Love in the Time of HPV (lyrics [New Madrid song, unfinished])

Love in the time of HPV
has always taken on the air of a tragedy
There's something wrong with me
on account of the books that I read

And now is the winter of our discotheque
We're scratching on the 8
and we're cashing soundchecks
Following beats to our bed,
but there's no rhythm to our sex

And if you see her, tell her that I said hello
Tell her that I'm trying so fucking hard to not be angry anymore
Tell her that I've learned so much, but don't tell her 'bout my broken bones
And only tell her if she asks about it that I ain't been alone
I ain't been alone

We're just standing in the corner,
waiting for the song to end
Making eye contact but not many friends
So I duck back down the alley
just to find the mean means to an end

And if you see her, tell her that I said hello
Tell her that I'm trying so fucking hard to not be angry anymore
Tell her that I've learned so much, but don't tell her 'bout my broken bones
And only tell her if she asks about it that I ain't been alone
I ain't been alone
No, I ain't been alone

Hyperbole (lyrics [rap song, unfinished])

I've smoked more crack than your favorite local rapper
I's a thief in the temple before I knew what I was after
I didn't fuck your girlfriend but I did kidnap her
Now she's chillin in the basement while I'm hanging from the rafters

Sleeping in the attic where the bats and the rats live
Copying these verses from an ancient book of Madlibs
Causing campus chaos on the backside of my eyelids
Standing there all bloody like "Mommy, look what I did"

Throwin solo parties in condemned abandoned buildings
and I'm jerking off to pictures of all three Destiny's children
Sometimes I wanna die but the future is unwritten
So I stay preoccupied making money and incisions

From Canada to Texas, Atlantic to Pacific
I'm fucking metaphors when the names get too specific
When the pain gets too specific I'll just say it's her or me
You can't call it a murder when it's just hyperbole

Get down, girl
Go 'head, get down

So while I'll never be as high as the vultures in the sky
I'ma get twice as high or at least I'ma try
Get a birds' eye view of the birds I choose
And I'm scraping hella shoes for the turds I chew

Got a lot to say but no one will listen to me
And with the boom boom boom it can get kinda doom-y
Oil of the universe, see it seeping through me
But I gotta listen close to what the devil's saying to me

I'm chillin like a tomb, yo, I'm chillin like a crypt
Rattlin dem bones on the graveyard shift
I can try to find your center with a lick lick lick
It's the only guarantee in light of whiskey dick

Get down, girl
Go 'head, get down

From Canada to Texas, Atlantic to Pacific
I'm fucking metaphors when the names get too specific
When the pain gets too specific I'll just say it's her or me
You can't call it a murder when it's just hyperbole

6-26[/7]/13(/29)/4:35

How quickly we become accustomed to our own disbelief. It IS indoctrination you realize, yes? Stretch your larval mind prior, remember that there existed a time that Disbelief was no more a part of your perception than was what you have yet to accept tomorrow. Why do I each day shoulder this weighted cynicsm, the same each night before sleep which I shrug to my floor in some half-hearted gesture of finality? Pray that tomorrow we exchange our burdens for lessons, and our defiance of possibility for the acceptance of awestricken humility.

Statues of the Virgin Mary Weep Blood, Why Should Others Not Likewise Menstruate

Statues of the Virgin Mary Weep Blood, Why Should Others Not Likewise Menstruate
- or -
A high-minded orchard is an awful place to fall.

I've been licking statues. I've been licking statues, kissing them. Some erode beneath the glaze of my vitriolic tongue, their carved aquiline features caving inward, cancerous and leprous and accompanied by fate's cruel chuckle, it delights in their delayed rot, the quiet sobs of sculptors long dead. Some turn away, suddenly aware and very sure that it is not my crawling ape tongue and impatient ape fingers for which they have silently borne the centuries' weight. But some glow and delight, groan and crack and press into my embrace, stone lips separate and moisten in solemn and immediate defiance of their nature, and their fingers spread the folds of ancient stone robes and into which I settle, bashful at the unsung warmth of marble, a skeletal peace observed only by the morbid gardener for whom my insistence was only a passing curiousity and my death so deserved and welcomed as a respite;
"That asshole would he just would, rotted between carved thighs - in death he skewers and is skewered by hyperbole - with a pike he never knew to wield anyhow, and she too cold to reciprocate" [this is irony] "it is not pity I feel! It is not - he just would - "
But the respite soon ends and I die and the statues slowly crumble and the gardener tends her spiral of flowerbeds where the blossoms refuse to fall nor do they ever burst from fertile buds but just dumbly Are.
At the foot of the statue there is magic in the dust of my sperm, and a bird perched upon the marble nipple shits a seed stolen from the orchard's fallen fruit, which the magic catches and sighs gently into dark soil, and something will unfurl, unnoticed by the sterile eye of our morbid gardener, and will bud in spring and cause madness amongst the mindless flowers as surely as the bees take to the ley lines with their dusted gifts.

late winter 2013

I know your bitter breath would prove sweet as victory, and likewise your shallow fangs when you sink em into me.

poemtry

Why doth mine thumb feel broked?
Why doth mine throat so choked?
To sleep away the waning hours,
To piss upon the grinning flowers.

The puppet children have their hands up their own assess! What shall I do, what CAN I do to remind YOU of that pain of gestation? Please, take this mantle from off my shoulders; my struggles are unbecoming and I have naught upon which to rest.