The Great Escape Down the Last Bayou

An old hat outlaw rashly on the run
with an overzealous heart and a gun,
the half-emptied shine jug,
the new left-shouldered slug,
and an impending mosiac still undone.

On the homemade raft down the bayou
to escape all those who would pursue
he strayed away from the coast
and the Mississippi ghosts
and the dragons to paddle on through.

Lights flickered beneath the canopies
as the creeping things began to tease
with their old tricks and hex
by this slightly erred annex,
so he left a token behind to appease.

Orphaned on his own accord, he'd admit,
though the past is nothing to forget,
and there would be no doubt,
so proven, he then took out
the old, ivory snake-eyes in his pocket.

The passive current would leave prize,
for beneath sins and his very eyes,
as his famine soon overcame
he no longer held his name,
and now his own mind was a disguise.

The crescent moon lit his final route
finding his way to water pouring out,
his determination could rest
where he settled in the west,
he knew what escape had brought about.

That Final Curtain

More and more I feel the need
to break away and recede
and shake away the past
and make today the last
time I'll walk these streets
and pace my feet in defeat,
so I'm planning for tomorrow
to escape the sorrow and regret,
to replace my debt, to live
and forget the tragedy
that seems to follow me and
make me disagree and make
a guarantee that I can get up,
I can stand up, rise up, and
leave this all behind, and
leave mankind in its own ruin,
these thoughts this late afternoon
leave me feeling it'll be soon,
this one thing is certain
that once that final curtain
starts closing in, I'll be
content within and I won't
be around, because I will
not die in this town.

What You Want is What You Need

You do it all to yourself
and blame others.
You want them to hurt you
so you have something new
to bitch about.
You love the pain
but say you don't.
You need somewhere
to rest your head.
So here, let me tie
this rope into a knot
and hang it from a tree.
Tilt your head to the side
when I let you drop
and just enjoy the ride,
you closet masochist.

carpel tunnel vIsIon

I sit impaired and uncaring
to the effects of a saturated mind
that unravel in distinct determination
to an unbecoming man who once
seemed to understand the consequences
of an apathetic mindset born
from the senseless and unsympathetic
and the unforgiving that placate
and hold contempt for the pure few
that grasp in their hands the six keys
to salvation while in themselves
they can only hope to destroy
what everyone else seems to fight for
and in time they desire nothing less
than the dissatisfaction of others
and the disassociation for a society
that is slightly less pleasurable
each day that ticks away in nothingness
and there is no chance that the paradox
and your own enigma created
on your own accord for the benefit
of no one since you wouldn't
have it any other way or perhaps
you haven't the slightest idea
what your ideas entail or entice
in the minds of our children and saviors
of the simple and untapped thought
that unite and provide us with all
we will ever possibly need to survive
but the only chance for something
so sweet is to put you at your
bitter end with a fell swing of an axe.

Thank the Pessimists

Optimists continue on
and persist to say
that they exist
in bliss and happiness
and that they're
rarely down and you
should "turn that frown
upside down" all for
the sake of forgiving
mistakes made by others
one after another.
That they aren't sad
when they lose what
they had to people
who already have all
they could want or need.
That they don't feel
greed, envy, or desire.
They just admire and
love, as if they're above
the rest in wanting the
best, and that the world
is just fine as it is.
They say pessimists
are never content
and their time spent
is a waste to everyone,
but what they've done
is presented a theory
that perhaps things
could be a bit better.
They hope when you don't.
They change when you won't.
Never needing something
more will mean you will
not exist anymore.
If you're complacent
and refuse to adapt
to the world around you
then you will find
the world has left you
for something better
for everyone in the end,
for people that could bend,
for those who hate trend,
for ideas that will send
you on your merry way
to the depths of the pit
of your blinded happiness.
"The grass is always greener"
unless you're an optimist
content with eating dirt.
It’s not so much “necessity
is the mother of invention”
as it is discontent with
simply being without.
Thank the pessimists
of the past for your
full, wonderful life.

