Tonight the coffee tastes like ash
and the band won't play in tune
even for a decent tip.
The atmosphere is heavy with perfume
and liquor;
The neon signs smell like burnt rubber.

As I walk out
The street turns into
A morgue for my soul.

She always wondered why
I stayed home.
My reason's are easily understood
but not easily met
{Chill out,
don't preoccupy yourself
with what doesn't matter}

The dildos in the
penthouse on 4th
avenue taste like cigarettes.

(the irony there is that you usually won't taste dildos, nor would they ever taste like a cigarette; subtle humor)


I'm bottled up
to kill myself

Whatever the day,
My eyes see repetition
I don't want to be in;
My leg falls asleep

Remember when you first discovered masturbation and couldn't stop for the next two weeks? And you got sore from it yet you still did everyday for three hours because you were a sex addict and your irresponsible parents never introduced you to Jesus? You thought it was all peaches and cream but it wasn't because whatever you do is never alright to religion because religion has a law against anything slightly interesting or fun and it rules your life with an iron fist of hypocrisy.

My mind is a prescription for
Prozac and heroin and sex
and (****ing) the whole lot
of anything lethal.

I'm not even mad about that.
No one is.
You probably don't
Even get what this
Poem is (****ing) about
and I'm cool with that.

Xander was my best friend
until he found the priest in his ass
and the 'holy water' on his face
too late.
Society needs more psychiatrists for Xander's sake.
But that's not related to my manifestation of belief here.
The thing is
I'm in love
with the world
and the life
that living people
and allow me
to be a bystander of
and a witness to
their glory.
(even if I might be neurotic)

the coffee tastes like ash
and I want more.
If this doesn't make sense
it's not supposed to.