This satire will leave both the victim and the witness the option of denying that anything has even taken place (so what will it be...)

prophets, poets, pedants, pontificates.
we should be thanking the ancient greeks for subtle ridicule.
like when julius caesar invaded rome in 49 and led his army across the rubicon river, conflict is inevitable. (somethings i can't stand up to). and like the rubicon everything will eventually lose importance, and names and smiles will gradually disappear from. and one day we'll shout it together "the die has cast".
even homer nods.
take it like a picture, thinking you'll look back and smile and reminisc when really the faces will just get you down and end up torn in half and taped to your mirror. take it thinking the smiles will look as genuine as they were, but knowing that no ones gonna buy it.
there's no (yo)u in team or me or love..
he looks like a little boy but he’s got grown up problems
back to shy eyes and coy smiles
“Fuck right, nothing this perfect could ever be wrong.”
like pointing a gun to your head with a crowd as far as the eye can see.
in literature this is called romanticism but in psychology it's called neurosis
freud would call it a stage of ego-less polymorphous but i have little doubt he never had a kid like you to miss (out on)

watching: fall die into winter
reading: the dice man
missing: you

the promise keepers wife and the standover man

because its all about sticky bangs and glazed eyes. new skin and hip bones. you'd call it "under the knife." but i'd say more like the scalpel because you are indeed precise. sometimes i arrive too early. i rush. and some people cling longer to life than expected. it was a beautiful thing in some ways. the plane was still coughing. smoke leaking from both its lungs. when it crashed, three deep gashes were made in the earth. its wings were now sawn-off arms. no more flapping. not for this metalic little bird. after a few minutes, the smoke exahausted itself. there was nothing left to give.

everythings alright, it's all in my head (but you can't honestly still believe that one, right)

i dont know where im going, ill just run.
maybe if i keep running my head won't catch up with my heart.
if my heart finds out what you did, it might stop loving you
and i can't let that happen.

i could never deser(t/ve) him

i could uproot everything, or i could just give in each time. its so much easier that way. so i do. who wouldn't?

its a lot of pressure but you're all that i've got.

Whats a guy like you doing in a rundown town like this?

No more lies?
No.
No more hurt?
No more.
No more ‘I’m confused’ crap?
No. I’m sure this time.
No more fucking me around?
No more, I promise.

theres dangerous voice in the basement, and a boy walking down the stairs

a town like this could be mistaken for vegas, except its not. skylines blur together when your minds on two different ends of the world. it's vegas only the lights aren't as bright and the stakes aren't as high.

somewhere between the dead, dark fair ground and the yelling and the makeup, somewhere between North and the pet wolf and the equally dead, dark forest, you can take comfort in falling into arms and kissing and hugging. you dont know when it happened, but there is a difference between living now and living then..

coming soon; travels around the country (what it feels like to look ahead and see that youre just following yourself)

holiday from real

I can feel myself slipping back in...and the waters eight new shades of timid and cold.

All I wanted was to get inside your head, and steal your poetry
and make me something you've forgotten.

i'm welcoming you to shadowland

because no one else is going to. fear is the prerequisite to many things, but mostly honesty and exposure. enjoy the stay.

Electrical cords tied around her insides. Ribs to throats. Tube breathing oxygen. Cold white lies, cold white walls surround the hospital bed. To be on a first name basis with relapse. They wave her goodbye, but its more like a see you later. The tile floors and locked doors know this. One (last) sip empties the bottle. (hiding problems with another) Unction on a wet linoleum floor. And the broken television screen watches her slip back into routine. Bruises can’t get any deeper but there is definetly depth (in terms of darkness and severity). Oil spill fire across yellow skies in Sitka. Smothering thoughts, suffocating veins (trails back to the old days.) land map to a breakdown. No one can hear it but she’s asking for directions, the volume on the tv’s going up faster then they gave up on her. And this night seems to contain more comfort then chaos when she hears the taxi engine humming outside. (like what she does now along to an old favorite song…the one she used to sing but has long since forgotten the words) Her visions blurry again but she knows the screen doors already opened. screenwriting her next escape. Not a premier, but a sequel. You can bet on her split ends and chapped lips that she’ll make it a trilogy. It won’t be a big hit, more like a “straight to video”. Quick to be found on the coffee table in your living room, listening to the fan. (because this is closer to home then you know)

[5(8) + 3] + {100 + [(6+7) - (10+3)]} = ___
itscomplicated
butworthwhile

im pretty much a bullshit artist

i(t/n)ching my way behind your eyes and into your dire dreams.

it would mean the world, but the world don't mean much to her anymore.

i wanna ignore you, but only for long enough so we could think of something new to say. wandering minds and blue blood caught between the cracks in that recondite record. less like the broken one you threw away, and more like the broken one you just can't get rid of. still spinning. let history repeat itself so we'll know what to expect. the final rotation. we're distributed among a hundred shards of black and technicolor coverart. sevens from a sawed off shotgun across the floor. a hundred opportunities to break skin. like broken flesh carried through car windows and bank robberies. scattered. not like sinful words in an anonymous booth on a sunday night, but more like puzzle pieces that you collect and put back together the next day.

and when he breaths in another white li(n)e it feels a lot like five, four, three, two..

you are the swan
i am the song

revenge is a dish best served whole

put your love where your mouth is. everyone knows that even that is chased by your hands down your throat.

"If the sea shakes like an empty maraca. I know I know I know I know. and she falls in love with the sounds of ships sinking? I know I know I know I know. Which peacock is beast? Which peacock is priest? If the heavens part and nobody, nowhere, nothing, every apartment is vacant, every home for rent? Hey Peacock? What's that? I just want to know what your feathers are made out of. Is it bruises or roses or cradles or coffins? It’s all of those. Which peacock is beast? Which peacock is priest? If your friends are all cripple, all wither, all wilt, I know I know I know I know. and you smile at their pain on your angel bone stilts. I know I know I know I know.Which peacock is beast? Which peacock is priest?If the brick you throw puts a bullet in your skull and a police boot lands atop your gaping jaw? Hey Peacock? What's that? I just wanna know what the babies mouth is full of. Is it flies or cries or straw? Which peacock is beast? Which peacock is priest? Which peacock’s police? Which peacock is thief? If machine guns come knock, knock, knocking Who's cashing out your bad luck? If wedding bells sound like death knells baby is a wealthy groom worth all this gloom? If tuxedos slither off corpses and copulate wild on wedding cake and the priest starts snapping photos? There's a peacock on your shoulder that’s pole dancing around your neck, while reciting the Book of Revelation. So who do you love? Who do you trust when your friends take a match to your front lawn? A panicked face makes the peacock proud. So who do you love? Who do you trust? Who do you kill when your senator drags out your first born? A panicked face makes the peacock proud. If the forests turn to static and the gnarled branches, too? I know I know I know I know. Your body starts to fall into a concrete tutu? I know I know I know I know. which peacock is beast? which peacock is priest? If you strike for better wages at the cola factory and they drink champagne as they kick in your teeth?Hey Peacock? What's that? I just wanna know what his blood tasted like. Was it like sugar or vinegar or whiskey or dirt? It’s all of those. Which peacock is beast? Which peacock is priest? Things are never what they seem, the peacocks static melodies.

tbb

…hovering somewhere between insane and desperate.

game the love,
play the hate.