Infinities

Littered with the plastic death, chewing at the membrane of eternal anything, 

we break fingers just to educate our bodies with the air.

Internally nailing the suffering of bawling images, dressed up as my past negro sitter,

we coexist in tied mind fucks, with several air lines pacing the land,

spacing a miscarriage.

And will it all burn if she returns to my home?

Boarding a wall in interior panic, soft exhales annihilating time itself.

She comes, in a white line I pressed in the stuck intersection.

Inhaling and breaking matter for a met eye and wonders of parenthood.

So, talt to the terrific periphery!

As state sight becomes country wide and my clothes are still torn.

For all and with all, I say a last,

forthcoming affairs on the cold tip of Colorado or anywhere.  

I burst the naked damages to clam bonding intercourse with little joy. 

Seeing the line walked among the rich and knowing I am not quite obtainable for a sensitive manner.

Speaking up to requested might of pursuit of thrones and to feel honorable by the knowledgeable insight of a foolish inmate.

Lowered bottles on top of worldly hypocrite’s eye lids.

Where is my stand, tall linking creation wearing the beat of my own generation to be looked upon.

For I have peered upon story lines that stare upon my own giddiness and i am stuck with my starlit loneliness.

I paved my head to the  lowered decks of the investing roof top clicking shattered glass to the mothers of my encore.

Woman in love, with confused mind level, I am a capable bean, not enough to feel your notch worthy gift.

I have tried and tried to say a word , single and separated with an attaching touch.

Which all said and not done, I am withdrawn from blank questions.

I wish to be you and kiss my true settled Smith.

Crickets and all, I can’t speak tangible snow flacks and press on your face.

Time tares the unicycle’s tread and I now center reasons of a tandem to get by.

Laced words linger the open sonnets, inspired by temptation of singing bent mornings to lullaby nights.

Longing odd touches on a patched idea, grown to a facial feature. 

Demanding romance, formed throughout the passion of insignificant carriage steps, paced on a remarkable question.

For all language spoken tongue, your’s stumbled onto and shattered trumpets and blue roses beat my broken whims.

Over in and out dims a bondage.

Emancipating vigorous lighting to make a demonic stream become my wet forthcoming. 

After all strides, I am twisted as my brother and his second laugh. 

Tiding you were, when all I thought was parading uncontrollable sails for subjective concepts.

Sinking I was, when all you thought was landing self served, substantial evidence of adventitious delusion.

We boil sensitive circumstance with no resolution…  

Sampled Eyes

Mutter fingers broke the bone of a well kept tolerance with conniving lust.

I am holy. I am the sanctuary.

I peel the mind of a welly slicked boy and shuttered a power of space and all cost, I am broken.

Drainage, flowing the hair lit must of our little room, where we could madly be.

Pain seeks to the tips of a slender mocking of our well breasted delight.

Whimsical we were on a broken, soundless set.

I wished to be stricken with love for you, boy,

as my thoughts lied deep within the rotting rape, behind white paint. 

I burst my agonizing terror of the maybes I would have done to the doll face,

on to the plated metal my hands should rightfully be.

For the bruised bones left me a line of desire to let honeymoons smirk upon my unwelcome chest.

So, I can be a nest for my words to become a stairway of regretful realizations, that I am in no foam bubble she hopes to pop.  

Beneath words breathing, speaker phone, head sets and immense fingers pleasuring the body.

Shivering infant, whining like a smothered cunt.

Suffocating to the throw up caused by a masturbation routine,

with the layered guesses of an ark saving her over and over again.   

Chronicles shitting out of the slips of her rip cage.

The beginning beggar’s stories that she is quite insane and can’t be saved. 

There is a plummeting bird with a chip beak.

Shutting his eyes, wanting to speak, pumping the blood to create a wasted heart beat.

For she is a lover who wants to drown in deceased,

and I found man’s mind lying time to click and clock, speeding up transit stops, 

so he can meet infinity and blissfully kiss feet. 

Obstinate Grief and Cantankerous Redundancy

I am growing and breaking. Inhaling and growing, then breaking again.

The old lady with loose teeth and absent underwear is my epiphany,

while I am a ritual of Ephesian prayer. 

I shall bang and beg the Muslims to surrender Allah to her grief. 

For lines of my hair are a paraplegia plague carrying the infant brother into a clouded shame of my nostalgic doubt. 

As faithful as I am, I am as foolish as well, bringing gold and frankincense to the President’s anti-christ.  

As I am much of a republican, I am as giving to the San Francisco shelter, raving gentles for me to handle with horny drought.

The Agnostic fear the responsibilities of mistake and lost Joesph, James, or Jake along the way. 

