is there anything less clear than the lies reflected by the mirror somehow made less than the sum of accumulated scars a jigsaw menagerie missing all of the important pieces in this mental distortion in curved glass funhouse refractionary relapse is there anything less clear than the lies reflected by the mirror i think not.
i watch the fly as it struggles against the silken strands of the web wondering to myself what the spider whispers as it engulfs the wriggling mass there is no fear in the mutilfaceted eyes of the fly nor understanding in the spider’s own vacant gaze just the struggle of the soon to be consumed […]
i am the last bloom to push out of the soil too late to ever open like the flowers around me the pistachio unsplit the scuff on your new shoes i spit in the eye of both god and the devil for doing fuck all but watching everything sink i tell the truth even when […]
i feel fragile nearly shattered barely able to keep it together shaking myself into pieces the broken is close to the surface and i am not alright i ache but it is a soul weary ache an ache that drips along the folds of my fingerprints coalesces around the whorls of indecency a subtle vibration […]
i see myself in the wind warped panes of glass that line the buildings. an apple precariously perched on an overcoat filled with baby rabbits a spiderweb whipping in the congestion of angry cars with headless drivers my sighs float like an open sewer through the hazy malaise of summer end she smells of gunpowder […]
i’ve come to terms certain realities will never form from the aether magically around me: that six pack is going to have to be nestled firmly in padding those cheater glasses aren’t temporary but a necessity there won’t be a magical day where i catch my reflection and smile there won’t be a nobel laureate […]
looking for a ghost writer to scribble my autobiography in audible alliteration someone to sculpt me out of butter based on my profile as seen fired from the barrel of a gun i realize i am less poet than performance artist casually picking scabs while a rapt audience of none watches on these are not […]
some days she would rest her head on the flat pillow staring at the ceiling for a sign that whatever this is is something more than what it appears to be most days ended much the same much the shame for a rapidly deteriorating self image but every once in a while she could drag […]
i scrolled through the book of poetry that bears my name to see the words that bare my soul reading them for the first time since they ran from brain to finger to screen i tried to separate myself from the self that selfishly scribbled the odes to a she i dared not dream as […]
her eyes honed to a monomolecular edge capable of slicing right through to my indecisive core intent on nurturing a sense of self
she is like scrubbing bubbles on my brain stem, little flickers of ecstacy all along my spine erasing the poor self image cultivated over years of insecurities secured in a lockbox could i be who she sees, the man she believes in after years of tears and feeling like a blotch how did i fool […]
*my actual eye, the window to emptiness. ugly face, sometimes pretty eyes.
been bandaged together with twine and pieces of tape like a sculpture of a self portrait of norman rockwell on crank or an escher devolving into the unscrupled madness of a bender on the wrong side of the tracks in hell wearing women’s panties and tap-dancing like a feral cat being tased wearing my neon […]
Mike's Manic Word Depot 