The Gospel

In you birthed visions
from a passive placation
of bastions of fruition
of fallacy for a heretic
from an usurped power
providing no sanctity.
All misled to disguise
the tempted telling truth
of a seed planted, uneasy,
in such twisted motives
to erect in elevation
your rivaled rampart
so ripe for decay.
Led so far from home
you dethroned, discrowned,
and discredited a bitter
fool of his only fortune.
Now is the most opportune
to befriend the prophets
and saints, and preach
your holy gospel of dirt.
So continue your digging;
you will bury yourself
soon enough, I promise.

At the Edge of Now

This space of time that is all mine
could easily be termed a plateau,
no crescendo, nowhere else to go,
at the edge of now I will take my bow
and silently, somehow, consider
abandoning my post, and raise toast
to my coming ghost and the speak
of my selfish retreat into the space
of time that begins to remind me
of the edge of now, so I take my bow.

I Regress

You're complacent
without routine
while I erode,
and lose steady speech,
and recede and defect,
and slip into something
I forget how to define.
In time you will find
i shair not a singel thing
in comon with any 1 of you
and repete and refuze to change
while you acept wat gets throne
your way like its encredibil
but i stand my grownd
en constint repetishun
and wont bak down frum this
so keepyor denyall
keepyor contint
ill bejusfine
ul c

Silent Apologies

Condolences would be in order
for my inaction all these years,
but overbearing regrets will always
ensure failed attempts at constructing
any resemblance of an apology.
My words buckle and fall.
I'm so sorry.

A Petty Confession

Lately I'm feeling a bit tired,
tired of judging and assuming,
and getting lost in the thought
of pretending to understand
as if I know the in's and out's
or even the here and there,
and like how I know everything
they'll say before they even do.
I'm tired of the hate building
inside of me like a little bomb
just begging for a reason
to explode and bring an end.
I'm sick of your hostilities,
your cowardice, and your lies,
and your arrogance that steals
every shred of decency you had.
I no longer care if I'm right
or if I'm wrong, not anymore.
Call me apathetic, call me lazy,
because at least in the end
I won't be the one who's fucked.

The Ivory Throne

The king of the ivory throne,
the keeper of oaken walls
released his last breath.
Emebedded in the pearl floors
remain only his dying words,
encrypted in a forgotten tongue
and beneath the seal of kin.
Bretheren of the code
to which he followed
lay to rest his withered body
upon a pyre funeral in solemn honor.
No queen and no spawn,
the line is broken.
The ivory throne now sits empty.
A bastion of freedom slumbers in doubt.
Time will not heal this wound.

Remnant of an Outlaw

Maybe you could have told me why
not all actions have consequences,
and that gravity is just an invisible prison.
Or perhaps you could have described to me
how each wrinkle on your face
was actually a scar,
and that time was simply
supplemental to a lacking life.

Your fits of anger and tiding rage had reason,
I think, but I suppose
I will never feel that foundation.

They stole your sanity,
stole your concern,
and all they left your lonesome self was gall.
Bound in tellurian chains and buried beneath haze,
yet my own memories are not clouded,
not of your view.

I will never know why you saved those years for me
or why I tend to worship your shiny, little star.
The melody continues to loop when I hit 'repeat,'
and I begin to realize
I do this more often than I thought.

Behind that fragile shell
cased in bigotry and malice
was a man I still have yet to become,
come soon.

Your heart faded fourteen years
preceding your body.
I wonder if they will say the same for me.

No Shore

The tide came in
and the moon stayed high.

Water kept rising
and you lost your footing.

You called out for help,
but I never learned
to swim in this.

I can't save you.

But what I can do
is drown with you.

Escort

I saw fire in its eyes tonight,
a pyre where otherwise void,
and a question in its mind,
but no breath inside its lungs,
where it might call out, instead
it remained perched and stood staring
piercing straight through my regret,
and I knew why it came different tonight
as opposed to every night before,
but just like all of those nights
I was ready, and I knew what was coming,
my friend, my consort, my escort
from here to the very end,
ebony, and as clever as constant,
so sly, so smooth, and as quick as death.

