The Walking Tree

As we sought our answer,

We had slain that which stood before us,

Slicing at the knuckles of vines as

They receded with malice.

We braved the innocent with little thought or remorse,

Merely in search of an aesthetic.



Enter The Walking Tree.

Stoic with traces of grace and nobility,

He championed four legs,

Wandering the amazon with humility.

¨Press forward, and you shall find your answer.¨

He perservered with a reverence to his homeland.

A deep, admiring silence was paid to this noble creature.



Our necks were kissed by the envoys,

Pierced veins injected essence

Our arms and legs carressed by this fluorescent presence.

And as Dusk fell upon us,

So did the weight of our poisons.

We laid in the deep rust with no visibile horizon.



One arose.

With calloused skin and a softer heart,

He clutched my shoulder.

With a warmth that thickened the lyrics, he told me:

This is not ours.

No matter how many lines you draw on maps,

No matter how many signs you post,

You cannot take it.



With a smile, he turned away from the path,

Slowing his pace with every step.

His arms outstretched,

as if cultivating an embrace.

.

Stone Man

We sat on pillars
overlooking those clouds everybody else had their heads in.
They always told me I was a little too tall,
But my Humpty Dumpty steeze
was apparently unapparent to me.

And the pieces never returned to symmetry.
The cracks coagulating,
burning up the ringlets of the imagery
in the veins of this tattered memory.
But with a nice overcoat I still attract the revery,
suck up the venom of the victims
incinerating the good-note endings.

Now, I could sip on false serenities,
but the pleasantries are blending
with the muck of far too many facades.

I drip pebbles off the tip of my nose,
secrete stone out my eyelids.
Dip into my ribcage,
take spoonfulls of concrete.
There is no exterior,

so walk away,
before I release the toxins
and tear at the tendons.

Don't Fade

There are wisps of wind in her whispers
in this crisp, clear winter is when I best hear
the breath in my ear as it dissipates with distance
stale bitter tears blister my cheek bones and
and I am left
chasing the wind.

And the splinters spill from my eye lids
as I lose sight of blue-silver gazes.
And the seams split as the darkness consumes that December.
I am severed in two,
An open wound,
I can't wear this porcelain much longer,
Regret is seeping from the cracks.

I found solace in her skin,
Love in her eyes.
Emptied, evermore.
Transient are these moments
Without her embrace.
Fleeting are these endeavors.

As she fades,
I cling to photographs and forgotten sunsets,
My chest is riddled with heart strings,
and I fear I may lose the scars.
The healing is heart wrenching.

Walk through my door.
Just once more.

Anti Matter

It's anti matter.
this pattern was ill conceived.
The seeds of this synthetic piece
are here to cover up these jagged seams.
ragged dreams and plastered wings,
this scene isn't so seemingly giving.

When I pick a pedal point,
you pick a pasture.
And when I show the reds in my eyes
drop a line from the past here,
because we've sunk far too many battleships
to call this a game anymore.

There were drops of sentiment in your throat
when you spoke the truth,
Then again, there always has been.
I guess I was just one of those fucked up grooves in your vinyl
just another spinal tap to drink from.

We sought a grayer morning
fizzled moods soothed our wounds.
Our incandescence was a product of a hangover perspective,
dressed in electric essence, plagued by the national message
drift forward, do your best kid,
fall into the rest.

When the crystals of our conception
are bursting all around us,
catapulting shards of our existence like rain drops
I can spot the low roars and the curdled hums
curl up in the semblance of a shelter.

If it's anti matter we breathe,
then let us rip our bodies broken,
blackened with the charring.
Let the shock fall to nothing,
let the shattered nerve endings
create some distant noise in the evening.

I'm dreaming of a white November,
where I left you by the pacific.
I crack a little more at every second glance.

The Resurgence of the Marionettes

And If I
Could tell you
A story,
I would lie.
Yeah, I would lie.

Because when we speak,
We smile,
But don't worry,
That's alright.
Yeah, That's alright.

It tugs on my strings
Tug of war on the arms of bitter kings.
Cut before the bones
These tattered wings have lost their need
Those battered strings
Stitch my knuckles like cast iron millipedes
Lock my wrists and employ the reach
Force my knee
And I will pray

But I
Am not
A wounded eagle.
I am not the child in the corner.
I am not a leper.
I am not another blood spot on your dead man walkway.
I am not broken glass.
I am not
Broken.

