i don't have bad dreams

lucky me

(this is a synopsis of dreams, some of which are recurring)

i don't have bad dreams.
even when the pulsing sea of cockroaches
is tearing through a humans flesh before me.
it doesn't touch me

when were running through a rotting house
from the butter greased mouths, the
immense hoards of flesh, of the naked gluttons.
and behind every door,
and every closet, every crevice in the wall,
is filled with children’s corpse
which feed there eternal hunger

amusement parks in the sky
hi, hi over the water.
where straps never lock in place
and the cars come of there tracks

the ancient house, one room immaculate
like a museum the next desolate made of rotting wood
rooms leading in to rooms leading into rooms
and each is smaller that the last
then the floor boards creak and looking down
you see the tops of trees
as you sway in suspended
rotten wood
a ghost house of splinters.

a towering wall of rocks and moss
a strangers tells you witch rock to touch
and you turn the handle
and the wall swings open and there in dust and cobweb
an ancient pipe organ hidden with in the stone
and seated upon dressed in dust
human sized birds
dead and dried, in there playing pose of eternal worship
to fallen gods
i push them aside to look closer
at the satanic script, the song book
at the top of the page it reads
"the worship of Satin is a bed of vomit"
but still i long to play those pipes

i don't wake in a cold sweat, it never touches me.
the only thing i fear is the invisible depth,
the dark water somewhere far beneath me,
still and silent,

in every dream.

Redeption

you where raped by your idols and you never knew it
strength is found in putting others down
rising above them, being the biggest, being the most
taking taking for your self, taking pride in having
the most for show.
men are enemies. women, slaves.
but the song of wolves will bring purity to your ears
your flesh will be redeemed as it is torn from the bone
and you will have purpose
as you feed the mouths that sing sweet praises
to the moon

true story

i'm driving down a road
and i can't see
i have no arms
and the pedles don't giveway to my feet
i'm pushing and grasping and
straining my eyes
but it's just blackness
i can't see anything
i can feel the seat and the peadls
and the swaying motion of the car
my sister is in the seat next to me,
i call out to her
i tell her that i can't see
i can't steer
i can't stop us,
but she knows
she can't see
or steer
she can't stop us

so we sit
and drive down the road we can't see
and marvel that we haven't crashed yet.

st. mary of the glass eyes

so i've been thinking about where i was last year around this time
and all the stuff i did last year.
and then i found a bunch of things i wrote in New Orleans
that i had forgotten about.
for the most part i did hardly any writing while I was there,
I just felt that I couldn't capture it, I couldn't record it,
it wasn't possible, now I wish I had written more,
just because it triggers my memory.
any way here is some stuff from when I was down there

St. Mary of the glass eyes

poetry has a desire to spill
like the brown sludge in your refrigerator
the desire to serve meets the desire to destroy
you house is inside outon the street

i sat in a storage room in the second floor for an hour
putting myself into a 4 track
while the big guy came in with fear in his eyes,
4 times, i told him it was cool, i wasn't going to tell anyone

sat up all night, eyeing a nearby chair
ready grab and swing it

i had a dream about a girl locked in a stairwell,
a room full of knives,
i had to tie them down,
i had to stop her-
a curtain ruffles above me(Static glitch) and she's all cut up
why can't i control what i see?
why does it control me?

the other day i woke up with sorrowfor memories of lives that never happened
for things i will never remember.
without a memory it doesn't exist.
the memory of a memory is a sorrowa duty paid,
a flower on a grave

i sat in a room full of people remembering
what was taken from them
knowing your not alone makes everything infinity worse
i could see the tears they all held back
just beneath the surface
(anti sexual violence caucus)

a guy I know, Joe,
picked up eight bodies on Saturday
scraped a man's brains of the side walk
it had pine needles in it.
they call it grey matter, but it's really pink
and god it stinks

the stories drift around like the bodies did,
no one wants to turn it over

a fat cat with flys swarming into its mouth
a flattened fat rat, and a decomposing mouse
in the back of the stair well.

sound carries, and they can hear you crying,
go somewhere ells,
GO SOMEWHERE ELLS.