

Anxiety, 

Missing olden me,

Bread crumbs and roaches,

Let the light turn off, on its own

I watch the days go reading some book for the second time and revising this dumb script I plan to sell,

But I scratch the wall with my nails and chip the paint with my teeth wanting out and to be with this stupid animal I met in North Florida.

Maybe all this time I’ve been just absolutely crushed by the loss of this woman. 

Just never mind. Because I hate her.

And that sun sets the same way every time, 

How boring is nature and how unearthed I might be to find any joy in loving the moonrises or the mountaintops.

Heathen by fletcher, 

Arrow root and tree stumps all incredibly boring and brown, 

As I almost lost my crown and my mind slipping on leaves in the day, in front of a kid and her mother. 

The stupid people watch as I’ve lost my very way looking so fragile and scary and dark and alone,

As if wearing black in the summertime was a crime against God and the village. 

Be gone, me, fuck this very dredge I dig to find what will make me sell,

I am not in this for anything except proof that I have reason to die,

as inspired by life I was, I now sit alone and listening to old classical hits that would put any woman to sleep, 

That nearly sink me into my very way,

all are a part of the third ballad and the fourteenth revision. 

And make me Quirky, no?

Loving sadness to sing to, no.

I never have done it in front of a soul, so what do you have to make of that?

That I'd be so inclined to write about these boring awful things that make me tick?

Anxiety, let her ring loudly, let her ring in my writing. In my ink, from my pen.

Down a hallway. Somewhere my mind calls for Tunisia or Morocco.

And in that dream I had last week, I saw the only thing I’ll ever love, die. 

There were stars and sand and fire-light. 

Sink my soul down and let the sadness talk about how I should have been out dancing tonight.

Maybe it’s my dumb voice, or the fact that I want it so badly.

I am locked in the chamber of self reflection, unlacing me to view my artwork as anything credible

“No, I’d rather stay in tonight.”

“No, it’d be best if I had never gone.”

The lady is gone, I haven’t written shit.

Because alone I will be pondering things and messaging an old flame that was long burnt out about how much they’ve hated me since our last bout.

Off of a measly glass of wine.

But to be miserable is such a stupidly relatable thing, and to be so blatant about how I want to go and be gone is nothing but heartache for the creative mind.

That I would have to change my voice around and into new clothes in order to appeal to Marrow Magazine or grow a vagina to be raped and played with.

I absolutely hate this miserable fucking world because money wasn’t ever it for me. It’s all gone anyways, sideways by now. Counting quarters and dimes. 

From a headcount at the bar to a few pints to a few glasses down my throat,

Turning into slime to melt away everything that I’ve ever known true.

Alcohol froze me in time. 

I never bought that sweater.

So I lay my head to weary rest on the toilet, 

I thought about California again. 

Decent Varietal

Bells around Cabernet town.

A ballad of Cairo

Comparisons and Ingenuity,

To the homeless and hopeless.

I’m halfway up my chamber door entry. Picking at screws and wild, nasty hanging insects that present themselves as a problem for me in the later hours of the night.

I feel like an inevitable junky howling at the sky, the sun, and the stars.

Living in a halfway where many drug addicts reside.

Being so close to these recovering, later-aged troglodytes, 

thinking I am some being much better than them.

Slatted boards laid aside each other, rotten coal up nearing the top.

Looking at my finger’s blackened hue to match the rest of the door, eager to be cleaned.

To think that Satan boarded the door, varnished it, and coated lime.

Nothing without hellion flame could have dirtied this door to this extent.

Reminding myself that the door only opens and closes.

There is no curse, no Satan, no God. 

I, door alike, am a product of time.

God didn’t make this entryway, a human did, and so much could be said about that.

God made Adam and Eve in perfection,

I was seed,

I was a human creation.

The wind howls on this new summer’s day.

Be it March fifth, but in Florida, every day is unfortunately summer.

Sun radiates through repeating plastic blinds, down and onto the floor like a mosaic made by a late artist. 

“In thought on Sunday,

Bed by ten,

No mind on Monday,

Bed by nine.”

I couldn’t forget that saying— I can’t. 

Fruit is laced with sugar, or something so permeable that it catches my attention.

I eat it like a kid, I chew with my mouth open when it’s served cold.

Summer’s day is the excuse to be ecstatic about life, better than those days spent inside when the world rains and when I beckon the answer to my creation.

Summer’s day is when the fruit is truly cold, unlike a winter, when I want stew. 

But when I ask myself these questions like a mad man,

When I repeat a saying, a phrase, 

I make these comparisons and I calculate social equations to feel genius, even though I am not one.

