I wanna smash my TV over my head
and wear it as a hat.
I want to take those ****ing coffee mugs
and break them all
like porcelain dolls
who had their eyes chewed up
and out the belly of the buried mind.

Enlightened bullies used to call me "five eyes."

Valium for a valentine and voodoo
for the rest. My cryptic act just doesn't seem to end.
The stagehands mostly hung themselves against the curtain.
Swing like cheap marionettes from the sandbags
and dance against the burnt out spotlights
community college kids take their dates.

I want to line my walls with the screen-write
to Citizen Kane and set them all ablaze
while I electrocute my lover
with my TV head.
The adaptation plays so beautifully
against her porcelain eyes.

You'd almost think we were alive again.

Stop chewing on the light-bulbs. They're not cheap.
I'm not so able thinking clearly;
not so pretty drunk.
You liked to taste of whiskey on my breath,
especially when you knew I stole it
from your father.

Savage, little strange-hold.
A symphony of grief with brief intermissions
so all attending can hit the bar and catch the game.

My cardboard box is not cut up with air-holes.
No. Haha.
How do you think I got in here?

fantastic read.

Eh, I've felt like that. It sucks, I hope I never feel it again. Great write.

ya know? sometimes the surface of things can bring great joy, then we find much more, deep within the textures.

PP you amaze me all the time with your words...