Control for the Remote

Distracted by bloody notes

Before you

Direct the television


Covered with mud

Where alcohol and food

Taste my mood


Social media swoons

Establish your marriage

We chug to communicate

Now a slower fantasy moves


You pretend to speak trivia

In a different language

My name isn’t Cynthia


There is no time

To be apart from



This second

Chance to question

Eyes that dance


A picture frozen in time

You aren’t real

But make me feel

Desperate to hold


Without losing minds

We are full of ness

Nothing has been told

Minds are machines

Racing to get old


Jealousy makes it hard

To make up your

Make up my



Standing still

As rumors foreshadow

In and out of sleep


My mind will lose

Please hand me my shoes

So I can channel

My computer’s frozen


Spies of Hatred

I shake before I want glass bubbles

Full of beautiful bones

Until they speak

To become more alone


What handshake stops you from breathing

There is no sentiment for me to burst

Say cheese without honey


Combing my limbs into money

It seems so sweet until I get stuck within

Defensive beats


Try again to weep

Fail if only to pretend you are

A homeless beast


I bet you don’t remember

Playing an instrument in orchestra

Echoing sad when it’s your last

Concert before age modifies

You into electronic keys


Too busy for humility to call

You will crash into a fire of delusion

A lack of ability

To run


To function means things I can’t do

Let a rush of tears pass

Borrowed eyeliner smears


Put on make up before

You make up

A first line

Drenched in wine


Would it ever be picturesque to have an affair

After a nightmare

I scratch my head louder

Than you smoke a cigarette


Trying to win

A game of evil in every direction

Don’t break from

Too many unintentional

Eyes that sexually sin


A human that heals from using

Is like an onion that peels away

Without perusing


It’s not going to be so busy

Without a friend to

Love your misery

Shots for Ghosts

Are you tired

Of running from the fire

That is feeding

Off aliens


Molded pumpkins and drunken witches

Squash no promise of

Disappearing bitches


Booo for you

Melting pot for me

Phones aren’t dreams


Remember these pictures in flames

With screams out loud

To prevent nightmares


Hipsters are cruel

Lovers are fools

Which one is food


Are you in a costume


Never again will I

Be yourself


Everyone’s drinking and dressing up

To hide in a hospital

To love that we have

Empty stomachs


Holding hands with nothing

But dancing to begin

Transforming for an alternate

Real romance with gin


Ghosts and ghouls

You only have one night

Gather your weapons to

Take off their clothes

So many lost souls to fright

Fast Food For a Sick Attitude

You volunteer antibiotics

And am I supposed to say no

Am I supposed to let go


A doctor or a dad

Did I ever have a choice to make that wasn’t sad

Using people is love, when it involves drugs


Why can’t there be a way to send

Pictures of mucus politely

Or swallow a handful of candy

Without sneezing gumdrops of brandy


To be gross and sick

I dial for my doctor, but they aren’t quick

Too many defrosted mushrooms to answer

Too busy getting money from cancer


So what am I to do

Keep working without wanting

Stop trying

To not digress



I want to close my eyes

Take away those fries from the fragile

Patience can’t outlast a lie


Overextend yourself for money or love

Or a dainty half-meaningful shove

Medicine will not always cure

What I waste on being sure


Clothes, paper, clothes

The horror of tomorrow splinters into me

Work will be the death of trees


There are too many clothes on my bed

I don’t want to go through fabric

Like paper in my head

Pepper spray these heavy layers in your hand


Someone else please try them on

We can slip into a senseless song

Black and white copies of hush


Humming through a maze of cotton laziness

Don’t hang me up for free

It’s bloody Sunday

Cruel Clocks

I go back to curse in fright

Stop and stare at computers to

Whisper of this honesty that modestly

Drives us into prisons of a window


Pains of foolish frowns that thwart sounds

Document all of the cruelty

But don’t let it exist


Keep it in a crunched up list

Deny that you are on your own to take

A bath of a blundering wrath


Is it merely holding and saying no

Stop and let the beeping go

No power for looking at someone’s breasts

Any question that resists a cue or a clue of beauty


Pretend you enjoy a joke, pretend until a

Thought evokes another word on a screen

Another voice, you hate to seem

Allergic to every animal dressed up


Machines won’t let you smile

They won’ t help when you are mislead in bed

With fire steaming from your fingers

Phones off the hook from people who smell bad


Everyone yelling about names that matter

That will never be more pathetic than

Judging assholes who want to pick


To stick up their half forgotten love of

Nothing that matters more than ringing

It keeps ticking

Pop Monster

Green eyes and punk tunes. Short brown hair and a yogi who swoons. The yogi lectured 11 year-old Shea that beauty is power. The girl began to photograph flowers. She tried to exploit herself enough, with cheerleaders who only played rough. They stuffed bras and got made-up at spas. They drank alcohol in coffee mugs at school to prove they were cool. Then came boys, who only understood ploys. Hal was an hour late for a 9 pm date. He played the guitar and lied about why he was far. He paused to fall for another girl, who left him through a technological whirl. The yogi advised Shea she has what she needs. Still, Hal and Shea went back to each other out of mere greed. She wanted to just grow from water and sun, but her life had less rhythm than a pun.

Winning Screams

Pulling me left and right, so I can no longer fight. What side is there to chose, when everything is to lose? Escape from what you have seen to read my heart without a screen. Remember divorced lies and a dream as it cries. We can’t touch death before being touched by breath. Live without peace and become a weak beast. I don’t want fame, I just want to be loved for being lame.

Lavender Fields Forever

Lavender fields are floating in shields. The blue skies have no clouds to shadow my eyes. A cow’s moo is interpreted as a human’s flu. The scent and grass coat my lungs, but the threat of sting lingers on my tongue. Beautiful keys are surrounded by untrustworthy bees. We have to replant buzzed beings, who have ruined the purest forms of natural healing.