sterile room///obituaries.

i threw bleach on the walls, to make my room seem white. i turned on every single watt of light. he pulled out his scalpel, and i grabbed my surgical mask. cut cut stitch it up, doctor do it fast. it's surgery. surgery? the walls are blank and dead. sitting on a cold metal table, a slit upside my head. doctor, doctor, are you steady? is your hand remaining swift? why are you shaking, as you're making another sketchy slit. look at me. i'm sedeated, but i feel everything. the walls are white, i'm high on bleach. i guess the fumes just got to me. i hear the brain cells pop-pop-popping. i can't hear any signs of stopping. i tossed the bleach, you fucking beast. bloodletting like a fucking leech. cut it open and stitch it up. doc, you got more things to do. piss on the walls as you exit, i got bleach and i got you. lights drip down and bleach drips up. my brain leaks out, i'm not stitched up. the doctor's tending to other stuff. i guess i'll have to grab my needle and thread, and run some stitching through my head.
====================================

i read the obituaries over my breakfast, looking for some sign of someone i know. they are dying all around me, every day. kids, parents, uncles, loners. they all cried. they all died. they all moved on. so did i. i did it well, and can you tell what i am trying to tell you here? are you listening to all the things i am trying to tell you dear? i'm jotting notes on folded napkins here and there when i get a chance. i speak of things i need to do before i dance my last grand dance. i stash my napkins in my drawers, and no one ever knows. i've got a list that's full for pages, but no one will read it until i'm dead. i'm nineteen fucking years old, and i read the obituaries every day. looking for the friends i used to know. can i smell their cold meat decay? what's the use with trying to say anything to you today. you're too fucked up to comprehend any little hint i send. i'll write a letter, it'll be gay. maybe i'll mail that shit someday. maybe not though, i just think you'd throw it in the sink. let it sit, fade, and degrade, then pour a glass of lemonade. pop a pill, and have a thrill. let your fucking fantasies spill. when you pass out and die there on the floor, i'll read, "she died peacefully". you fucking whore.

crystal dawn

the rockets fizzle out.
the batteries exploded.
my eyes dissinegrated.
my face is decomposing.
look to me, look and see.
press your hand against the plate glass.
drink to me, drink to me.
pass out on the floor.
show me you love me forever more.
my skull's drilled out,
and my will is signed.
i've bitten through poison.
my care is benign.
we'll all grow up,
we'll all move on.
crystal lakes,
crystal dawn.

broken sparrows.

oh, girl have you seen the open doors, that line this shattered street?
it's all we have, and all we see. do broken sparrows weep?
i've searched so long, and wished so hard that dreams would soon come true. i've spent so many nights commiserating over you.
is it any consolation if i say sorry openly?
will any words reach you if you won't talk to me?
see the sun, it's rising over another day.
all the things i think inside aren't worthy of me to say.
i'm drunk, i'm stoned, i'm sorry.
i wish that i could take,
all the things i've done to you,
and something better make.
broken sparrows, do you feel pain?
are your ribs all still intact?
broken sparrows with broken beaks,
can you please react?
is it too late, am i too fucked to make almost any sense?
these things inside me, they help confide my uttmost innocence.
can you feel me deep inside you,
creeping slowly through you brain?
can you hear me trying to get you on your feet again?
girl, these broken sparrows are bleeding on the streets.
hush now pretty baby, there's no reason to weep.
sing a song, and sing it sweet, with a melody through and through.
i'll hum a silly lullaby from my cracked lips to you.
these doors are open, these eyes are shut.
i am trying to make sense.
the shattered streets are lined with glass.
the broken sparrows fly so bent.

yellow flares.

streaks of flowers rush in through my veins, they reek of sweet forgiveness.
out in this real world, there is nothing pretty to see.
maybe there is, but i haven't seen it.
earth is cold, and full of disgrace, and my alleigance is nothing special.
there's nothing to read into; my words, my thoughts, they all are jokes.
hip-slitting hipsters try and string together thought.
i think the stitches in my forehead are unravelling threads of thought.
nothing is sacred anymore, these words are the last to leave my lips.
go and get your gun, and see if you can shoot me at point blank.