Which is a simple, reasonable cause of the heartache I played, in guilt of my master and cum. 

To find God is to seek through her bushes. 

I am ill with a Glaucoma touch from her face.

I am without fingers to meet religious state.

Shifting italic words appeared in the shaded space of my solar eclipse and sunken ship.

For these words were limped and redundant, you focused a disassembled memory to be a lapse of time.

Which is the cause of a retelling of nights you think you are alone. 

There is a member of your thoughts, loony foot of separation.  

The notepad of winter, that is now something of autumns repair. 

Now I stand the shards of reattachment, for cruel as the reaper maybe, he is nothing but an angel.

And feel it when you say damn as if that will become the soul based acknowledgment of love.

That it may bring the haunting nights that were for you to hinder and say nothing.

For these italic words were a blunt attempt to be me.

Since once they were my words.

Photographer

Soulless mouths in camera shy ways.

The black and white mind has captured the lingered banners of recruit county.

My love, my love, I touch your thumb and clean the stains of up rising.

Your plain the make-up, burn out the lucky numbers and the stay of over due funds.

I am here, hearing the taps and clicks of brighten grit.

So stand back for all paths are now debris and your left foot pounds coward homes,

while the right makes shady kicks for the bloody cunts.

Forecast Investment

Days have seeped through the sockets of old eyes.

They flood the cities as devil-like lust and harpoons pierce the sun’s deduction. 

My envious lunar smile, I wish the skull crushing words spreading our voices apart

could suck the air until we freeze back to winter.

For then we could stay vital on top of Pennsylvania avenue.

For then we could lose our souls indubitably.

A Way To Make It Through

With all these lines, we cross and seem handsome.

We look at the soil and with everything relevant I want to kiss my loves.

I have intertwined my barriers with some fullness of family I can’t carry.

I want to press my hands to tangible truth that we may be okay.

For I spent a summer looking at these loves becoming dirty debris,

and now to spend this agonizing autumn with them feeling cannibalistic.

My baring eyes on constant observation is now understanding why we are clothed.

With it, everything is heavy and bursting shallow silence.

This is my call towards desire of a single atom to break and surf my face.

My love, to hear your voice at the tip of illumination,

my breath is thickened and exhausted. 

For one after another day you just find the neon abused by father,

and lady luck in a daring attempt to shed shelter mama, you kissed her cunt

and became the shimmer fad of manly stands in all palms of hands, we think is a dream. 

We feed off of pastures and the neighbor’s farm, pacing the street, and kicking our feet towards our faces, and all we have to show is a smirk of glow.

My love, you are in a gutsy bleak stage, with this robotic romance, swaying your cans of a strong behalf.

Beheaded your own damn growth of distance and Lauren.

The crushed head in a gutter talking to a black man about her.

Leaving my hands, I avoided you that night.

 Lifting your megaphone towards holy shit, you made it to the winged help.

She instantly made a move to find you, in a manic shame, jamming an old harp,

a out of state collusion, you made a nesting thought that prided my tartness.

My love, she is in Hispanic courage.

You bend the word of these childish years, in a dynamic spice,

waiting for the drizzled span of an open field event, in conversation of virginity.

 I long for a returning of her homey desserts and his homey tunes.

They long for a shattered sheet,

upon a splintered secret of joining a fair night plea, a cluttered constancy of fare wells. 

My love, you have made an undeniable dent in the landing of yesterdays.

Squeezing your touch as if I could have that mark for my wrinkled tale.

He financed a pace of waits.

All I hear is the way he can make you feel more control than a planned minute,

finding seconds to make time in the corner of every brand of implanted cause of my membrane finding a reason to break my shoes from the ten thousand paced breaths,

when I said these words to you.  

And now the night is a thought, shifting swift lines we have yet to cross.

For a chill of winters nails scrap the idea,

and when, I will yet again strap settled waves to make a way to heavens bluff.

Breaking Bridges

Tame the saucy number to the brink of guilty pleasure and brick by brick make a home that land of unconscious gifts filled with the burning eye socket of blinding hands reaching and reaching to the ever gaping starry night, milky white, outer mind, sky.

And talk to the backing men, packing the tree with enough love to end my own God sore war. Say the name you wish to speak to the grassy hills that tumble hard onto of your wet dream. Teary rise, sunshine, without a despicable man to shutter your body onto his own.

Recapping the holy of bloody messes we still love in shameful ways. Turning the daylight upside down, twisting the manuscript of parting words around to the constant bridge captivating the opened chest we sexual abuse and daughtered the dog.