Relive

Refuse to answer and deny the call,
stand your ground and accept no apologies,
five years after and it's finally come to end,
so change your course for the worse,
hold your footing and revive the past,
five days dead and keep the count,
use your fists and force your will,
demand relief and instill the fear,
five more minutes and you'll be dead.

City of Love

I want to walk
those city streets
and pretend
that I am immune,
lay my weary head to rest
in no one's arms,
dine without a meal,
toast without a glass,
and leave Paris in flames.

Caught Inside Another Daydream

I'm not your crutch, and don't need your touch,
'cause just a little of you is too much, and so
the people I trust can be counted on one hand,
I'm forgotten in lust, and so divided we stand,
I don't understand how I ever got to be this way,
but I know there's so much left for me to say,
'cause I'm sick of all your motherfucking faces,
you racists, you bigots, you backstabbing bitches,
you whores, your empty cores, and your clicks,
your tricks, you pricks, and all your bullshit,
you fakes, you phonies, and you wannabe homies,
baby-daddy's, baby-mama's, and all your drama,
people in power, even Jack Bauer, you celebrities,
the people on TV, and everyone who wants to be,
you trend-setters, you go-getters, you optimists,
you pessimists, pretty much everyone that persists
to tell me what to think and how I should act,
how to react, and that they have all the facts,
'cause I'm sick of all your fucking ugly faces,
I think you and the dead should switch places,
I might be crazy for thinking you're all the same,
but to me you're just numbers born without names,
I'm hopeless, I'm helpless, I'm fucking wealth-less,
got two houses but I'm still homeless, none the less,
I try my best to protest and live this unimpressed,
but the only rest I'll receive is when I leave,
and surcease to breathe, but yet, it all seems
to be a simple reverie that teems with utter awe,
something I saw, caught inside another daydream,
I'll sabotage you all, the cogs in the machine,
and remain unseen and unbeknownst to the rest,
it's something you never guessed, it's unforeseen,
something I saw, caught inside another daydream.

See You, See Me

Tending to stagnant and futile static
which tends to convey the anti-climatic,
it clicks and kicks and fights too quick
for you to catch those who live erratic,
but then, if I just stay here and stare,
and pretend to care, but act this unaware
as you continue to declare life unfair
you may vanish within my little prayer,
to see you see me sleep my life away,
to fade just a little more everyday.

The R-Town Zombie Invasion

I was headed out on my way to work when I walked by a passive retail clerk
who had empty eyes and a blank look, so I stopped him and threw a right hook,
and grabbed the tire iron behind the seat and beat him down to the concrete,
I knew this poor bastard had been bit and he would probably never make it,
the R-Town zombie invasion had begun, I knew the undead had finally come,
so I called Tyler and Sheebs, but they were already on their way to see me,
there was a group ahead of our trucks, so we sped up, jumped out and ducked,
the sky lit up and left the group dead ’cause of the nitroglycerin in the bed
that I keep for situations just like this ’cause we knew that zombies exist,
out of ammo, so we went to the gun store ’cause we’d been through this before,
but the guy at the desk had that same look and thirst so we shot that fuck first,
I saw some zombie kids headed off to school, but to them I couldn’t be as cruel,
rather than shooting them all in the head, I ran over them with their bus instead,
John lopped off the head of an old bitch and she fell down and started to twitch,
Brock pushed a shopping cart full of kerosene at some fat chicks with ice cream
and shot off a round that blew off their faces, and their hair, and their braces,
we hit the streets with shotguns and grenades as the zombies began to invade,
and decided we probably needed an assist, so we called our friends to enlist,
we blew up the mall and shot up Wal-Mart, but all of that was just the start,
we rigged explosives to McDonald’s and BK, and threw grenades at China Buffet,
we attacked every place where people go and left Richmond with a new asshole,
then we siphoned gas from Speedway and Shell after we sent those fuckers to Hell,
and turned the town into a police state and then we reassembled for our fate
to blockade all of the roads and doors and load back up to prepare for more,
with Molotov cocktails and machetes, the fucking undead will never be ready
for the fucking horsemen of the Apocalypse who severe heads and empty clips
like a little kid begging for some candy, so sit back and open up the brandy
and celebrate the end of this shithole town as we turn it the fuck upside down,
when you see us next you might want to grin, otherwise we’ll have to kill again.