crawl inside and feed on my insides.
raw entrails stuck inside your teeth glisten in the sun.
eastern wind comes blowing in, and i breathe; it smells of saffron.
even now it calls to me with softest whispers.
proof to me that the world may not be such a cold, dead place.
showy purple flowers dance and tangle in the wind.

beneath me, i see my insides srawled about.
each torn bit dangles from your teeth.
nothing is quite what it seems when i am with you.
echoes wrap around my fingers,
and i am stuck calling out to you.
this is my deliverance?
here, against this cold brick wall?

my thoughts stream in and out of focus.
you always know just what to do.

beneath the broken headstones; far beneath the tainted corpses,
everything i always thought was true came out wrong.
decaying, my veins bled flowers.

the hipsters slit their hips to bleed.
happy thoughts trickled out,
and landed vacant on the pavement.
the poets wrote their words down just to feel.

let's keep quiet and just pretend now.
i think that my body's about to fail me.
keeping track of what is happening proves to be troublesome.
even gods couldn't save me at this point.
sweetest smell of purple flowers makes my necro-nostrils flare.

these crushed up thoughts are jotted on paper,
only to find their way to the bottom of the trash.

ever-flowing rivers spring forth
and spew corroded river beds
that smother babies in their sleep.

forget me not, forget me someday.
let's not think about that now.
elegant, i fail to see.
stop the bleeding, stop the tearing.
hurry please before what's left of me is swallowed by the earth no more.

window paint.

i filled my friends all up with holes,
watched them bleed some pretty rose.
is it any wonder...
does it even matter?
i think i just heard thunder.
the rain is coming through my window.
i think everything's going wrong.
oh shit, i heard my brain just splatter.

finger painting on the window,
with my thoughts and memories.
there's a lustrious streak of red,
and i can't think without my head.
i smear a smiling face up on the window,
for this pathetic world to see.

broadway a trail of sorrow

my heart beat has turned to stone.
is anything real, to have and to hold?
tears are nothing to me anymore.
i've sort of given up on crying.
is that a bad thing? should i care?
my body is numb, and i don't even mind.
the back door to my mind is open.
crawl inside and sit in darkness.
hit the switch, and turn me on.
bring my body and mind to life.
my heart beat is chisseled away.
little birds break out and fly around.
they are small and lifeless.
they are weak and wary.
is anything real, to have and to hold?
i will forget and forgive.
describe these dreams, something beautiful.
we bop around to the music
and the clots, they start to thicken.


-------------------------proliferation/
words are forbidden.
thoughts are supressed.
welcome to a cold, cruel world.
hearts are beaten.
minds are raped.
welcome to a cold, cruel world.
here, we are told not to think, not to do.
we are told not to speak, not to listen, not to be.
we're rushed to bed, and left for dead.
but we are not to think of it.
hush now,
don't you think about this cold cruel world.

preterition

emotional bulimia.
all the feelings fall like vomit.
bits and chunks, pulled into the rubicon.
i feel them in my throat.
i start to choke, i fucking choke.
all across the ocean, all across the sea.
it's episodic, it comes and goes.
fatigued, all the time by thoughts slipping by so fast.
i binge upon emotions, and then i purge.
i fucking purge and then feel guilty?
i'm self-condemning myself again and again.
but at the end of the day, when the sky is black and blank,
i feel nothing.
i feel aught.
the vacuity inside me spins within it's nothingness.

this feeling is called apathy. this night was called remorse.

rip away these feelings. tear them away from the place between my shoulder blades. heal me. let the feelings pour out like vomit from the mouth of a drunken fuck doll. kill these feelings. murder these stupid, worthless feelings. burn them. fuck them. mutilate them. watch them scar over. fuck these feelings. i mean nothing to you. you mean everything to me. i have pushed you so far away, that even i can't tell if it's really you anymore. i still have these feelings, and i still can't explain this to you. i am sitting here with so much to lose, and nothing to gain. you tell me there is nothing more. i don't know if i can believe that. fuck this stupid feeling. kill it. kill it, and bury me in the dirt. i am here to die, and ressurect. i am the phoenix. i am the everlasting. i am sitting here waiting to die so i can live again.

