Anxiety Won the Match.

Fear is just torture,
enduring dying
without the mercy of death.

Here I am
again, fighting just
to breathe.

Can’t stop shaking
for the life of me.

Teeth clenched like a vice.
I can hear them grinding,
squeaking, cracking.

Like sand and blood
in my mouth.

Hot flashes and cold sweats.
White knuckles on the wheel
as I drive through the rain tonight, windshield turned to a fluid,
living blur
of deadly colors and lights.

Pressure inside
to a fever pitch.
Sound the alarms.
All hands on deck.

Attention flooded
with red alert.

Be sure
not to hydroplane,
swerve into the other
lane or veer,
go bury yourself in a ditch.

Rain slows,
clouds part, offering
visibility at last.

Calming, shameful:
anxiety won the match.

War for Ouroboros. 

How do you wear it?

Like a face? Is this mask
your own crown and glory
or your rusty cage,
chains and utter horror?

Deep in agony hides pleasure.
Find it.
Just try and bear this.

Living a lie: torture absent
of outlet until the pressure tears
a hole and hell
is delivered to those bearing 


out of which arises a cause
worth fighting for. 

Sincere. Hope

out of nothing.


Run, scream, flail,
in a spirit absolutely free
like a goddamn banshee

through the available coping
mechanisms till
you come crashing, crawling,
empathy-fueled offering
to those begging eyes
in hope of change.

Green light? You go
the way of the lemming
but suffer paralysis
at the ledge,
christened messenger
of the potentially gravity-bound
and you scream,

you say,

just stay away.
Get the hell away.
It was in me,
now its out of me

and its hungry for everything,

Profit from Pity (Discussion).

Anyone would do it.
Everyone has.

“Okay,” he says.

hell fucking yes
I would,
and with fully
conscious deliberation.

“Without a hint of hesitation?”

If only
it were for the right cause.

“So the ends
justify the means?
Is the pathway to heaven
paved bad intentions?”

No. Not necessarily.
the proper trajectory
requires fixing
on the target: the end
must be in sight
for the means
to have something
to aspire to.

“A goal? An aim?”

Something to inspire
so intensely, to such heights
that one would have to concede
upon success,
after review of the journey,
investigation of the quest,

that one
could not have achieved
the sky
if not for the charitable
of their adoptive entelechy

them by hand every step
of the way.

Keeping On.

Burn away
all the bullshit clouding
your sight.

Whatever, whoever
you are in the end,
know that it’s alright.

You’ve been beating
up yourself over
what’s clearly out

of your control, failed
efforts, routine,
falling back,
it’s all taken its toll.

You’ve got to keep on
keeping on, discipline
your will, push through,
fucking believe
in yourself.

Safe and Silent.

So I run and hide,
as I know what’s coming.

Bursting through the door.
His roar of words,
strikes like lighting, jolted,
finished off by the rolling,
crashing thunder channeled
through the floor.

Safe and silent
behind the door,
beneath the bed
in the closet

as I watch a monster lift
his upper hand,
bring it crashing down
upon its own flesh and blood.

Excuse my fear
and cowardice.
Damn this empathy.

With every strike
upon the skin of their backs
he in turn lacerates me.

Only terror keeps my rage in check
as fantasies of confrontation
swell within.

Frayed Bouquet for a Snake-Charmer. 

Entrancing fingers
brush across skin
with sweet sweat.

It’s all in my head.
Snap out of it.
All caught in a cyclone
inside my head.

Sour at the scent of temptation in the air,
seduction running through her veins,

and me,
one hell of a well-worn
puppet offering
his bouquet of frayed strings.

Lost me.
Killed it.

Eyes locking with my own,
she leads this psychic dance.
She found the latest joystick yearning

for her eager,
wicked hands. 

hypnotize me till it takes over.
Lour me down, ease me to my knees,
exploit me as you please. 

Just stop me
from hating me, please,
when I come back around,
ashamed and sober… 


Sketch the photograph
ink it in when sober
so you can paint
it later

from memory

for its lost in the heap
of sketchbooks, notebooks
and loose papers
that make up the walls
you have literally stacked
up around you to insulate

you, separate cause
from effect, blur
those lines

between fantasy
and reality.

Apocalypse, Bro. 

Like two peas in a pod.
That’s how she described us.
Brothers from different mothers, 

polar fathers
truly defined us.

Even so: close
enough we shared
respective hells 
with one another:


Thanks to you,
now I know there is no god.
At some level, 
you know there are aliens.

We both know all monsters
are not human, but that the human earn
their membership plus
and then some.

In either case,
we have the human
and the rest of them.

Locked, loaded.

Cheers to us.