Driving me lucidly down. 

Trying to find this feeling I had felt on a drive somewhere, somewhere far away, lost and confused to what a summer day would look like in harmony.

Gently wiping the soot and ashes from my doorway with my hand now, gratefully reminded that my alcohol wipes had finally run out.

Wiping my pants down, standing on this stool desperately awaiting the end to this late spring cleaning.

I haven’t found that yet, nor will I in some time, but as the moon rises and the sun sets, I still hold onto the truth that life will permeate as it once did.

When I was grinning over succulent fruit and embracing the sunlight.

I consider myself a ghost hunter, a wild and delirious ghost hunter.

I had to look up the definition of Delirium and Dementia in fear that my time may be drawing near.

But thankfully I can reassure myself that I’ve always been mad and wacked-out.

This will always be light work to me.

The finish didn’t catch my attention

I hadn’t caught a cold in years, but last week I had one, and It was awful.

I caught a cold and a weary ugly feeling that I had no mother or woman to tend to me, leading me to this horrible and satiating feeling I have about my own father.

He is a living waste-bin and a miserable one. He’s never had any success in loving or with money.

I take little looks at the light growing and shrinking from a candle wick and think—

The candlestick is a bulbous thing and has began rounding as the night ages,

Wax grows bulbous around a flame light that hasn’t been dealt with.

The flame is a little devil to the wax. The wax just takes it and melts.

It’s like the idea of fruit, aging till ripe.

As fruit sweats beading water of life down and upon the ground,

Around a stem is uncontrollable biological mass that has no choice but to die with time and age and the elements.

But in candle’s case, it’s wax.

Inedible, coarse, and thick.

Decanter 

Hand laid upon my chin. Saturn is visible, I, miserable. Chain lighting and a christening set of starlights are near.

My mouth, near to pouring out my soul. Ejected from the space of my stomach and onto my clothes. The expensive olden ones I took too much time to pick and to buy,

A shaking manner, in brief moment,

Of overwhelming sadness and anxiety,

I feel on these nights of uncertainty.

My mind, boiling over some stupid thing I may have said.

Over lost heartfelt meanings I had never meant. 

As this same principle could be set to the way I will throw up soon.

But conjuring this vomit, only conjures more ways I’d wish to be anywhere but hopeless, alone, and afraid.

How it isn’t fair, God! I only wish to write these crisp feelings that i have felt, to remember again what I was like under lying light,

When I was young and malleable.

Tasting Finale

Velvet growth from the bottom of the heart laid the groundwork for feeling as you were young, blossoming purely purple as you grow old like a vine.

And grapes be the tiny truths, bulbous truths of consciousness and of feeling. fermented olden feelings gone.

When I sip wine, my first thought isn’t death or the consuming of life’s little cadaver.

It’s purely innocent nothing,

It’s the fact that I only see fermented wine

because I’d never seen the grape. Or some life it had in Paris or Rome.

MARROW MAGAZINE

There is no room in hell, 

Yet sadness is inevitable. 

I’ll grief over a magazine, over a loss, over nothing, 

But I am welcome to stay here on Earth. 

You can’t match my prose with a fat woman’s body, 

Neither can you match it with a dyke’s gaze;

Strict and prompted I lay to this craft and

before the nights final lay,

Judge my work 

Kill it with all of the ways your mind couldn’t

But when I am rich and evil and full of myself,

I'll destroy your stupid magazine and flood it with evil things

And watch you bathe and loathe your mistake. 

Loving pigs,

With your vaginas and ill-will

I can’t wait to get my ten dollars back.

-

Poetry this,

Let me over explain that,

All things in life are fake and fat

So when you are raped and made a victim,

Your work never has shown

Anyone a glimpse into how much attention

You’ve never owned, 

Well isn’t this easy 

Rhyming away, 

Just as you let the fast food

Guide your belly’s way

So do me a favor, 

End it so slim, 

Slide a gun under your chin

And let

Let nobody know.

 HATRED IS RELIGIOUS

Thought had boiled over in the morning. 

I lay in consequence, my surroundings sit in neglect apart from my mortal life. Restlessly awake and hopelessly twined near my night table. My bed is a coffin in weary sense. The hardwood is a waste-bin victimed to my mental illness. Bottles stacked high from a night unremembered, my stomach far away from anything remotely normal. Beyond any conscious thought, ‘Monday’ rings aloud in my head behind the bells tolled from nearing chapels. I wake this morning in an expected gloam, in annoyance to a mere mechanical ticking nuisance. 

This beating alarm has never been anything new, alarm for a day like the last, alarm for the next Sunday when I rest my eyes in drunken misery. 

