Hollow is a cruel feeling,

Mixing whispers with nothingness,

Bloodying a plain mind.

Riddles are a kind concept,

Bleeding possibilities,

Filling enigmatic empty brains.

The fourth wall is hard to recognize Breaking to address the reader,

Winking at you right now.

I have no tales to tell.

It's all going to hell.

It went south with a smile here,

Key West, Florida, cigars everywhere,

Which I've never seen rolled.

We stayed at a beach house

And learned to bear the heat.

For what wisdom can heat hold?

Not a lot -- stirring atoms,

Shaking, combining, bumping,

Vibrating violently as if they're cold,

Causing us to not be.

Heat's a gubbin, a gubbin who

Yells about the state of the world,

The bottlecaps on the ground,

The 1930's Great Depression,

The height of the ocean.

Heat, one day, down there,

While we were corpses,

Said: "Copulate violently with a doppelganger."

Which translates, in the language

Of the heat, to "go fuck yourself."

At night every night I'd have this

Peculiar power -- an ability to

Feel nothing and everything all

At once. I would talk to the walls

About the feeling, an unpleasant

And still euphoric one.

I'm not I'm.

Always fresh, never frozen, heart,

Beat hard don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me don't touch me.

Therapy, being to all intents a

Maggot squiggling out of an

Eyeball, the eyeball being in the

Corpse of the dependent one, is

A helper, but it's tiring me out.

Rapid breathing breeds only

Flat affect, poverty of speech,

Anhedonia, agnosia, disorganization,

0-60 affect, and chronic emptiness,

To quote my psychiatrist.

(Who, in all honesty, is a

Real wet towel, that my brother uses

To whip my face.)

If such feelings shall come,

Does that show how I am dumb?

Shall I be hollow eternally?

I spoke. And rapidly started the denounment.

Is there an Oz for me?

listen my friends, across this land,

to the tale of a passionlacker man.

(his body was beer, his blood was wine,

and everyday he never whined.)

raised with beer and a dear old father,

he beat his mom and always called her mother,

he kept a tattooed cross on his behind.

the stoic way was a pain.​

or, said his walnut brain,

"i'm refined."

he went off to college to learn politics,

but overall it seemed he gave no shits.

he decided that smiles were for the weak,

claiming that the romantics were freaks.

his mind was sandpaper, generally unpleasant.

each emotional he claimed were peasants.

he went grayer than his soul

while stars spread out

he used quarters for laundry and

never gumballs.

he had lunch on a silver plate and never ate it all

"i don't feel!" with a scowl he'd shout.

just start to embrace his philosophy

in which you'll uphold mediocrity.

when judgement day came to take the divine,

the overseer took away his shrine,

and this stoic pretended it was fine.

there's a clockwork mechanism

ticking in my mind

who wants to come and induce

idiosyncrasy.

there's a clockwork mechanism

ticking in my brain

who wants to prevent me

from being cold and crazy.

and i obey,

as i am not a smelly fuck, with one condition:

i can break the ticking clock tocking sticking

to my head now and then,

play with tarot cards and worship playing cards,

eat chocolate and drink soda pop

and above all be dirty and sordid,

all while being clean and moral.

in summer,

when the world ripened,

i swam at the beach, cleansing myself.

in autumn,

when the world opened,

i broke my elbow on a staircase.

in winter

when the world closed

i healed my elbow over time, wearing a cast.

in spring

when the world bit me in the ass

i broke my damn elbow again, life being a bitch.

God, with His

erring wedding rings, stares me downstairs to

infinity, into a coal night.

i pray to You God for freedom

from paper as i am addicted

to writing this thing.

editing and altering and screwing with it

must be more addictive than diet pepsi.

i am the patron saint of soda.

teachers sin blessedly

and principles bless sinfully.

both have wavering voices,

TaLkInG lIkE tHiS,

implying they drink too much dr. pepper, screwing with their lungs.

i am the patron saint of soda.

and finally, clowns,

sad critters, too much pie on their face

and too many frowns on their fake flowers.

they grieve over my walls while

spraying water from the flowers, like a bottle of sprite exploding.

i am the patron saint of soda.

why did little fred phelps moan

in his coffin as he came home?

he was fucking satan right in the ass

nothing for him but hell's first class.

the devil's a necrophiliac

lil fred on aphrodisiacs.

(being by all intents a toy (which i

don't mind, i have issues with

dependency and want to be)

and not allowed detention

from worries of my xy,

i have to have a biological sex. why

do you think i shave my legs at night?)

"i'm gone," i said, "that is to say

i'm not me."

above me crows began to croon

wailing "despair will come to you soon."

and, sighing, i replied.

"i have already fucking died."

i'm not a puzzle piece,

fitting into your thick periodicals.

there's little need to record frowns.

razorblades,

resharpened to the point of redundancy,

are to be tossed out and not replaced,

allowing one to grow a wise beard.

did you hear?

the newsman said (not thinking

about the sky and the clouds that

riddle it, a sight of beauty

for the unwise)

needles cause a certain

condition. taboo? maybe.

controversial? oh my.

blue is a readymade. (like the sky

when it turned purple,

imagine his shock.)

there will be oddities

amongst these singsongy

psychiatrics,

who will wail random terms on a whim,

"ideas of reference" for instance

of which they themselves suffer from,

as the world roars too much for

them to not block things out.

jungian jingles move me.

you're like every roadsign

telling whichwaywhen

directions.

(being by all intents a passive objector)

i said, without getting mad,

"i'm fucking sorry, hope you're glad."

a day later, to him i said "i'm only us.

will you confront and pay your fee?

or will you cower and tremble?"

and in a bout of my shaking body:

"broke broke broke," is what i said.

maker of persons, bless luck

over me and my loving Clown,

and id, the jester of whom i sing.

she is not you, streetsign. you're telling me to stop and yield,

without replacing my organs with dog shit.

you made me a stooping dimwit.

but now i say, without raising my voice,

"i choose not to kiss your ass, boy."