Can’t stop the track sapping my own bopped time over the lapping line I have crossed. I am in no way feeling darlinged, just bitter grapes I chose to take from the heart of the cannibal.

Why is it every time I step away from home, family dies? I hear the intense screams of an animal tonight, in the same red pattern shirt I wear. So, be warn, I am no foolish droid, patiently waiting for my soul to be worn by wrinkled balls tearing into the flesh of the children I so dearly miss.

Being something willed by serpents tongues I wish to kiss and go to the end of worlds. I am the sea of which you and I wish to be. Lift the bells of broken sorrow onto the backs of someone else,  because tonight I am in love!

Father's Day

I am tired of the ring and ding of southern tunes I hear from the trembling tears I put past my head.

And tired of the tacky talkers, trying to put me in tangy tingles of interest.

I am tired of the ladies and lady man and me and the ladies after aflutter me or staring deep into the nothingness of my apathetic eyes.

I am tired of the 8s and 12s and 16s.

I am tired of the lately lacking lakes of grumbles and am tired of barks of my sheep

I am tired of the stomp downs of the tightly tied shoes smacking the black soul of the outer space classified empty rooms, and burnt marks of cancer.

I am tired of the tribal known second home baby girls that look at the love I, me, myself, alone have strove the deadly dense cliffs for. That my ancestors couldn’t even stand for, uncomfortable, pretentious, mediocrity. They have nothing to offer my attitude anyways.

I am tired of the fitting in, rooms that I have barely seen.

The frighten, whacked whales I touch their backs and they want me.

Their underage, under blankets, under stars, under me, for they see with the same eyes as the man I used to carry in the smallest space of my empty place of heart. Chance to see, maybe see, with the slight inst-o-matic sight gifted to just me, of me, by me, for me. And glancing the ganders of opportunity of the name that has drove originality to causeless rebels, is no shock factor that I am blind.

The fire burning the child’s idealistic hope for home, and hunched back fight the talk backs, and the drunken tacks. The arrested, owner ship of me. Not owning up to my intensely underestimated, decorated thoughts of gasoline.

Play, roll, in gigantic scenery of dramatic moments that lifted my sanctum monument, that took the t to cross as if Jesus said, ‘hey, fuck you Andrew, you mess of loathed thoughts that have shook the condom right pass fault’

and took the bird from the coop, coping the shaking out burst of Kaufman’s one true checker, cheddar chaser and leaving the awe to fall and turn to the amateurish night.

Yet the redundant state still can’t sleep and feed the nostalgic light.

Days of Summer

I have seen the depth of children’s deaths meet the dark, drunk talk of fresh babies in horny despair and scared of the tucks and buttons of my gentlemen. 

They are suckling on the tits of my burdened woman and these pierced tits of difference are snapping hearts and the bills from my pills.

Forcing the skin to break, starved for my torture cock and I love her as dearly as the summer nights, with stolen cars and stolen thoughts. 

Burning down the ocean, smirks of joy and tears will peak past
God and are hopeless gestures to the mother’s grief. 

And Luis’ piss has been blessed above sand this week. With the apologetic soft tongue whip of my brother in hotel rooms and lit cigarette and lit hairless cock and touching the heart or breast of the girl in the room. 

My brother is home late and tumbling to the floor of whores and loving the stiff sniffs of each wet parade. My brother is blazing the coke into his lungs and talking to the armed lady with reason to dismiss or miss him. 

I am hearing a slight background noise of my world singing hallelujah and wanting to be free. With the ten days ticking and tocking and I as flat as the stroke of my opportunity being wasted by the lift I give for friend’s escape from the haunted place she creates when she is alone. 

And all the damned wants to be in arms of gold and tasting her sweets. Dance, dance, and dancing and my own couldn't be there. With knit and dress and I still a missing landmark of proof for her to bare love handsomely. 

She wouldn’t dare. The land she lives with a boy that is filled with an over flowing asshole and an over flowing ass. is carried and carried higher to his humor of bore and the mature falcon comes to swoop the rest of the dead laughs and she is smitten to no end.

I am an old enemy of man that I have met on the hills full of christians’ arms in the air, feeling as much as what isn't there. 

Though the indescribable twitch is fighting for her honest words and my own chirp of broken feathers, silenced, and diseased to shallow returns of dense belief that we were able to make it home. We have roamed the year, over looking land and nothing but your affliction and my reasons have suffered our missing links, but we have a phone that covers true delicious, malicious, or the atonement deserved for you for the words that burned the church, the wooden boards and boss, and broads. 

For the pressure your precious eyes lay out the mind to feel knocked out and blown down the house. Suffer the sore throat and I will make love to your pain in isolation from your curly disgrace. Untaught mighty fashion of broken humbles buried to the ground of the blind man song.