thought stream

it's 1:12 in the afternoon, and i wasn't even awake this time yesterday. i've been thinking lately. there's nothing you can really read into in that statement. it's just some thinking, more or less. i've been pumping my lungs with cancer, and trying to pump my brain full of thoughts. my brain's like a big IMAX screen. it takes big film, and puts out big pictures. i wish that i could publish that, but IMAX is probably trademarked. everything in the fucking universe is probably trademaked at this point. fuck. i should put a trademark on myself. all rights are reserved. they are reserved to me to do my bidding. they are my thoughts alone, regardless of them being brilliant or shit. it's 1:16 in the afternoon, and today's more dead than a latina hooker on chicago's southside. i don't feel sexy. you can't feel sexy at 1:17 in the afternoon. i guess you can, but i can't. i've seen a lot of cars and trucks going down a lot of streets, filled with construction and potholes, and streetlights that protect no one. the streetlights are funny, the way they work. they are set out to provide safety, and to clean up the streets. they're bullshit. they are always going out, at the worst times. pretty ladies are always getting raped underneath them. the lights from down the street are never bright enough. i am never bright enough. i've got some problems with some things. one of those things is an inability to make percise statements. i'm too broad. i issue blanket statements. i wish they could just tuck me in and let me sleep like i did yesterday. falling asleep at 6 in the morning, and sleeping upside down on my bed. my feet were on my pillows yesterday, and my head was at the foot of the bed. it's 1:22 in the afternoon, and i just made the contribution of a bad name for a male enhancement drug in a sex class. i told her, "softee" would be bad. the class laughed, but it's true. i've got the onset of a headache creeping up. i don't have one yet, but i can feel it in the left side of my brain. it's crawling up like an infant creeps across the floor. it's coming soon, and i'm ready for it. i hate headaches, but i can't take asprin anymore. i've done that too much to take. it now takes 3000 mg to take my headaches away. i go through about a bottle a day, and that's bullshit. i've been thinking about my life, you know. i said earlier that i've been thinking. the deal is laid out in the following way. i will leave my parent's house in january. i am to start a life on my own. i am attempting to do well in school, regardless of what my fucking father says. i can't really deal with it sometimes. i have trouble concentrating my efforts. i trail off, and lose myself in thought. so what? what's wrong with thinking. here's the deal with what i hate the most. i lost the best thing in my life, but it's okay. i'm still working on getting the fuck over it. my thoughts are drowned in useless shit that companies try to sell me. the billboards, the radio slots, the words plastered across trucks and cities. i hate my life. so what? deal with it. it's my life. it's okay though, i won't end it. i'm too much of a hopeless romantic. i've needed something to sit and heal me. something to get through me theraputically. that's why i'm writing down everything that won't suffice. i am going to the doctor, so don't go and tell me that i need help. i have moved past that phase, and soon i will be getting that professional help. they'll give me sessions, they'll give me pills, and they'll barrage my ass with questions. they will only stop when i am fetal position, crying on the floor. it's okay, i'll move on. that's what i'nm doing with my life. it's 1:33 in the afternoon, and i'm learning. i am learning a lot. women have more problems with orgasms. did anyone know that or care? hopefully. hopefully. or else, that was all a wasted effort. my headache's starting to form. it's about to go ahead and be born. i will kill it before it creeps on up and bites me in the ass. i just realized that i have not eaten food today, but it's okay. the only thing that'l do is make me a little bit skinnier. i wish that i could explain all the things that i am feeling. i wish that i could put down in words a summation of everything. but one can't do that. one can not do that. one can never fucking do that. there is no way in hell that anyone can say everything. the chalkboard's getting crowded. it's full of arrows, times, and words. there's some cute little scribbles. my teacher's walking back and forth and putting more stuff on the board. on a side note, my teachers used to caution me on saying, "a lot", and "stuff", but i thumb my nose at that. if it's the best word to put down, then why can't i say it. it is mine and mine alone. the time is now 1:39 in the afternoon. it's monday. i must say that i am agravated by the thought of mondays. i yawn because i'm tired, or maybe someone else just yawned. i put the hood on my sweatshirt up, because it drowns out a little more noise. it makes it easier to focus. it makes it easier to dream. i try and tune out. i try to drop out and immerse myself in thought. i have a lot of thought. i'm just not able to control it. it's 1:41 in the afternoon, and i'm sick of moving my fingers. my thoughts aren't about to die down though. my brain is a feisty fuck.

