"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

The Poem 'Untitled' or 'Left Standing in My Shoe'

-I-
I can’t sleep
I’m inside my own head
and a funeral thirst
has me a fiend like the living dead.
Though it’s not the lust
for brains,
or the disinterred remains
of the restless, living or gone;
martyrs who crawled up out of their graves
to the great beyond.

No, it isn’t them,
may they remain undead
or return alive,
which ever they decide is less of a hell
for themselves.

So it must be the trust
the kind one may only have of wealth
since you’re thinking you are safe
backstabbing your own face,
to place thy faith in someone else.

Shrieking in dreams
where I am barefoot
walking a mined path
caged ‘neath an arbor of trees
that seem to laugh;

‘My hope ain’t funny!!!’
and if I had the munny,
I’d be the proud owner
of a chainsaw empowered
by a six cylinder motor
and return escorting a vengeance
such as that Confederate chasing Bugs Bunny.

But I just keep wishin’ and wishin’
for the one last fission
between myself and a world
that’s unfurled
above the web I’ve curled
about me and all I’d want to be true
attracting thieves,
cowards
and you…
It’s just a shame a few lies made it through.

-II-
It’s difficult to remember
the disease
that gets me so weak,
just enough to fall into a love
with every mannequin I meet
recently it’s as if they have
about as much of a soul
as this last girl’s tits that I tweaked;
which didn’t even move
with the slightest finger rotation…
Maybe,
if I get a chance
to do it again
I’ll hook them up to a car battery
and give ’em enough volts
that they flatter me
with a standing ovation.

I had told this brown-haired,
pale whore
that I thought she was awesome.
That’s what I said
but what did I mean?
that she’s as interesting to me
as the characters I had created
in Icewind Dale?
So you tell me,
about your stale impression of a world
where a girl
can’t amount to as much of a person
as some puppets I drew up
and put to work
in a system
that I didn’t even think of
Three-point-Five or Three-point-Oh
whether or not
the DCs are calculated right;
nor if it is broken
by a song that lingers
along, consequently
stacking it’s might.

I was right, though.
You are
pretty goddamn special;
especially easy to come by,
to come on
or inside,
just in time to have waved goodbye
from my car.

Because let me tell you:
I’ve walked a mile
or more
through and past
your door-step
and it didn’t take much
to figure out
you’re all puppets in my stage show;
a kids play, no less
on PBS, ADHD
running up and down
all over the walls
dropping nails through my palms
to piss me off
and keep me depressed.

So get the hell out;
this shit is officially canceled.
Quit the winding around in kiddie circles;
remove yourselves from the set.
Sesame Street, apparently
needs more time to teach children the alphabet
You all should know how they feel,
excited for what is naught
tempered ‘gainst the vex of reality;
breathing thought
into your unfeeling bodies
to sense my hand ’round your necks
would require the science
a necromancer wrought.

It’s bloody obvious
that my mentality doesn’t fly here,
so it’s a crime
that I can’t stand the taste of beer
as I could be any drunk
with the gall
to slap a bitch in the skull
the first night I meet her;
pinch her on the ass
with a kiss on the cheek,
just enough to pull back
her shower-curtain personality
and replace it with a bed-sheet;

’cause they don’t feel alive
until they’ve been dehumanized

Though I can’t help but miss the stare
of a pair
of truly human eyes.

-the autumn of Diablo II, 2003-

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