You Are the Soundtrack to My Own Haunting

your voice quivers through the thick air, dripping mercury from hidden strings. i can taste your poison again, coursing through my veins. the night grows darker and yet you still shimmer. the moment flickers, fading in and out of existence. you are the soundtrack to my own haunting, an out of body experience where i greet the ghosts that fill the room behind the room. you’re gone and yet you never leave. time is an illusion and so were we.


Mortal Men

and so the knight set out that day

to whither in the wind

his armor gone

his sword is drawn

he and the clouds hold sway

his enemy – withdrawn, within

his beard besmirched his chin

the only shield to guard his soul

the breaking of the day

a blinded monk beside him rides

his mount is but a mule

a fountain in the distance lies

her water foul and cruel

oh purify! oh purify!

our souls are drenched in sweat

and in the beating of our hearts

we feel the dripping wet

what does it mean? what does it mean?

the knight he asks the monk

it means we are but mortal men

and damn we smell of funk


Everything Eyes

How will it feel

The next time

Our eyes


And key

No longer opening


Are everywhere


Once holding


That it was something


Love doesn’t always


Time was a terrible


Nostalgic about your


Are windows to your




Will we evolve?


In This Life or the Next

i still feel her in my bones, echoing off unseen walls… her name begging an answer to unanswerable questions. we burned too bright and too fast. like a fiery comet meant for disaster. i regret nothing. for her name is etched upon my heart like a birthmark i couldn’t have planned. i will live and die in hope that she returns. in this life or the next.


The Soil of Dead Flowers

are we not of our thoughts? subconsciously lost. Your eyes I admire, a lead to discovery. The world inside of you is an instant light, bringing forth the vibe of which you reside. In all its magnificence, I resent to wonder, could it be the facade of the tears I collect? Manifesting new life from the soil of dead flowers.


I Wear Your Scars with Pride

i wear your scars with pride, wounds from the battle you waged on my heart. i would take back nothing, regret being reserved for the weak. i braved your choppy waters and lost, another victim to your storm. this shipwreck will lie in ruin, serving as a warning to future suitors. take heed with your precious cargo, for this sea is that on an epic fable. believe what you want, but she will eat you alive.


Find Me Tomorrow

this tent is far too small for the cosmic scale of our intentions. i wax and wane against your flesh, a moon caught in the tide of planetary emotion. i feel your gravity draw me near and quiver in your embrace. your lips brush against mine, stardust staining my face. we shall dance under the stars tonight, wolves amongst this flock. savages we are, desert hearts that burn, hidden from the world. find me tomorrow if you still exist and we shall dine together. glorious sandwiches wrought from tired hands, stomping on birdfood that shall be wasted. forget her now you stupid fool, this delicacy is in its immediacy.


Mercury Tears

The stars dot the sky in cosmic scale, dripping lucid like mercury tears. I bathe in psychedelic drops of ash, remnants of cosmic death. We are borne from astral reincarnation, hope begot from scientific truths. I would burn the skies, fading into non existence, just to illuminate your presence. You are a shooting star, distracting the works from black holes of nothingness. Your love lights up the cosmos. You are the sun and I am blind amongst your glorious presence.


Praying for the Best Intentions

This fire burns with intention, the wood carrying the tales of centuries. Branches carrying the weight of eternity. If plants could speak what words we possess, they’d cry the crimes of history. We watch enchanted as they ignite, blazing controlled from feet away. I see my fate and that of those about me, praying for the best intentions. When contention fails and we subside, the burn is all that’s left. I see myself inside the embers, you glowing by my side.


Dirty Laundry

She came to me in a dream again last night. It seems even there she has her grip on me. Freedom is an illusion, not like my nightmares which are very real. My self-induced insomnia is but a defense mechanism to stave off the war that happens in my mind when I can no longer stay awake. Days go by, the war at bay, but I inevitably doze off into terrorist slumber. I am wounded, why won’t they grant me leave? That’s just not in the cards for me. This night was no different and the war waged on. The marquee glowed neon, brighter than my dreaming mind could handle. I was blinded by the sparkling lights, little stars with more life than the people that filled the theater. Certainly more life than me. I stood in the center of the white-washed sea of Los Angeles harlots, silent amongst the roar. I drew imaginary lines from the peaking nipples perfectly placed on vapid model-types scattered about the room, making constellations from disenchanted wannabe stars. My attention was averted to the stage and the constellations fell apart bouncing on the sticky ground at our feet. She seemed to float from behind the curtain, a ghost in a shell, hovering until she reached the microphone. The theater went silent, all fading to black. I found myself in her dressing room, the chorus from “Little Lies” repeating itself in my mind, teasing and torturing me. I wish she’d lie to me, but she never does. She uses me. I like being used. I am her robot, programmed to please her. But I’m not a robot. I feel too much. For her. For what I wish she would be. What I wish we could be. She does a line and the dim lights dance off the mirror and along the perfect contours of her face. I admire her wanton disregard for consequence. She’s never been one to think that far ahead. Maybe she could teach me how to live in the moment, to be present. Doubtful. I have too much past and we have no future. She kisses me and I lose myself again. My mind begins to fade as I am lost in her embrace, her control over me reaching full capacity. I am nothing without her and yet she is everything regardless of me. She uses me and then tosses me out like dirty laundry. It’s fitting that the last thing I always remember is her smell, an aphrodisiac combination of perfume and fabric softener. I wake up restless and her memory haunts me in the form of a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of my room that I can’t muster up enough energy to do something about. Is this the summation of my life? Just a pile of dirty laundry.