manifesto for a cause.

we will stand upon the ocean, and dance across the land.
we will draw plans for revolution across the blank white sand.
beneath my dark blue eyes, i have realized that change will be slow to come.
there will be a time when all i want to fight for will be memories.
i will not live to see this time.
it is long coming, but hopefully my children's children will see it.
they will see economic equality.
they will finally see the absence of racism.
they will grow up and nourish their minds and their souls.
they will live independently.
they will be at peace with all others around them.
there will be a time, sometime, someday, long after i die, when my cause will be a memory.
people will look back and realize the accomplishment made not by me, but all of us.
it will take all of us, together.
we will be a unified-front.
but we will not forget our souls.
we will not shy away from the infinite power that we have.
this is a perpetual fight.
we will throw stones, we will break down barriers.
we will make some sort of difference.
the things that we are made of will be what we bring to the table.
this will be published as a sort of manifesto.
it is here to make sure that our ideas are not forgotten.
it is here to remind us constantly.
for the life of me, we will make a difference.
it is in our nature.
we will strive for excellence.
we will strive for equality.
we will strive to make sure that our lives are not dilluted.
we will be pure.
together, we will all stand.
with our ideas, we will bring a wave of change.
it will silently sweep this nation.
it will slowly creep across the world.
remember, we must start small though.
we cannot learn to walk before we can crawl.
take heed, for the fight will not be easy.
there will be clashes.
there will be deaths.
the powers that be will try to supress us.
be vigilant. we have the power.
it was stated, but must be reitterated, that this will not come to a quick ending.
it will take time, and will not finish until we are long gone.
we will pass this on to our children.
it will be sustenance for their souls.
if you are in this, you are in this.
invest your hearts and minds in this cause.
it will be one worth dying for.
i am invested.
i am willing to lay down and die for this.
if you are with me, you are with me.
if you are against me, you are with me.

needs a working title. i'm too high to give it one.

have you heard the news that is fit to fix?
all of the heart-broken relationships.
they flash on by as blips on a screen,
and for somebody out there the time is serene.
we load our guns and march to war,
not knowing what we're fighting for.
i can tell you what it is, but i'll have to whisper.
we are fighting for the right to make things right.
and we are fighting for the words to fill the night.
and we are fighting for an end to all these endings.
and we are fighting for the hearts that all need mending.
the screen is filled with blips of green.
the albatross circles if you know what i mean.
the labyrinths are hard to navigate this early time of day.
the news is in, and we will win. where there's a will there's a way.
set the sun, up goes the moon.
the dogs all howl, and the crooners croon.
there is not a night like this for another year.
let's disembody and float up high and then we'll reappear.
wash away these bones and all this tired skin.
look into these eyes like cups all filled with gin.
they burn and they purge.
they leave me on the verge.
seek the sight of motivation.
take the path of fornication.
watch the owl as he looks out,
and see what it's about.
under the skies that burn with flames,
we will write our given names.
we'll consecrate evening vows on awkward screens of green.

breakfast.

