Sing to the other end, to your only connection of trumpet and suffering brain cells.
Feel the tower collapsing. 
Hear the overpower thoughts reach out for some intangible destiny, 
disguised terror becoming realism and mistake. 
Which becomes finical aid and southern comfort. 
Pain eye sight, lip formed tears, and every damn savior,
 I intentionally create damaged goods for.
Wet thighs, wet hands, wet cheeks.
Every soaking tongue whip I dare speak.
For all the bursting revolutions burning these statements of the truth 
and the burden and the damsel, 
will flag down the pages of religious differences 
and give opportunity for new blank white pages.
Seek for depth, leak blood.
Shortness is constant, with the gift of lack of conditions.
The torture, the God’s true torture of these lungs breaking the density of lands,
spacing out the obvious balance of reasoning why two can not break unwritten rules.
These lungs are the growth of lessons learned 
and they are breathing strong, and shaking, and giving, and giving. 
These lungs are breaking, and shrieking, 
and meeting your every lost thought that shifts you to wide eyes.
These lungs are fighting for the hopeless heart beat, 
and fighting for the lonely hands, 
and fighting for the blindness of thin lips and long hair.
These lungs are the only grasp of reality. 
The reality is not distance, or the cutting edge, straight man.
Reality speaks for its self, each over passed bed time.
When the thousands of miles become tied breaths.
When I sing, you sing, to our only connections. 
The easy pass to drifting cabins or the back track to freezing fields. 
With all the hour and then hours. The day, the early morning. 
Until everything is lost and turns around, and realized the grown age.
Nothing will amount or matter.
Everything counts.
With me even, the odds will change.
The other end will keep the tragedy and life.
With all in tacked, share with me the intensity of passion and write back.
  

Summon the naked hearts that are still suffering from the curly girl.
Straightening the lies and cheats until they become pure.
Intention or none, you know what you have done.
Where are they?
Silencing the sky until my cousin cries.
For every drop down string falling to the letter D is now missing love.
Every old man, scratching their skin until they realize what they’ve done to my last name!
Conduct the pain they bring to me, and the women that were before. 
I will stare deep through his eyes.
I will place my lips that are splitting from the distance of my lover on his skin.
I will tell him, your weak little bones are twigs breaking from the family’s spit.
Your tiny little mind is weeping for more sin, until you brake the fence of saint Charlie that you were lucky enough to be named after. 
Your addicting dick is being sucked dry and now you can’t waste my air anymore.
My dear chuck, you have lost your soul.
Weak prick, you disgust the naked heart I once gave.

Six Months, Six Seconds, Six Decades

Six months, six seconds, six decades.

I forget everything between the distance of an attached boy and girl.

My every piece is searching for reassurance of the nights and your soft finger

or dried arms. There is nothing but reality of the surreal finds.

I am lost notions of emotions and you are becoming friendlier each day.

Destroying aspiration of your life with a slick mormon.

So, nothing will become of the two beings that combined to the fortress of that damn confused room. For I could be lying for your mind, but I am still around your every line. Then, we fall back to holocene and recollect on our molecule that will forever live in those six months, six seconds, six decades.

Saint Moore

Far off brother, I see nothing and you are missing the nightly time.

You stare at unknown and I will look back at your rhythmic basics and we can stay.

I will kiss the sin and my lover men and you will deny the sensitive motions of the freedom of sexual constitution, but you are horny for your beauty college babe.

Who is wrapping me in sober warmth, saving me from the spun out confessions of bird sounds. You will flee to great tuition skies and rocky hills. I will miss out on the busy bee the world has buzzed about. I will feel the fields of transparent mismatch and dip my fingers in the holy water to be something remember like the saints of the moore but nothing more is remembered than the absences of every word we didn’t care to say.      

