PaperRequiem

I've passed through 1,000 souls Are you ready for your reaping? On the forty four foot Buddha Or God's great light Eyes are precious jewels So as not to be Gouged. I'm the reaper, don't look too close 'cause a SPOONFUL of sugar helps the bulimic stand still I'm the reaper Not diet pills Ruby gladiator please stop  Bleeding 'Cause those eyes, they gleam like Rubies the blood Goes D O W N A clogged drain and into Some kind of abyss My sickle is the color of An artsy child's hallway Wall if he had the non-toxic kind Scalpel, please Scalpel, please Scalpel, please Doctor, doctor, please Inhuman cretin It's

A riddle of a's                B's                c's Don's got 24 crayons A bunch of            LPs And a rayon meteor Former parking tickets stashed Away Yes We're an alphabet S O U P When we're not Them. The ghosts of            M U F F L E D  S C R E A M S Will I hear My Voice? In a tentative Ear Or just another Wooden nickel For his            Wooden leg            Falling down                        And measuring UP To high pitched Voodoo dolls And plastic microwave soup Molecules dance And bounce off one another He's getting a            Last chance To prove his Paper telephone screams Are

Heh, it's funny... look, my pen's bleeding Sometimes my everlasting holy socks deserve more than just a bloody syringe But the fact is, I'm eating cold pizza at 4 in the morning with no one but myself, socks once white are now           some kind of blood red           Not just the occasional blue it's that time of year again where foliage bleeds its red autumn          glow and not just orange hemoglobin          I've got an aorta too, you know You're not the societal acceptance anymore, are you? are you? We've got an assembly line moving like beads of molasses on my forehead Once again I'm your headrest I'd like to say as

I don't know how to find her without breaking a padlock         Your thoughts lie buried deeper within your eyes             What would I do for a crowbar to get it out?             A forlorn tale dies beneath our arms             How can you know what I know when it's all we have?           These forgiven things are what's left of your charms             You've signed your name off and I'm kinda glad             It's what you need the most               How do I give you what I can't? This is a maze               Just a maze                 I'm bound deeper when you tell me it's a phase             Just a phase Only a pha

So I can't throw a football You can, does that make you God? Written on the bottom Of a coffee can Plexiglass figurines Stand in lines of unwritten laws Walks of life on the window Those kings playing chess Better know what's coming To them What's coming to them They bet they better know what's best They've taken my best Skeleton charms And left me with nothing but Ghostly window shopping You're playing with my life You're playing with my life You know every time you play Chess you're playing with my life Sure I've got a gun But what's a gun without Masochistic fingerprints Smudging my tattoo canvas I'm a good boy But

Strangled by a telephone cord I've got you wrapped          Around my          Little finger Don't you know Your density is less Than water? Says I'm the prime of          Maturation          But why when I'm Just an apparition the pen I hold is just a filler god I hate voids Don't you know by now? Don't you know          I'm addicted to chloraseptic          I'm addicted to chloraspetic Numb bowling pin, that's what I'll be Remember the ring It's still teething Mickey Mouse is smokin' something Am I A juvenile butterfly catcher? Eroding my carousel memoirs You think the ghost has left The room          bu

Camping! Camping! Hillbilly neighbors: the two words that go terribly together with camping trips to Old Forge. Words foretelling doom, like ominous clouds dancing on the horizon, laced with darkness. I recall the trip disturbingly well. It began when my friend Pagonia had invited me to come with her and her family on an adventurous voyage into the unknown: also known as the 315 area code of New York State: Old Forge. Every camping trip involves basking in the glories of outdoor living, such as marshmallows, full frontal nudity, personal undergarments dirtied lying on the clothesline for the world to see. Even an incest community and banjo so

misery is a butterfly that settled it's pastle wings, and asked her kindly for her gentle mind. she wrapped split fingers around lovely bones and hummed a hymn from childhood memories while nasty faces made a smile only Wednesday could appreciate.        It was that taste at the corner of her mouth. She ran her hand through her hair and her nerves shook as she pulled back strand after strand, wrapped around cracked nails.        handfuls of hair, handfuls of dead hair. Her eyes had a blackish tint. Her eyes had a blackish tint.        she's still sorry for bleeding through her teeth but she's got such soft gums these days

(i) how those tentative fingertips trembled as they fell with soft tenderness upon my burning scars...                               and I felt cold but you did love with such feeling that I shed a tear and silently hoped my love would not wane and             hurt you and this is what makes me feel cold...                           and I feel shame for I know that these thing            never last and they curdle and rot with time because of me and my                             imperfect heart because I was hurt and abused and my heart was used with            cruel ease so I will never be the same...            

The rubbish queen In her self appointed splendor Glared at me incredulously Across a table of broken glass For daring to disagree With the opinions she passes as fact Sitting high on her throne of hypodermic needles Her rusted crown eskew Smeared mascara and lipstick She makes quite a sight Her lee press on nails are falling away The court treats me as though I am invisible That just figures The  court jester flails about Trying to catch flies in a mayonaise bottle His queen cackles at his antics She smooths his dirty hair back The court advisor stands by her side Taking in the scene His rotund stomach trembling with glee

Kate (Dg), Rachel, James, Me... the four of us. In one poem. Lovely, isn't it? Taste Yourself        Tell me... can you taste yourself in this one? I've strung the pearls on loose string and now it's slowly coming apart.        No need to push and shove it down, m'dear it's 6 0 6 in the morning and things aren't going to come easy        right now.   I'll break every inch of you just to see you smile, under the tears. The eyes are talking to you, aren't they?        those pretty green ones and the blue ones too, whispering that you're depressed while the fingertips tell you haven't been this alive in years.      

(I) my pained eyes                                       (hide) under that blank, cold expression as the knives cut into my sun-browned flesh leaving trails of crimson but this was my choice...                                        (run) the tenderness in your acts but        you didn't mean it didn't know you acted with such care                            and I know this I knew this was not purposeful or meaningful in any way and I knew those caresses meant nothing to you but they meant everything to me...                                          (cry) those tears spring like acid from my eyes and burn my cheeks with