The Sky is Fake

sunshine is a blue curtain over the land,

night sky is an open door with no frame

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On the Spine

the human brain just rots there,

on the spine,

 

like an orange left

unpicked in the sun,

 

your bad ideas fester,

worms that eat their way out of the skin,

 

your god leaves me there to rot,

my god takes a bite

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But You Don’t Like Me When I’m Sad

truly,

that is just too fucking bad sometimes.

That’s what it is to be crazy.

You can’t shame me into feeling better.

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What I really learned in those Fucking Catholic Schools;

I imagine him in a dark high collared coat,

beside me in the empty stool at the bar,

working his way through a pack of cigarettes,

 

i imagine he watches me with his hands occasionally folded,

with his head gently turned in my direction,

his beard growing, his hair thinning,

 

drinking from my whiskey glass once i set it down,

weighing the motions of my hands,

and the expressions of my face with empty eyes,

 

with his revolver sitting in front of him on the bar,

 

and occasionally he leaves it there,

 

he enjoys my drink,

he laughs modestly at my painful jokes,

and he holds me up as we walk to the cab,

 

it’s a good time,

 

but some nights,

watches my hand shake,

my eyes water,

 

he sees me bolt for the bathroom

to wash my face,

 

he sees me look sadly after the bartenders as i empty my drink,

and that i slowly draw the smile over my face,

as the pretty one smiles back with her dark lipstick,

 

and when i feel myself on the edge of tears on my stool,

that i am but moments from a desperate plea for someone to just fucking hug me,

he takes his revolver from the bar,

 

it rests cold against my temple,

and he says, in cool tones,

“You will embarrass us, you will ruin everything.”

 

“Finish the drink,”

he cracks his neck,

“we’re leaving”

 

I meet eyes with the bartender,

and make a motion with my hand

signing the air

 

“Smile.” he says.

“Thank you sir.” I say.

And the generous man behind the bar shakes my hand.

 

I walk towards the door,

and lightly place my hand on the back of the woman with dark lipstick,

she smiles, and hugs me,

 

my shadow cocks his old revolver,

“Text me later.” I say shallow as my reflection.

“Good night Chip.” she chuckles.

 

We reach the car.

“Good boy.”

and he fades to nothing.

 

I’m left in the driver’s seat.

There is no shadow.

There is no gun.

Only me.

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on my mind

i wish i was as cool as

doug and gemma,

because they are who they mean to be,

they write their minds to paper,

and they are out there on the page

for you to find them,

 

and i wish i was that brave,

and that concise

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at your sides

hands fall to their sides,

heavy,

especially when they are empty

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Where are you?

are you out there?

i’m looking for you, ya know.

Every Saturday.

 

I’m out there at the bar,

trying my best to smile.

I did my laundry, so that I’d have a nice shirt for tonight.

I paid all my bills, so that I could run up the tab.

And I shaved my head, so that I’d look as nice as I could.

 

are you out there?

are you looking for me,

the way I am looking for you?

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