Scream Piggy Scream

when the doors are all locked and the only audible sounds

are the train horn rolling off the hills

and the old dude next door

sneezing and hacking in deaths face.

when the eyes have become clouded

from  reading in bad light in a dim room

with an even dimmer man

at the helm.

breathing

slowly.

as the days roll forward and blend into

nights

damn well bleed into nights

everything is a smear

one giant

ugly

fucking

smear.

as you stare into the ceiling

wishing for something to happen

something

anything

some kind of madness

some kind of chaos

a sign that life didn't give up on you

that you've still got a little fight in you

dim flames burning behind those eyes

you can almost hear your brain liquefying

jelly for toast

the hum of machines and orchestra playing

as you defend your life.

all the while, with everyone's knees on your chest.

Get me  out of here.

I need to get out of this room. Hey! You there!

don't crowd me people!

please

step back

step away

give this man some air

he has a heart condition!

Yeah! I have  fucking heart condition!

fan him with your newspaper sir. does anybody know a doctor?

I'm a doctor! Help him doctor!

Son,

Yeah doc. Tell me I'm gonna be alright. Say it's all gravy doc.

You're fine.

shit.

As the tv shows all turn into tv ads and late night

schemes

the movie channels flicker on that soft core porn

some woman boobage

but not enough to get a mans blood going

the starring contest continues between you

and that immovable wall.

Finally,

you cannot box yourself in.

If she wants to come in

she will

But one must be a proper host

or

in a second

without notice

it'll be you and that fucking wall again

starring off into nothingness.

Type Monkey Type

the bottom fell out from under
the crutch
and as the paint falls away from the walls
in sheets
small crumpled bubbles
aren't any different
from here
or there
you
or i.
locking the door to this ice box of a room
and pouring into pages and pages upon pages
books have a way of making sense.
linear thought
a complete
thought
a comforting
thought.

heat rises in the throat with nervous tension

things appearing in corners where they shouldn't be

and noises coming from where they shouldn't  be.

anything

but carpet

lint

and toenail clippings.
some men make bad choices

and by the time they're 50
theres nothing left for them
but a cigarette burning it's last glint
of hope
on an empty workbench
in a garage with broken windows
and cold, hard, concrete floor
in a suburban sprawl of hell.
some men fight to carve out a piece of their own
life
or the illusion of that in itself.
the men all die
and the women all die also.
the birds who shit on your car die
the debt collectors die
the producers of shitty movies die
the restauraters, yelpers, and foodies
yes
they must die too
and my faults
are faults
with no fault
but my own
and i will work at them
until
i
die.
it's hard to relax when you're dreaming big
and have the strength
to try
and hopefully go all the way.
or at least part of the way,
falling short
is not a bad thing
if you're reaching high.
thats all one has
to keep one sane
in ones own fucked up way

One for the Greats Playing With Themselves Around that Blazing Fire-pit in the Sky.

Carlin's gone
and that's enough to make a smart man
sob
so is Chandler and Hammet
who make modern writers
seem like a skid mark
in a bums shorts
we've got to look out for Bryan Ferry
and not let him check out too soon.
Bukowski's time was up
he was living on borrowed time anyway
so not like nobody didn't see that one coming.
pffttt.
Thompson shot himself in the head.
Or maybe it was the CIA?
Nahhhh.....
He put a bullet in there
and who can blame him?
Have any of us taken a good look around lately?
It's not a far off thought.
Thompson and Hemingway may have been onto something there.
the word Suicide has a nice ring to it doesn't it?
But you have to be checked out
in order to check out
and walk into the great river
like
Jeff Buckley
"and i feel them drown my name 
so easy to know and forget with this kiss
i'm not afraid to go but it goes so slow "

written so well

it's almost sad

to listen and read

at the same time.

Buckley and Elliott Smith
running in the same vein
playing with themselves
around that blazing
fire-pit
in
the sky.
Something about
something around the house
that makes me want to posses
to learn to live
and brain art
like those men.
it' ain't easy
but nothing ever is.