I will feel the the inches of a dark hole, solely based on the shit stain dark days of Fourth
in celebration of two grave robber's souls bared in lushes Independence. Peaking into every viscous hunger of the little twangs girl's hideousness. 
I will twist her fingers to reach for my regret. I will obviate sections of all life with no reductive cure for old winter's bones.


Within one put back and smack to the second and finish faster and faster, dazed becomes the shutter mind
and naked is my simple eyes. I broke myself for hippy love. I have lost a friend for someone else's blood is now on my hand. 


Shivered up the sticky stenches of the layered images.
Break lines to nibble the enlarged areola , until thoughts become faded thoughts drifting to the falsehood affirmation.
Tangy tongue suffocating my lungs, until it spits through the asshole and I become a heartbroken goof.

She will be in closets once again, for I am a man that buries her pride within the rage of the tacky T-rex killing my on again and on again and off again and on again and off again and off again and off again and off again and and off again and off again dead lay language of sleepless nights in apartment lights smiling to our final sight and feeling the titanic might of one another. 


and now I am sinking to the bay.
Waiting harder to capsize my twitches of reminders of this dismay, I am the charged bull making love.


I have seen the dark days of shallow brotherhood rip apart the drum.

Knowing all of creation and the torture of this hell. The broken weep upon the blades that curse their eyes blind.

Talt! TALT! We raise our glass higher than the air for one last time, as we drink our blood and break our tear, and cry, and shed this lament that can not be describe.

I look beyond the scattered mind of hypocrisy and call out the names of the truth of this prison we were born in! This is our home! Passion damn you! 

Weary ancient men from redundant tales of babes of literature not lighting up the shelter harm I and we have created for their own beautiful markings of remarkable poetry.

For I am as listless as the names I can’t remember. 

I hear a silent love trying to rub faces. We have known we are the fuck ups trying to fuck up the cunts of despair. Though I am not focused on the apologetic false Prophets covering the infant lamb skin in dried salutations.
Sender morbidly saw them kiss.


I am shamed to be in love with the girl of south duck calls and feeling the alcohol shake up the sucking of the several levels of mistake. As I call her name with fierce fist of rage. Wanting to smother her face in anger and joy! 


For stemmed steps further dilute my eye of all the soldiers I have battled beside. The days dimly fade and turn to harvest fields of old joys in previous decay and my mannerism is a short notch of the German ancestors.
Lighten times are no where near, but tired sighs are upon my breath. 


Chilling seas repeating the small tomb. She is fevered of the dreams. Right, powerful is her love of the gem of convenience. Lonely man, can you even imagine the dancing? To take a hand, to sway and be blunt with the night. That you can turn the sight of her four days and make love for eternity.


I have changed the dark days of damaged ways. Fellows of my sweet victory and the ladies in the toilet. 
With the night sky screaming in our visage, as we shed the ground, the awe waves of Middletown crashing into the empty inane manifestation. Contain the bottles and drop to the floor, shaking to the beat and seeing native deride. 


Toppled the investment and the double x breaking the memory of the siblings and we find fear.
Make the exchange of the lonely drunk and the harmonic girl and my love for her.
Hear the echos of her voice shriek overlapping joy of her forthcoming and the lips crack to the end of each pole.
I have lifted the slouch and found a real way.
For I am just making love with summer days.

Truth of Duty

Bring my pit of tasting creation back to the air and city lights.

Grow the fruit that has filled timeless hours of inglorious peace.

Be my reckless dream.

Shove the pain of other names.

Lift, break, smile.

Find your insanity in the palms of my hands

that are bleeding to sweat for the love affair,

the bases of salvation.

Cut me, string me back together

and I will mimic the ocean just to flood my eyes.

My boiling lungs will scream to stop the back steps to home.

See the words go off and drown voids of missing passion.

Lose control to the bore of all constancy 

and recall connection.

Cherish the intense defense of organs lending,

out broken, out burst to save our attention. 

For truth of duty is in service of proclaiming eternity.