Because there is something.
Here.
There is a sidewalk on my forehead.
I am thorns formed on necks of orchids
I'm chorus effects and born-again's
I am nothing more than aborted chords,
Dormant, abhorrent to the core and
I can’t even feel the four’s anymore.
I'm knocked up with lava rocks,
Pregnant with cobblestones.
The soldered bones of that copper gold
Splinter in this coddled cold.

Because this chest is a stalk of cherry pits
Wrought with carefree grit
And a hint of kerosene
It lights up the string theories inside of him
That glassy grin is widenin' but,
You know, In spite of them

Because I wear streaks of monotone and serotonin.
Bouncing from the edges of the end-zones and
Dotted lines seep through my pores like dark ink
And divide the centers,
Wrapping and interweaving through the surroundings
Enveloping the shells of bystanders.

I've got a whole lot of broken clocks round my throat,
But I bring the fire of a thousand coarse soldiers.
Distorting the functions,
Breaking the age of somethin',
I return in blazing eruption.

And If I
Could tell you
A story,
I would lie.
Yeah, I would lie.

Because when we speak,
We smile,
But don't worry,
That's alright.
Yeah, That's alright.

She swims deep in my horizons,
Draws my gaze towards the return,
And it keeps me.
me.

Meh

There are pinwheels in his shoulder blades,
ivory keys in his stomach as the "star-crossed" blaze in the cross-fades.
Old man graced with gold hands
and cold clamps 'round his wrists,
grins thick with bent lips
and he hits the red rims when he speaks.
His dreams of Genvieve leave fiends clean
but he's got that hook in his step
quiver in his reach
future falling out his back pockets,
Davy Crockett's in the walkway
and he knows he can't stop it,
can't take part in heart lockets
but he's got shards of soul in his forearms and
nothin's gonna break that.

So he walks.

Neverlonger

Transcendent in the worlds around me,
Transparent in the swirled surroundings
Transferring
hurtful birthing of curdled yearning
I'm earning my penance in these corn fields
these thick thorns peel coils from the mouse holes
now, soul-skinned bones soaked in raw serotonin
I saw nebula's in her lines
like blind times
long before I let the cold in.
Western winds are rough and
The blood is flushed and
The galaxies are blending,
The lines are blurring
And I'm circumnavigating the compressions
sifting through the dust
the coarse, restless grains
trying to find the words
coated with the paralysis of her timbre
"Come back to me."
They ring in my head
feeding back and feeding back
searing my ear drums
floating along the blacks and golds
I dreamt of old words big names.
Now I just want to be a storyteller.

Pestilence

It's been far too long
since the mirror last spotted the stars
in the knots on my eyelids.
far, far too long
since the crescents have fallen.
so god damn long
since I've felt it resonate in my marrow.
since I've felt it.
I dream of charred wicker's and Novocain sunsets.
I smile viscous like honey
melt my insides
drift into this marble method
I am wretched wrecked with pestilence
led to flame by effervescence
riddled with feigning moments
I can see it burning from here,
I can feel the rhythms echo,
I hold it in my palms
in the lines on my forehead.
only to let go
only to lay in this hollow stone,
untouched, untainted,
seeping through the cracks.

Return

This chest is a stalk of cherry pits
wrought with carefree grit
and a hint of kerosene
it lights up the string theories inside of him
that glassy grin is widenin' but,
you know, In spite of them
I wear streaks of monotone and sarotone.
bouncing from the edges of the endzones
dotted lines seep through his pores like black ink
and divide the centers,
wrapping and interweaving through the surroundings
enveloping the shells of bystanders.


I've got a whole lot of broken clocks round his throat,
can barely keep my head up anymore in this cold
but I forever fights for the following gasp
never understanding the circumstance,
a slave of instinct.
No matter how much of a morphine drip he walks,
he won't stumble over his feet.
He'll hobble off with a bottle of his broken thoughts
contemplate the rarefactions
wear passion like bare backs and
tear tracks from his past and
air out the grooves along his shoulder blades.
Someday.

Koto Strings

Koto strings cut up wrists
imprint bliss in the bloodline
drift in and up the confines
in mystic shadows of utter divine.
I spit out waterfalls
mist, clouds, an
integral image wall
I drop adderall on your scripture
Blister innersanctums with my napalm
Hear me break on break on
The mantids place spots
of ephedrine
placate the blades
calm now break gone break gone
fate spawns the eruptions
I stand bearing interruptions
stray from the course
breaking gone
severing the adhesive of this titanic mind state.
strip the accolades
burn the coagulated embrace
drift into another realm
where the cranes rest among the lotus
in the thickness viscous of your reservoir.
Find the lost
for the Rebel lines have all been crossed.
As the levels fall on this introspective,
Find that lost.