Stay Wild

You do know how I enjoy the wild. I’m all about it, but the entire time we face to face, I’m looking to see if you’re one color; if you’re talking to me and you’ve got a different face for the situations we find ourselves in, then I can only tell you that I won’t try to keep with that. As soon as I see you acting brand new and showing me different cuts I’m going to have to tell you I’m not with it. Figure out who you are, and be that with me. You want to be royalty, then you know how to act.

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I step back and listen because I think that you coming into yourself is the most magical thing I could ever hope to witness. It’s a dream, an ephemeral taste, a satisfaction that lingers with only a glow. Step down into that shadow light, tear into the cosmic night with a boundless high; squelching and more fucking howls; desire palms and digits like the maws of wolves to grip you by the throat and pour the vigour of ‘oh fuck-gasp, fuck’ down into your soul.

I bet that would wake you the fuck up, and keep you chasing lightning bugs on your back-snap, does this have your attention?

I can’t take you in the shower with me because you’ll get wet–can you get wet if you’re already wet?

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No One Follows Art

All the boys wonder… which part of you isn’t golden? And they’ll have to keep wondering at the novel of you. Not I, because I have my own answer — Surely your insides are made of warm flesh, as I doubt what I’ve dug is even a soft metal such as gold. If I close my eyes and turn on a light I can see, I’ve got a good taste of cherries, mezcal, and that unmistakable tang that tinges the tongue when you’ve got something delectable in mind. And I’m confident. So certain, I will reach right in through the breach without any flinch of emotion; No fear of losing what may very well be the hand of Midas. And I’m just as fine sweeping the floor with it too.

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Peach of immortality;
She took a bite,
and now I want to too.
Dulce flor, the hums need more
Hope she’ll let me polinate
I’m licking icing off the cake and I don’t even like sweet things

If I was half as beautiful as you, and naked,
I know they’d all convince themselves that they care.
And because of all the time I must spend
making sure there will be a place to sleep tonight,
I can’t figure out how I should feel about that

This is how I see you,
A blur while I’m moving;
Doesn’t matter how fast
Because I’m always at the right speed
Down a few gears so the engine slows me
Show me
Show me
I don’t think you have in you
A risk worth putting down
When you look this blue

Remember the wedding?
End up feeling worse, it’s cold.
Then you left with no one

She will. Oh she will.
But this isn’t about her anyways
Yeah this is about you,
¿Lo entiendes?
Does anybody?
I’m on to you,
I’m into you
Now I’m in you
And all I’ve got is a photograph
In my head of a good time,
Come girl, you don’t have to wait
in line for a line to a good time
All the angels singing some jagged version
of A Little Help From My Friends
Thinking about all the things I’ve said
Knowing I was leading you the way you thought you were taking me
Who got who now as a permanent image in time,
as the minutes count down,
only the fearful wish for more life.

I got hella feelings,
But I don’t even fucking care

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All you ever asked me for was time
So if I get it together, how’s tomorrow August 15th?
Will you hit the ceiling with me?

We don’t even dance no more,
You be teasing with those photos
And I keep it on the low though
Fuck what you know,
better know your worth,
no discounts
Getting all you deserve,
better know your worth, ah yeah
See I’m riding round the city
And I’m stuck on you,
Got that thing sitting pretty,
tryin’ to fuck with you

After a long blur of staying up and destructive behaviour, I dreamt again. It was only fitting that it fell upon midsummer, and of course it was at night. An incredible vision of the back your head, and other illuminated crowns. I finally walked away. I made my decision that I had been putting off, finally accepting that what I came for is forever mine – as well as gone. The well is empty of you, but not why I do what I do. Breaking through to deeper levels of shit, I am certain this is gold down here; who I am beneath the mud at the bottom’s surface.

 

Pull the Trigger Again

Within its’ walls the balance of the world contained: struggle, vigour, magic, and 🔥🌊– casting all kinds of spells and garments across the room; I like the way you get down. Is there any time to breathe? If you come up for air, I might have to, I might have to, Bite your lip the way I do. Swaying in the night feeling your lip pulse, wondering if I’m a sweeterman as I commit you to memory

I kinda like you, girl, really wanna feel you,
I wanna feel you for real
We can do what you like. I promise then, I’ll be true.
I say I’m just an artist, she tell me that’s a fucking lie.
DaVinci-esque, everything is a dance, baby, if you’ve got this high.
Degas, the star honey, you’re my ballerina.
Do I make you want to dance real slow?
I got this money, baby. I want to spend it on you.
I got this Sunday, baby. I want to spend it with you
I got this money, honey. Melrose is more than a name.
I got these visions lady, when can I see you again?
Again
Again
Again

I wanna tell you everything, but everything just seems dumb
If I came up with a million dollar idea I wouldn’t even spend,
I got change like that, since none of it’s real.