Born Folklore

Moment to moment we want to suffer under sensations of tortured hollow bod.
To feel pressed tension of constellations making a warm bed for two to greet in secret patients.
And the cold is blooming the field of where we laid in realization of who we were. 
Now we have missed tones of honey from white lilies and we’re confessing the confused pain from each yellowed jackets last puffy armed subconscious’s running meaning death with the collided vehicles.
Wait for the exhausted thump of city child and country toy to be once again played by the intense stance of harnessed old teen.
In her own mind the pressures of window’s buildings are shattered by the banked redundancy of the mass norm.
And all that is wanted is free speech of intensified pounding organ verging to be the homicide beacon of the life of me and my relentless tries.
For all we want is for arrived stations to be calm.
We  wait for our home.
I futilely try, as do the eggshell steps of your toes to be as shaped with timely care.
To make it a dream and we sleep through the hours of depressed barks of homeless dogs.
Gambled calls ruining ruined sun’s baby’s crawls to our connection of skipped beats flowing the blood until diseased minds massacre the aged eyes.
Yet the tries infinitely circle the cause and still questions dead lives.
Don’t give the broken necks forced to the sight of skies the chance to break the lesser known story of the creation of tasty bedroom talk.
We are the born folklore the chapters are pleading to base their lives on.
What will give?
For my presents can’t package the low come by of chatter lady’s demands.
Bingo.
Sorrows become the preachers go to move, and the applauds miss treat the stains of sore wood.
So, let us make the pack of nonstop graduating split ends and fall in love over and over again.

Witness

Witness, bare no fruit, hold no arms. 
Hear no virgin cry to the outer space, with the wet paradise cleaning her face.
Say no vowels, savior no meaningful nostalgia.
Witness, be no man’s revenge. 
Walk no further than the no outlet road, with the expires of knowledgeable updates of the flash photography.
Witness! Be no thin rib, or cracked bone.
Lay no limbs to Bronson’s handsome smile. 
Feel no baking organ begging for the Don Knox to fetal your propagation.
Witness, be no God to determine heaven and holy 
from hell and determination of the one eyed cocked blind
dipping his natural destain for the simple words of golden gates, and cupid’s fluttering wings.
Gimp your beating heart from the unconscious, cons, and majorities.
Sing hallelujah like the rest of them.
Be the jazz musician, with careless words as powerful as the gangs of new York. 
Raise your hands, seduce the cloud lines to sweep the feet of walking mimics.
Cry to the singers soil ground.
Witness, be no witness.
Lift up your lungs to the hungered cave animals.

Ida

I wait to see my angel bring me soft tears.

To feel my shame.

And feel my doubt of her faith.

Ida, my love angel, I have wondered your protection

and consumed demonic tongues.

Illuminated secrets are bitten down

and you shrunk as suffered steeples left you blind.

Gloom through my unzipped pants and touch my glory of stiff comfort

For I would die to see the sure of your promise of Lord’s Heaven.

Though I have been blessed,

and without the cleansed sensation of my feet.

My God what have you done to your son’s name?

With the broken stem of my vain connected to it?

Holy spirit, wipe the naughtiness from my cinder asshole.

I beg to be bonded together with chords that can not be broken.

Though the sense of seperating me and her

for you has torn the chords of my bible’s love.

With me folding the blind folded congregation,

I can place a kiss to my precious Jesus and give him a goodnight.

Widows Skin Shed

Destain isolation flying across the sea.

Gust of winds blowing the widows skin shed.

Her window view shows the depth truth of a captain’s sunken handicap.

She is a weeping for the pillar,

where the sleepy boy dreams.

Her sharp eyes burn causes by the salt air and no tears are becoming her trait.

She whines for the free touch of sand beneath her toes,

but it still is true that she will never let go.

The boards are surrounding the misery of lost brilliance

and she becomes just as much as that single lip form tear as she is wrinkled bones.

She walks from wall to wall,

then finds her love in the frames painting.

She is hesitate, as years fall past stars.

Her broken fingers grop the bloody reds of the picture.

As she decides to hide the bodies of her love and children down below.

She is hung right there.

Between her rusty eyes and the dried nail holding the painting.

Triumph!

Tired of trying to yank the chains of his girl,

he yells for yonder mistakes.

“Triumph!” he cries.

She is gone.

With the foolish excuses the world has been making, and yet he is crying

triumph to the dear sour pus.

“I am all this barking demand.”

Then cries, “Triumph little buzzing bee!

Step down from your sting and lay locked lips.

Triumph inconsolable bird!

Press your beak to the cloudy sky and feel that hand grop one time.

Triumph fascist  bear!

Eat the towing guns, sing the day long.

Surrender your aching heads to the thunderous Irish tumbles.

Hand the broken sleeves to the eyeless dog, freeing the attitudes of dark rituals.”

She may roam the island, with contemplations of seniority.

Though his brutal movements of speech may contunue to contain flings.

She knows how to break her chains and flake the current sunken salt.

And if so, then why does she not find the burden of her dreams?

Damaged Sun

Damaged sun, be mine.

My star, rest your dumplings on my head.

Cry once more for me.

Burn me entirely.

Dimmed sweet sun, don’t move.

I will continue to orbit you.