There’s red paint slabbed on the kitchen faucet From you trying to cover your scars And the cliché drains from your arms like a 15 year old goth girl’s story I’ve read those lines so many times, so many ways, so many lives before And your misery fogs up the kitchen windows Little beads like blood and sweat drip down the dirty glass Four more weeks, in four more cities They’ve let you down this time, no more I don’t envy your assertion to failure Dried ruby red tulips lining linoleum dressed ...

She inhales the smoke rings like autumn On the back porch She has a new obsession (it must be Tuesday…) Just like the last week never happened And I know by Saturday I’ll be bailing her out of that old brick house And she’ll be scratching and prying At the windows of the liquor store I can’t remember what living felt like before… Before I lived (for her) I’m picking up the pieces of her broken heart, Perfectly placing every stitch to make sure she appears whole (On the outside) She’s eyeing ...

(so it's going to be one of those weeks, is it?) This is bound to be a mess… Fragments of a bombshell romance Detonate. It’s that hot summer edge When nightfall twists between my legs Just like black hail on the horizon I never asked much But I’m at a loss for words. Even my usual poison of sex dressed as innocence Seems tattered and worn at the edges So I beg for silence One last goodnight kiss And it’s just a metaphorical intake Like blades of blue grass Sharp glass Staying over for heartb...

I hate you when you play the angel, Standing in the corner wearing your psychology face. And I’m silent because I can’t stand the way you manage to always rationalize everything. Just for a moment I want to view the world as unjust for not folding to my expectations. And I hate you when you play the angel But still I sit you down on the living room couch. And I watch you, captivated, As you create a neat little list of my flaws over coffee flavoured sludge. And we laugh about my failure, You...

Drag the blade down through martini ramblings Measuring time in cigarettes I’m swallowing words with saccharin promises They taste just like childhood Just like ambition 3 nails left to be hammered in place Slamming down this prevarication on blue keys And tiny metal stamps A desolated story A split lip A violent kiss I want more…

"3:30am, all the streets are a blur. Heading for a wreck…the end of the world” Stranger than andricon pictures…your steel Wire frame. Laced in temporary psychosis I lick up trashed poems and dropped lyrics From your doorstep Dirty needles…leather boots. And every word I bleed is just a cheap imitation Of something I once saw flicker in you Through grey eyes Hydraulic haikus Out of time And I was once asked to write of heroes I was once asked to write of you I was expected to stain your glory ...

Its 3am and your lips taste like chartreuse And cigarettes You wind me down Through your plastic gears Slip my fingers through yours And we crash into the mechanical arcs of your room Its 3am and you’re taking me through rivers And highways of industrial landscapes Through decades of intricate music Your sandpaper fingers through blue strands of memory Detailing out my inner workings Its 3am and your skin tastes of saltwater taffy And lust You crumble over me Onto sidewalks and street lamps I...

Sunday: 8:48pm: These city streets are especially ripe tonight. The jagged shape of your hip-hop winding its way through. My ears. Into my stream of rhythmic words. Sketched into my thoughts. Breaking any trace of flow Turning signals out... Scattered. And static. I try to twist your sidewalks pungent tapestry into beauty. A flash of rich colours to choose from. But all that stares back is carnage. This filthy city's nothing but a public urinal. And I’d rather not write of such a wasteland. B...

Late at night I disassemble into pronouns And stained glass trinkets Of I and I and me and… We Never quite came on screen in this Fuck-me-red film noir dream Better judgment drips Like icicles off the Tips of our tongues Barely skimming the surface in history Of I and I and we… [Lonely little fantasies] Last words grey you down to Technicolor And you beg me to Spread your skin across Hollywood blvd. Etch you into fame Angelic introspections Over correcting and one dimensioned I and I and me ...