Hollow Points

He- talked about hollow points to a belly but the point was hollow to an empty stomach barely able to get up off the concrete I wonder if he knew what he implied when he spit you couldn’t mess with a sick ass ***** like that, cause he really had nothing left to lose and his shoe strings weren’t good enough for a noose just good enough to loop over a telephone wire because he couldn’t get his dad back from cancer after his chemo got canceled and he couldn’t get his sister back from the ambulance bench trying wrench bullets from her body with his eyes and he couldn’t wait to get back at them point his hollow shells at hollow shells and surprise himself grief stricken he felt sickened and they couldn’t mess with him anymore now that he’d made a mess of them,

Standing in the street screaming it’s just me against the world beating his chest with his furled fist as if his desire for vengeance justified the violence he bore against them and the bullets thats tore through flesh from hellfire felt descended from demons and eternal contention perpetually preventing the progress of a slum under assault and in need of defending, no arkham asylum for the joke of their lives the gentrified victims of viridian villians the lie was alive and living in a ghetto, we thought we could survive this environment… I lost my best friend to the wilds of west l.a. not hip-hop cause he thought what he knew was the truth and what he knew was that he couldn’t survive hanging alongside a mostly white kid who read too many books so he turned to the comfort of a collective invested in that gang bang culture, and as much as I missed listening to that literature ridden rap in the smoldering heat of his older brother’s back seat, it didn’t really surprise me,

Barely a year before he died, we met once more, he wore precious metal on his chest and he said he was trapped in a vicious cycle, with a smile on his face, we retraced the old days, somewhere along the line he knew he’d misplaced his identity and became the enemy he thought to slay when we were younger, it didn’t really surprise him,

I told him I knew the feeling, however fleeting our meeting we met with sincerity, a stereotype of a black and white friendship, a parody of  televised inner city kids and their tragic lives and I remember thinking it was funny how even though we’d grown in different directions we’d both been affected by deception. I didn’t attend his funeral, only felt his mother’s agony over the telephone wire, she said in the end an entire city of angels couldn’t save him, and I thought, after all I guess his new chain was finally something good enough to hang from.

You’re so fucking great.

Baby, you’re like tuberculosis. Acid coughing cold sweats and an infectious frown you fucking make me sick, literally. Pretty lady you’re like night terrors, like a lot of bad habits biting down all at once and I’ve got anything but sympathy for your plights, please pull your tongue to the roof of your mouth and snarl your sickness like a dying battle cry. I don’t give a shit, something hardens in the heart after the disease you impart, pick your pills and tonic from a basket, build your bed with those broken lungs, all I see when we sleep is a cradling contagion. Your teeth are a graveyard, eating corpses next to the maggots and gluttons, crawling fat between ribs and slivered muscles, I don’t know the difference.

Gorgeous you’re like putrid, pushing clouds of cotton phlegm from a factory of roiling stomach fluids, you’re like organ failure and a necessity for blood transfusions, you’re like the waning stench clumped between old recliners at a plasma donation center, fuck… you’re like… you’re like… fuck you.

Arcane Polar Bears

It’s an arcane fate for the polar bear, so far removed from the workings of a pernicious equator. No, and yes, a sentence full of shit but sound to say so I decided to fucking say it. Alliteration is another foothold for forceful language and darling I dare say I think I love it like an auditory hallucination, a cathartic acid trip tuned to the silence of a face full of carpet from the brightest part of a poor childhood cutting frayed fibers with fingernail clippers and darting around the coffee table could get you a scar at the top of your forehead first five stitches at six years old. I love language like valley girls liked like in the eighties and the irish like erm as its current and rivers you’ve never heard of never carry the same water in the same way, repetition is conditional to the use of verbal friction and rhymes lie in wait to escape creative story telling with novel sounding sights and pleasant looking lip readings. I want to learn to cliche and simple phrases that stay beautiful using simple words that contain nauseating reflections of guttural pulses pretending to pose some significant continuous compulsion for prose spoken in broken half fluid luminance as long is it still makes no sense.

Autumn

Baby, you’re like just enough leaves to jump into, you’re like ochre and ash swirling around the sheets at the end of autumn, gray like an ocean of woodland wolves. Roaring, crowing, sleepless animals.

Petri Dish of Bacterial Adaptations

I just want love. The logically impaired, rapidly increasing heart-rate of unpracticed attempts, the self-depricating affection housed in field of perceived peer judgement and the permanent long-term effects of ridiculing experiences teaches us about societal conditions. The need to reproduce… scientifically bound to my personal experience and desire of love, a petri dish of bacterial adaptations, persistently growing stronger and more effective yet less invested and more detached.

