not finished

Somewhere from the east a note stirs the early morning air,

Even though to me, here in this place, it is still night,

Everything I've said sounded so much more profound before I said it,

So I'm making a new resolution, I'm only going to start to say things,

I will never finish my thoughts, and the profound depths they reach,

As they hang endlessly in the air, strung up with fishing line,

Will make it seem as if these things I haven't said were the only things

Ever worth saying, at all.

Thank God For Guns.

Foils and sabers stopped being impressive,

When gunsmiths invented the revolver.

Why bother twirling towards your opponent?

Instead spin the chamber, and let the grace

Of a single shot...

Revolvers are still in fashion though,

in some circles it is the only manly way to dance,

But mainly it is all about magazines these days,

or clips.

Which seems so effeminate for

phallic things like guns,

To revolve and twirl,

and clip things from magazines.

If you stop listening all the way,

when people talk about guns,

You might think that a fourteen year old girl,

is making a collage of all the things that sparkle,

Rhinestoned purses and a nice pair of italian shoes,

Pasted next to smith and wesson,

and winchester's casings.

Imagine how girly we'd be

if we still fought with swords,

and wore tights,

and gabbed to each other

about our powdered wigs.

Thank God for Guns.

chicken

Melodiously the I,

indeed the very eyes

that stare me back in the mirror,

that you know so well,

ceased to exist sometime ago.

And in their place.

A new despondency formed.

With a great crash it fell,

Like a hatchling it falls from the nest,

Away from care or worry.

And even now it ceases to care about anything,

But why it is on the ground.

And what would be nice to eat,

at around noon.

Waste

I'm trying to struggle for nothing,

I want to be a heretic screaming towards nirvana,

On a burning rocket train of erasure.

I want to cease being myself, and even

Remove the idea of myself,

I will be erased from history,

in a backwards moving wave,

An ebbing tide,

that puts everything right.

And the twenty dollars I lost when I was ten

will be found.

And be put to good use.

A Position Towards The Edge of My Bed

It is the angle of my stare,

As I wait for the night to come to a close,

A glance to the left reveals bars of the shuffling dawn,

Fluttering through my curtains, until

I succumb to the sequenced arrangements

That have foretold the sequence of images,

Which will soon be shown to me by myself.