Untitled and Freestyled

You're down with all the latest fuckin' trends,
but you shoulda known it'd hit you in the end,
and how you relate to your skank ass friends
and the fake ass men, where you been,
and distance you from your very kin,
fuck, I'm not the first to curse so much,
there's worse and you're just outta touch,
I can't say it, but I guess you can do it, literally,
and you shoulda knew it woulda come back around
when they're no longer around, your pride can't be found
and it leaves you beat and sobbin' on the ground,
and no matter what you think you found
you just can't bring yourself to find the help
that you clearly need, caught up in your greed
and when you stop to breathe and recollect
you realize that no one sees you with respect,
you're a fuckin' wreck and you know what's next,
even when you're at your best you're the worst,
everyone's dispersed and you can't fill your thirst
of temporary pleasure, of which there's no measure
or rhythm or rhyme and I think you know it's time
to realize what's mine is not yours, less is more,
and your empty fuckin' core makes you a fuckin' bore,
you're practically plastic with your trivial tricks,
the fuckin' rude attitude, and I'm completely sick,
your heart's cold and that shit gets so old so quick,
despite what you're told, or what they may say,
and there will come a day when you look back and pray
that your life wasn't a waste, and you'll be faced
with the question of your worth, the justice in your birth,
but you won't have a fuckin' clue, because all you ever knew
was when and where, but never who, and no one knew you,
and the worst comes when you're hollow, and who to follow,
and when you come to find that there's no tomorrow,
your shallow rage is the fuckin' best stage of your day,
I'm worn from your clichés and games you love to play,
you're nothin' new, but tomorrow's just another day,
well, for me, not you, 'cause bitch, you're through.

Moon Child

Taken from your very own grasp
was that one shot at destiny,
hit by another and it left you spinning
and gasping for air.
Time never healed your wounds.
Instead, you gave up
and no longer saw a reason to try.
Your core exposed and became your surface,
and however beautiful it was,
it could never be good enough for you.
Though you circle the same path,
a routine so hard to break,
every so often you find the grace
and courage within yourself to break free
and block the light so that everyone
can see only you,
if only for a moment.
For you, whose time will come.

The Dining Dead

The wrinkles begin to show,
creases in medium to absolute affinity,
nothing is fluent or fluid in this association
as we just attempt to go through the motions
in this naturally conventional liaison.

Nothing New

Don't kid yourself, you're just nothing new
because I've been down this old path before,
synonymous to everything I've been through,
you're completely offhand and nothing new.

Don't flatter yourself, you weren't that great,
it just really wasn't all that special, you see,
there isn't much that anyone could even debate,
you're the same story and you weren't that great.

Don't pretend this was ever anything unique,
you didn't say one thing that meant much,
you were a shallow mountain without a peak
because you were never once anything unique.

Don't kid yourself, you were nothing new,
and you’re going to die all alone, like me,
so I really just wanted to say 'thank you,'
you're simply irrelevant and nothing new.

Behind the Wall

These old blocks and bricks
uproot their dead foundation,
where once held their seat
they now lay toppled in sand,
the horizon can be seen.

A Kingdom’s Collapse

Seduced to destroy
as if the profane
could disgrace purity itself,
to sully the complacent
and content

these tattered notes
and torn photographs
could combust
with but a single spark

I don't condone or make excuses
for your secret disease,
or pretend to denounce
my own immunity

fitting in means
appeasing the crowd
and acceptance in adaptation,
but you know this
better than most

I could easily provoke
or attempt to soothe,
but I choose to back down
and receive my collapse

because I'm cutting ties
and burning bridges
that I will never escape

because I'm breathing grime
and drowning myself
so that I will never escape

and when the end comes
there will be no revival.