Little Kid Warriors

Little kid warrior’s got a morbid curiosity for stories about war leaders

The poorest force of little tortured souls in the grisly halls of the goriest

History of human driven violence since the time of flat metal giants

Now an army of little lions equipped with an arsenal of lies

 

My little brother, is still a little kid but he’s just big enough to fight his own battles

Happens to still have a few toy soldiers he’s just a little less sitting on my shoulders

And more melting them together with a magnifying glass like a shrapnel pit

Of amalgamated american soldiers in an oculus framed firefight washed out

Sunlight and muzzle flare pinching the fly over hercules cameras as they scan

The carnage but how much or how little is left to the imagination of first hand

Experiences, practice makes perfect he says as he attaches the fifth arm to the

Cthulu looking things head, had it only ever been a scientific endeavor?

The tremors of its purpose wobble it on to its side ironically held up the only

Arm still in the right place, I love my little brother but he’s getting bigger

 

The way a person grows in an open space and the same way the weather is,

in such a place, without constraints and an environment far from tame,

The way a child grows wide without a name, how natural is science now

in knowing clouds like growing lighting like trees… and less like fire

Sharper Words

Her eyes decide nothing,

Posture is stiff, arms folded,

She purses her lips before she asks a question,

Her tone betrays nothing,

But how could anyone stand vigilant,

Averted orbs and and blank stares frustrate her,

Composure, the fear of a beautiful, violent statue,

The hypocrisy of an inattentive audience,

Convened for attention, education follows,

Her strict command of respect, the cold,

Keep edge to your seat, even if your mind is lost,

An impossible thought,

Sharper words, precursor to a bludgeoning effect,

The sudden query from a semi-formal disguise,

A beautiful statue.

Stoneheart Anchors

Where ice would serve more effective, held for war and machine guns,

Repeating, metal linings speak red splintered lipstick and spears, everything is dmx and hands to temples,

Forgeries of veteran death, remembered resurrections of hollow murder,

Indoctrination of grisly orphan youth, stoneheart anchors,

Fault of accidents, life conscious in a vacuum of morbid titans, wide, endless,

Futlie clawing, spectral rights and the end in sight…

Time Stills for the Present

There is an archer, dust floating off his fingers as the yew yields and the cord vibrates, silver bending around metal fixtures he fixates on nothing in particular and lets fly. It steals through youth, the swift talent of polymathic and implicit understanding fraying at the edges. Time stills for the present in piercing, the son is mislead to believe the arrow has faltered, fallen and relegated to dirt but this was never the case. Time stills for the present and warps awareness into miscalculations and doubts, wraps the failures in reflective light and scatters depth into bokeh but the target will always remain the same. Battle and script, tragedy and iron, talent and sacrifice, the target will always be history, the target will always be greatness.

Repost:

Just an excellent opinion on what sex is like for some men, pulled off of reddit.com.

“I noticed a lot of the guys said something like “it feels like being home”, some girls wanted to know more about the emotional aspects, and so I want to expand on that.
Life as a guy is not full of warmth and happiness. Girls are afraid and distrustful of you, other guys want to kick you down the social hierarchy, you are constantly trying to prove or protect yourself, and on top of that you have this near-permanent sexual longing which gets shut down often enough by most women you desire (sometimes with hostility/disgust).
Now imagine for a minute after getting epically kicked around by life… you have a person who welcomes you inside her, holds and warms you, physically communicates “you are good enough for me”, satiates your cruel sexual longing, finds sexual pleasure in your presence, and basically acts as the exact opposite of the cold merciless world that exists to either beat you down or humilate/emasculate you.
PIV sex for a guy gives you something you can’t get anywhere else is life, which is complete trust, love and acceptance; which maybe technically isn’t true, but that’s what it FEELS like. For that little time, you really are the stud or the hero, wheras in reality you are always the poor fucker muddling along in 99.5% of the time, even if you are actually pretty good at what you do. In reddit terms, that poor fucking penguin finally catches a break.
Even if there’s undeniably a kind of “ha ha ha, got you!” conquering aspect sometimes, it doesn’t really negate the former IMO. She welcomes you to conquer her after all!
A blow job is awesome too, but I don’t get the same high off it, and if you asked that question I doubt you’d get similar responses from men.
TLDR: It feels like life is finally is paying you back for existing.

Caveats are attraction and sexual functionality”

-Kano123