Crying willow will you watch as I mourn this thought. Beyond the pane of the window.

Catch me, as I stumble from above, back down to this earth with nothing but teeth and brain like the righteous holy man I never was;

Drawing on darkness and decent into weary sorrow, behind old helm and brick-laiden cities

of beyond,

Calling upon something to fix my despondency 

Eerily fixated upon nothingness and death, 

As if no God ever existed.

In heaven was my father’s lie.

Best be this message rung loudly! I say,  stumbling ‘round in my filth and unholy consumption. Clinking so clunk-enly around my dreaded stay— muttering madness underneath my breath, cursing John Keats— For ‘Ode-ing’ to some melodious plot is far beyond my reach ‘no more! 

Best be my death! Best be some gruel ending to an endless saga!

Slithering my legs around the floorboards, trying to grab the purse of opiates beyond my extent, my mind wanders far away from what lies before my eyes. In such time of bestial unsatisfaction, I tap, tap, tap at my eyes in the case they were glass and tricking me in some sense.

The world is a storming sea now, now, rich brown leather padding upon my floorboards.

Because before my very false eye is sparkling ecstasy of something fathomed in a dream.

And in any case, nothing of that satisfaction could be true.

Jackal had chased rabbit to failure, as I scramble around my mind chasing lost thoughts slowly fading away to this new day. 

Shovelling opiate down and into my mouth.

The recollection of my unconscious thought haunts my deserving innocence, being one-in-the-million of employed men who crawl this earth. Hallowed be the man who limps upon his wake, for my eyes shutter in question of this reality before me. Blink and there it all is again. Blink to watch it gone. Recurring faces in which I kill, latch, or miss, float around the fragments of my memory that stick true. Everything imaginable is inexplicably unfavorable by dawn, all casted ‘round me in euphoria at break. 

Watching, watching as my life had come to this very point on such a dreaded Monday.  I’ve finally thrown open the gates. To which I have decided to dig my own. 

He who decides this fate, is he, religiously me.  

Yet I am plagued by solemn commitments, ones in which fall behind the graceful thought of spilling my life into the unknown. 

I am ready for this next world — I say, ready for the next.

Upon flamelight nearing my face, with pen and paper I recount the evocations of young and youth, nearing devil’s roaring midnight hour I write; 

[1:1] In the horrendous beginning, when god created the heavens and me,

[1:2] The Earth was a perfunctory gesture of greed and evil for those who had no choice, living in his vision of some voided machine-world.

[1:3] Then God in all magnificence and prose said “Let there be Darkness.” And there was harsh darkness.

[1:4] And darkness fell upon the palisades of my mind, God finding his chosen loser, and all of that being ‘good.’ 

[1:5]  “Let there be little light, from beam to keyhole in metaphor to a dim ideal for all that has been before you.”

[1:6] And then God created real darkness in the human caveat, erecting nightclubs and illicit substances that run rampant in the night.

[1:7] The earth, in plagued sorrow, brought forward thunderstorms and prostitutes to reign upon the weak and weary, to shadow man in his lonesome image.

[1:8] With his eye, God watched as the swarm of man flock towards what little light had been casted upon the earth, and laughed.

[1:9] Peddled with rose and lust, sinking mud from the running living, the darkness left behind scrambling earth is lonesome and tired.

[1:10] And God, with his hand and blade, split his palm and let ichor rain upon me.

As the left eye of mine began to close in sorrow from my own words, my fountain pen pierced the inside of my wrist. Blood and ink amalgamation began to spill upon my work, as I envisioned God had done in my writing. 

In my replication, I grew ashamed. In the presence of Lord, may I drowsily lay, for his rule is unlike that of any. Yet I have put myself in the very place that I must've been warned never to impede, that of mortality, that of a place beyond God. 

Moonlight and wind carried into my loft had jolted my presence, and warned me that blown wind is enough to quiet a wick. The crackling had left my home, the light, and my day. All gone, all finally departed.

My mind had never registered them, clouded by this sorrow, I drift into my own world. Into my own vision of this sullied earth. As my eyes alert from a stiff and brittle state, moving oh-so slowly south to the top of my obituary, laid flat upon my table.

My Face filled with horror,

beyond a ghastly gaze, a tried and true pact was set and sealed.

The striking sight of this promise had been made in blood from my own hand, the agreement had been made in hatred ink, this deed upon any, would be made tonight. 

Great descending, intoxicated flurry of my mind envisions man, me as man, guided by shadowing figures who lurk in the imagination. Caught between hands and arms of the dead– guided downwards, a path of stairs into infinite darkness. The hands of the hall grab and pull my clothing, my eyes, and my being. 