I will bow at the cold maple table,
With my cold coffee to accompany my meal.
Burnt toast and and a fistful of cigarettes, crushed beneath my weight.
I will take the paper and unfolded it carefully.
Your name still won't gracing the society page.
It may take me ages to work this out.
My regression in therapy won't help things work.
I'll talk of you, and all the psychological rape you administered.
I'll fold my paper up, and let my cold coffee sit on the newsprint.
A sepia ring will form around the story I had been eyeing up.
It is a human-interest piece on the decaying morals and values of our society.
Darling, they wrote a story about you!
I will take it in, and let it out. Laughs, albeit, they are laughs!
Slow and gutteral, I will swallow these words.
My suit will suffocate me, my tie twisted tight around my neck.
I will slow my breathing until it is only the ripples on the surface of my coffee.
There's something to this.
These slow inhaling breaths full of carcinogens and relief.
The cold coffee needs a kick.
Perhaps a little bit of Bailey's.
I will drink, and I will smoke.
I will stumble, and I will choke.
Who would have thought that breakfast would be the last meal of my day.
There will be no last supper.
There will be no savior.
There will be bo apostles to warn me of death.
There will be no one to betray me.
There will be no one to carry me.
There will be no one to cry.
There will be no one to nail me up.
I will sit there, with my burnt toast, and I will put the crosshairs on your body.
You sit there like an adulterated Monet, your color soft but lacking.
I will breathe such shallow breaths, and you will stare me down from beyond.
My breath will slowly touch your picture, and rip you forward straight to life.
We will intertwine like vines creeping up the terrace, outside my window, where I watch the day start.
I drink my coffee and eat my toast.
I feel my insides start to roast.
The sun sets twice before I'm through.
I am passed out on the table.
I will kiss the maple passionately, for I know it will be my last.
My last, my last, my last gentle kiss.
I will take the society page full of it's condemnations,
and let the blinding light creep in from the eclipses on my eyes.
Red and blue lights, see the new lights.
Read the highlights I have seen.
Come and heal me, baby feel me.
Hear the death rattle deep inside.
The car is heating up, and the snow is slowly melting.
Like a man without a country, I see I don't belong.
One last breakfast, one last cold kiss.
Tomorrow, they'll be banging down this door.
For now, I will sit here and there's nothing I will fear.
Drink down my Bailey's, goodbye ladies,
There will be weeping when I pass.
I am one who cannot speak for fear of my words nailing my coffin in.
I will sit here, and drink my bourbon.
I will lay here and force down gin.
I will take it down, all in stride.
With breakfast, I will win.
I am here today to tell you of great injustice I have seen.
Deep inside these eyes of azure blue.
There will gleam some aquamarine, but it will flitter and it will fade.
The vessels lain inside my eyes, will red-out.
They sit played.
But what of my coffee, cold and bitter?
I will draw parallels to you.
Drink you down in moderation.
Drink you to your early grave.
They will write a rave review in the papers about you, saying she could have been a beautiful woman, but she didn't live past girl.
I will ponder as I die why you didn't hear me cry.
My sobs twisted my viscera and to you they were silent winds.
Winds of change that carried nothing.
Winds of change that carried me.
Blurring vision, total red-out.
This is one thing I can't see.
I ate breakfast, I kissed maple, and I stumbled to the floor.
I yanked the society section down with me.
You'll die with me you whore.
This is passion in these words, and there is passion in my eyes.
They are twisted and they are blotted.
You've got the doldrums, you have no heart.
Your eyes and lips sit cold as ice.
I sit here and it feels nice.
This is not the last supper.
This is where my ribs rattle and crack to life.
I will drink you down under the table.
The cold maple will cover my decrepit mort.

angels that carry me home.

if heaven should call this world at all,
let them know that it's not always easy.
angels with wings serrated on their shoulders
call to us here and speak so easy.
their words fall like dead leaves on cracked, broken streets.
they lift up their voices so no one will weep.
if heaven should call this world at all,
tell the angels i'm coming home.
i'll criss-cross my heart with these fingers aplenty.
i hope that the angels have enough arms to hold me.
if ever a whisper was held deep inside,
let the angels force it out.
i will sit heavy-hearted under the oaks,
and talk with the angels who fly circles so high.
i will wait on a hillside for a crimson sunset,
and let the angels carry me home.

words.

there was a time when the words that i spoke
would provoke
words to well up in the throat
of any bloke

write a note
to those who choke
so they may see who wrote
of a simple-minded folk.

skull and bones.

skull and bones,
skull and bones.
broken.
bullshit.
words.
fight.
live.
wither.
thrive.
ultimately, die.



this iscoda.