msklystron

1. You are singing the same song you have always been singing. The one where the words are all “did you do it, did you do it, did you do it.”  I have not done it.  Tomorrow I will not have done it.  The days pass, and it has not been done.  I only wish you would sing a different song. 2. There are dishes in the sink. There is dust in the house. There is clutter on the table. You do not do what should be done. You never listen to me, you do not hear, I am wide open and you are always shut. 3. Another question, any other question, I had a lovely day at school they let me hit something, today I ate a sandwich for lun

When the world falls down, And the curtain is removed, You see the machinery, That has been driving you, Think about what you're gonna do, When the world falls down. When your tears fill up, And you cannot dry your eyes, You cannot see through, To what's bothering you, And what this life’s coming to, When your tears fill up. Everything in slow motion, Dancers stumble through the square, Everyone is shoving by you, Really getting nowhere. The rocky road has become a river, And the tires are making you sleep, You dream in dark shades, Some that terrify you, While others help you through, The rocky road has become a riv

Our lives and deaths, Such lusty toil, Memories left for comedy, Blood replaced with burning fluid, To preserve a shell, a joke. Our breath and words, We speak for days, Voices echoed for tomorrow, Cold stone marks cold flesh, Embrace the loss of hope. Our eyes and sight, We see for years, Only what reflection shows, Flowers laid find root to grow, In time they reach our bones. Our joy and tragedy, Is not in our mortality, We never truly let go, Small feet dragged to places, Where children should not be made to go.

You don’t like songs that you know have a message, No you don’t want to look for any keys You’d prefer that people pour honey, On your self imposed miseries. So you pretend you don’t like to look in the mirror, Yes you claim that you are so ugly too, See the flaws you hate are not in your skin, They are forged deep inside of you. You took advantage of my heart, When it was chained to despair, And from your barbed wire soapbox, Tell me how I’d be happier there. I gladly and so gently laid at your door, All the presents that you turned away, The things that you find valuable, No one I know has the restrai

She Will Be Near But Unseen behind her Curtain – Isn’t that like a book? Caught just so between lark song and The taste of Unblushing Words awakening on her Breath – A startled square of glass Unready for the Torch of dusk, Quick to change the subject – She will watch the Coachman’s approach By not watching at all – Her weight confiding in the sash; The Stars moving in pairs.                                                 to Emily Dickinson

document 1. may 17th. "if this is how it starts how hard is the rest going to be?" may 18th passes.  so does june 22nd. in the time between and after, I am left only with my birds and the rain and it rains all the time. august 7th.  I can no longer hear the geiger-counter clicking of the gutters over the echoes of crows and car horns, though the mud that devours my shoelaces each morning tells me the storm still hits while I'm asleep. november 24th and even the pigeons have gone.  buildings boarded up, graffiti all over my car. nothing shiny left for them to shit on. january 6th now-- eight

The leaves bite my skin like your incisors once slit knuckles, one cartilage laden bone at a time. A cold, bitter wind leaves me messages like yours, once hidden in shoes and coffee mugs and eyes. Maybe if I close my eyes, you’ll be here again, and your empty space won’t be a troubling matter, without the bold lines your form used to lend to the landscape of my dirt strewn apartment. Maybe if I play your favorite songs I can tell myself that your silence is the sound of your listening. And maybe if I turn off the water and refuse to bathe, I won’t wonder why the patter of the shower does not accompany your morning-roughened slu

Sometimes being empty can be good. You’re a hollow husk, full of air and dark space, a void, but at least you know the full dimensions of your body, where you end and when you begin. You can know all of yourself, with nothing confusing you or conflicting with your ideas. Empty yourself. Empty your mind. Push the world out and in doing so, know who you are. Cut open your head and peel back the shards of your skull. Dish out your brains with a rough spoon and carve out your cerebellum. Don’t miss a single piece. Rid yourself of the contamination, wipe it away, bleach it out, and beat it out. Do what is necessary to be deaf, dumb, a