In the wrap of this sickening, ill, way of my beholding. 

That this dread of life worth living, carried down with me, is nothing more than that of the merest parody of the great dark beast of death that sits higher than,

Any bit of my soul that has chosen to live a life outside the garden of eden,

In unknowing of whom I may be with my clothes off.  

Drifted away with this envisioning, nothing may exist before my eye except a bloodied pact and ideas of darkened grandeur, slowly closing my eye to the beat of the water droplets below my faucet tap, with all of this, finally in my mind. 

Slowly drifting towards the topside of my desk and slowly letting the sound collage the ways I’d finally go,

The tapping begins to grow louder,

And the rain fell as God made it to do.

Yet pierced beyond a knocking, is a clacking, growing so closely to my stay.

Highlighted red majesty shoes aproned on a wet cement sidewalk. 

Ripped from a dreary,

I, now peering, down from a cill way above.

 A silhouetted figure in the faded drab of green and grey is drawing so awfully close to my dreaded stay,

Cloaked to match the night, in eminence of a wanderer with a destination set, her gait was something of a promptness. Moving in such a heavenly manner. In rhythm, In time, from when my restless eye watched as she made her very way. 

Lustful ivy and hedera fall behind her, brushing her legs and casting her appearance as a lengthy long one, emerging from bleak nothingness.

Almost yet, I ask why, why must some elegant thing enter such an ungodly kingdom of cement and sorrow— with such dispenseful stupidity, as if the rainfall wasn’t enough of a warning. 

Under the porchlight I know that she waits nakedly.

From my blood splattered mess to now awakened alert, 

For God and nothing more expected me to answer tonight,

From a man with nothing more.

I entered the archway to my stay, abhorred to the door before me. 

Beyond is restless and eager life, so far away from anything this dark and depraved.

Innocent life, so very close to my stay, in expectancy of wine and starch and entry.

As any woman would, with God’s hand in mind.

Beyond my reach for this handle, she has gratefully no idea the horrors that lurk inside of my mind, as when I open this door, the clash of two separate vessels of eternity will begin. 

As they did when he created the Heavens and Hell.

I deliberated the reasoning for her visit as I watched her cheekbones beyond a toil of smoke that bellowed from a pot upon the stove. She sits kindly at my rounded altar in the brasserie, fixated on the mess of things I had left around the house. 

My great illness before her, she, abstaining from horror.

Could she be an appraiser of death, knowing exactly what I had on my mind tonight?

A lame, perforated message sent by the heavens in hopes to keep me intact for my next miserable Sunday?

As the opiates begin to wear, my rigid cold and dead-feeling hands reach for the blade that would lay beneath my kitchen counter. 

Stagnant clock ticking, ticking, as I chop the melody between apples parceled upon the cutting board. This great meal I prepare for an unwarranted woman, slips beyond my pineal grasp, now graced with this comedown of my withered being and the unbearable coldness that my drug had prevented me from. 

As I take breaths between my cuts and portioning, she awaits in a juvenile state, but beyond her is the window in which I watched her scurry. Awakened from that dreary sorrow, the very rain that had shielded her from my perception is now beating down, down, like a loud devilish drum.

In the crack of Lighting,

I, a showman for God, now spotlighted in a horrifically comedic scene. 

Battling the wave of these sights, sounds, and responsibilities of man, all equally devastating to me. 

All crashing, down, around.

Unshackled are the chains that held my hands down to my sides. 

Away from the kitchen daggers,

Swallowing throat, in fear of taking much more. 

I slip my clenching grip of the fruit destined to be prepared, sliding the blade deep inside my hand. 

Reluctant to bear emotion, in fear of showing this hamlet and her any sort of bother, would melt my mystique and facade in my nearing execution.

This pain, nearly slipping away from my mouth and out of my breath, seeping and seething pain and mess of blood upon my rags and clothes dripping onto the tile below the stove, 

Through the cracks of the seal, and equivalently spread throughout them, 

Each canal of blood below me flows calculated along the kitchen floor. 

A second of clarity, before this mortal desecration of my being, poised to be impure and unholy allowed for a greater judgement on to how I would go, 

This great sharpness of a blade and this mess of blood around my stay would be too much to impose on such a pure soul, 

As if I had driven this very cooking blade into to my stomach and guided the split— she too would be as impure as I, 

God only fears our knowing, that he isn’t.

To relay the only chivalry known,

Setting two bowls to dine,

Her’s with majestic apples boiled,

Morphine, tramadol, oxycodone in mine.