You got a minute, love? I got a twenty.

This is not Paul on the road,
seeing light,
dreaming of a martyr.

This is not the girl whose
renaissance is carried with her in her handbag
with a hundred shades of lipstick
that never quite washes off-
crucifixes for a purpose unknown.

This is not man thrown from Eden
dreaming what everyone dreams
when they find the best shade
to pull over and fuck the opportunity.

This is not Paul on the fucking road.
This is not the girl at the corner
with the puffed eyes,
or with the oddly shaped jaw
wishing the street lights
or the headlights of the night
would glow a just a little more


maggots and apple pie

'I've seen it all already" she says with her bitter little mind,
so despite her screams,
I bury her in maggots.

You rotting bark of a bitch,
why don't your roots die already?
It's not like the dye looked that good on you anyway.



And the will said
let it go
let it flow
play with words and make them grow
for no reason but see the
seeds in the sandy night
barren and lush both equal
both brightly
shining Edens
dead things likes stars
whose blistered cores have become known
how far we are from knowing
who we are
but forcefully going
and moving
and fumbling the meaning across
fingertips splashing colours and icons
and talking to gods that don’t want our
bloody secrets anymore than we want to die
with a bang
or a whimper of a world
that sang
the diamonds of slowly dying so long
but always moving
and lying
that we know the reason this pen
lifts and scribbles crooked chrome letters

as if a couple words
or a couple creeds
could capture what it meant to be alive.