Who

A lowly scout
scouring the sand,
numbingly following
his footprints
around the beach.

Deceived into believing
he treads new ground
as the wake washes
away his clumsy steps.

From afar a party
of castaways watches,
stopping only at the drop
of a 4/4 to properly gestate,
by design - by deviations.

Long Live Bellicose!
Viva la Static!

I'm one foot in the grave,
clutching at my shovel
as to delay the inevitable.

Martyrdom is tricky -
I've perished long
before my time.

Far too timid to
go ahead of the curve,
stubbornly too recessive
to pass on.

A-ha, an exclamation erupts,
the claims become
bolder still!

The lowly scout took
one step further and
saw his reflection
on the surface of despair.

The sorry sap kept walking,
seeking out the man who
stared back at him, only
to drown in the undertow.

Long Live Despair!

Sweet Nothing

Imagine still-
growth in a
world perceived
parched of value,
to not grace
it with a love
all your own.

You - being of
substance.

I cannot begin
to indulge in
such magnificence.

Libido

Woman: sightly, stern...

An effigy 

eternally burning- 

breasts burnt crisp,

blistered pouting lips

charred remains 

slung over a

bedpost of bronze,

legs pointed upward

in disgraceful prayer:

She cannot tell a lie.

I, simply a son of Eve,

fixate upon a swollen,

pink breast.

My face aglow,

an expression

timeless, ageless,

insatiable. 

If I am to become

a father of Eve,

will my expression change?

Nothing

Phlegm cleared,
pupils dilated.
An interrupted synergy,
speaking in verse - purportedly.

All the walls covered,
nasty off-green drips
collecting in puddles
on torn wood floors.

Equal parts
horrific childhood goo,
recollections fictional,
then modernist dilemma:
tomorrow's solutions
to yesterday's conflict.

We've achieved actualization
through stasis, stressing
semantics while
speaking of ought.

We, the kids who never
grew up, children of Dystopia.

KILL

The drooling idiot,

Salivating,

Waiting.

Premature hair loss.

Consider the wastebasket. 

Falling faster now,

I'm slouching to

the floor. 

I count my pools

of drool, 

one...

My face peeled

from the sea green

shag...

Two?

An ode to my

rotted, dearly

departed friends!

Drei.

Confessions of a Jerk

The endearing quality
of incompetence,
the staleness of regret
linger over a bowl
of ramen noodles.

The short answers
stick. History has
no time for long winded...

I, forgotten.

Will she remember me?

Hunched over a mass
of bad poetry,
scurrying, scrambling
for rich line to
purchase a smile,
forever and evermore.

Seasonal Allergies

The prognosis is post-mortem,
shivering trees, falling leaves
turning color, covering
footsteps shuffling toward a
bright, bloody sunset.

I've decayed tenfold in
the shifting cyclical.
The brightest to brown,
to pale frost and rebirth,
to the apple dangling
from mother's extended bough.

New life to grow in this rotted host.

To be picked and admired,
fashioned into beautiful
bright crowns for elated
children to dazzle and fixate.

My dying wish to instill
some sense of wonder in
wildly rooted saplings
sprouting from their
mother's bosom.

Only then will I know
what it is to live.