I have lime light 

Burning my cheeks

While girls flock for the overweight fanny man’s thrashers

I am fucking a few and want you to shatter their dreams

My mind is set on your eyes that are begging to be some romantic poet

I’ll give you that

Your breast are still torturing me

And I am a single moment that will send you to old age

Because Colorado sounds lovely

With water marks and hand motions

You sent the old saint soul to eternal grief and love

I will let you bath in tears of snowflakes 

That the smoker won’t send

I will let you meet new and be lovers

I will be your wristwatch

Ticking my heart 

Being a comfortable back up 

For you to be frighten and pure

Waiting

Loving greetings in the morning and smooth pain at night

You are carrying care packages and I am getting heavier

Will you be another set to press

Should I need to breathe in every line you preach 

and exhale for every kiss that will collapse my chest

Should I bleed or just speak

pressing our cheeks to make the tears become vowels

until we are nothing but unspeakable souls conversing unspeakable things

running around plates and finding home a safe place

I can hear the music of your anxiety 

and will I be the holy bastard singing you to peace

Because bells are waiting for melodies 

and melodies are falling to sleep

with sewed cases to show the dreams of human beings

to be the cattle with solid coats and a yellow nose 

and you are hanging on my cross and washing the face of a sinner

who is in love with the sound of owls, who hum their prey to bliss

and bliss is keeping me close to death

and death is pushing me to love

and love is tugging me to sweets

and sweets is surrounding me and you

and you know we will challenge the game

and give life a new name

I can be pride and you can be lust

and we will fall in love with sin

Two Matters, To What Matters

Two matters, to what matters.
With the truth of renewed vowels and orchestras
blazing through the stench and breaking our clothing.
I am, you are, we together are starting a small taste of historical art.
  
Angels producing through speakers with nothing to say
as fingers communicate through text messages
of quickly forgotten words to distant dream lands.
We are here. And only here. And everywhere.
And what we make is nothing at all.

For who would be seen or to care.
Dying to be some big name, or listless song.
So many are or aren’t and you love both.
You are taking my words and turning them into true destruction of reconstruction.

The cinema glow that drowns our skin
shows us that we are simply causeless rebels.
Verdicts are cast that make us weep deep in our bellies.
And our only tie to reality is the bills we pay.

Hurdling over cast to the past weather from crowds of sea.
Excepting nothing from Jenny Peach Tree.
With broken promises and waves of broken bells.
We see two in celebration, Florida.

So, off with you to moldy beaches and thoughtless seniles.
Off to be with the dream of another. The dream of my brother.
Off to the land of panhandles and fellow man handlers.
Off to the endless summer with cocks in hand.
Off to the past life recreated for the present strife.

Or the return to the shit stain first land,
with open mouths and endless talks of endlessness.
With taped blankets and sensing touches of opera singers,
The family disease is forgotten.
Bringing pitches of empty use of organs to validity.

Pondering about a man and a women
and a black and white 60’s french sex scene.
Adjectives rolling off of our tongues about a film never viewed.
Our imaginations creating nonsense
as our minds drift to distant lovers and local friends.

Now to make the rest cautions or maybe on edge.
Looking down to the unborn men on my hands.
Hanging over sinks and smiling of the lost hairs of the members of the beat vibe.
Beating meats and eating out dated lips
drying themselves of the lips they can’t meet for
the lips of opposites keep them safe.

Thoughts and thoughtlessness crowding an overused room
and Frank is back up on the wall.
Drowning in a sea of literature with not enough shelf room.
We are the confused and the righteous.
We are the pained and the dead.

Living in talks with distant language.
Walking with the doubts and contradiction swelling like balloons.
With her tears following, as I adsorb it all.
Until I over flow and cry the same tears.
Evaporating and raining, as we live in the constant sorrows of missing finger tips.

 Dreaming in written words and talking through the air,
my mind creates a world of disappointment and betrayal.
For the crow has flown and acedia has been lost
and I am here with nothing to show but the joy of a few dear friendships.

In lost transitions to the dead breaths of this girl I’ve met.
Living, flying, right to the west.
Her hair wrinkles my very head.
Bruising my hair with sexual rights and lefts.
I guess it’s no surprise that the south suits the best of winters and springs.

70 sheets and everything to write.
One journal dedicated to a sweet piece and a sweeter peace.
The creative genius of a Nicholas Sparks bitch
inspiring me to love, hate and create.

The stubborn ass of the brain.
The sensitive heart of the bones.
The actions of the describing place.
Fences and tools, beads of rosaries,
and the ins and outs, the recipe of the best of the fellows’ fellowship.

Seeking in green the creating figment of the majorities imagination,
I judge with my two-tattooed sibling.
We think about truth and lies and the difference between.
Looking up at heaven, we scream ‘you’re just a sky!’