Hard when I’m coming from a day dream,
I really like when you’re speaking that language,
That tongue got me swerving all angles,
Angel do you take me a fool?
Catch me banging you on the bathroom floor, the counter, the sofa, throw it in the shower, get it on camera
Stoic got me all discipline of assent,
Let me see who you are, what you represent,
Let me put you to the test;
Figure of speech!
And if it don’t serve then I got to put it down,
Put it down like a vice,
But I still got the grip;
Yeah I had too many last couple of nights
I may say fuck it, pull up, pull up on it, and put it down like this my last,
Touchstone cliche to say; Robin squeezed it out of the poets!
And I’m just here in my own moment
I’m here in my moment,
I got everything, decisions I’ve made,
I own it
I own it
Hands all on it
Yeah I got the grip
Drawing you like a well,
For water, for sweets
It’s not that deep, you’re right
But that’s not how I see it

For the first time I’m alive at your altar
Not sure of my verse, but it’ll
Drip from my mouth like honey

I Won’t Live Forever

It’s all perspective, a frame we do have our hands on, always adjusting trying to get the right level

When you write as much as I do about it all, there can be no doubting how much you have examined to the depths; beyond what the average has analyzed abut themselves, about others. You make a lot of remarks that are certain, while trying to live multiple lives – only one can truly exist. If continued in this manner the cracks begin to show. A powerful will can hold them together, can keep the reckoning at bay; this doesn’t mean it ought to be. Slowly it tears at you, and while I feel this trial to be of value, it is not by any means a way to live in my determinations.

It’s a funny life, the way it comes around from space to space. Watching J hit the ring back to back in the heat of the moment – to this, here with you going on about your love for popcorn[ironic more than you know] and then just as willed by the gods you collect your bounty on the hook, ringed. Nursing drink after drink, and If I came right out and said what I wanted to – I wouldn’t be me, because me would never admit what the reckless would pour out of slit wrists. I’m good, you’re good, checking up on us – You won’t be there right? I mean a guy who drives a car like that? I’m over that kind of fear. Looking right into the mouth of the fire eating me alive, I can say the carpet matches the drapes.

Yeah I let you go, because I have to. That kind of fire eats you alive, until you’re nothing but embers hoping to find new wood to jump to and blaze. That kind of fire is a choice to flame out, that kind of life is a tall glass of 91 octane; only the good shit – you can’t afford to get me drunk

I won’t live forever, but I do hope you’ll lay with me

Here’s To The Gilded Age Of The Morning After

What do you do when the renaissance demands the gold for its gilded age? Pull up, up on it, tell me that you want it, pull up, pull up on it… It’a so much warmer inside. Let your body do the talking, say it!

Whatever you want. That’s a fairly vulnerable statement. Because what if I want to close my eyes and put a hold on this painting, or touch it while it’s wet, or get off early-the train doesn’t stop-I brought us here to sink only the finest into the moment, and the finest earthy tones sunk into my drinks, my sight; ochre yellow champagne, lips raw-sinopian red! without the wedding! Occhi Terra di Siena bruciata as long as the lights are umber dim, thought you were the good doctor, but the double blind experience keeps strong legs tied up in an age lacking innocence. What if what I desire is something new and wild, to send it into the rich terra toned vastness without any covers!

Warmth that brought the heartless back on beat, lighting up this cracked screen, it’ just a reference to a phone it’s not that deep

I’ve never taken my foot off the gas for anything other than to change gears, and if it isn’t shaking, leaking, or smoking I don’t want anything to do with it.

What kind of man are you? Well to relegate myself to any one aspect of a goddess would never see me equal to the divine; but do I dig your ass or tits more? When in your favorite position, on top and in control, what part of you am I not indulging; I don’t think there’s a single shade that I couldn’t draw. And that doesn’t answer the question, but what fun would this be if it all came right out without any of the build up. Anticipation of that ocean is probably the greatest story ever lived.

I can still feel it. The stir of neurons sings a sweet tune when I’m in, this typ-a mood, you. And that’s all that matters for it to be real.

Does a creator want anything else? Anything beyond the knowledge that their art is not beneath any other who has taken a breath at the razors edge. Every move is an art well practiced, seeing potential and I got to see it through, cut in darkness we get to it so I can hit the streets again, they are looking rather drab – who fills them, who picks the colors anyways! I’m far from convinced they have any sort of artistic eye the way they just give everyone parking tickets

Here’s to offering our necks to the wolves with so much uncertainty – Swimming in the language of breath & tongues; Vibes & trust.


I wish I had more time to draw, it feels wrong without that touch. The way I spend money though it’s tough keeping up. And my art won’t sell until I’m long gone.

Bones and Skin

Was it a ghost? or one of the voices you hear in your head?
You go through life and wonder what the hell happened.

It’s so fast; I lounge in the current
Many things take me away from you.

What the hell happened?
I write this in an aftermath that still I am grasping like cramped and exhausted fingers – palms and pads burning, the sensation that layers of skin may tear open, peeled from the bones; still trying to grip

No kisses, no hugs, it’s clear this isn’t what it was, much more complex now – you don’t want touch – and I don’t want the permeating feeling that I am not enough. I will not be..

You see, I’ve lived my life as honest as I could. Which is hard because we all have issues. And no one understands them. We barely understand our own.

Leaving used to be the hardest thing,
I promise it can be done with ease

I hear you got married,
and all I can think is thank you for all the inspiration,
glad you found a good man.

Don’t try so hard, those are the one’s who get let down the most

I guess I forgot as a grown man with an open heart inside, Ataraxia, the shores of which I always speak of leaving – something like me needs the storm. You say you’re curious. I call all 9’s, dressed to the nines. I’ll show up, and we’ll just ride. Words only once we’re back from the sky.

There is simply not enough time for this world;
every day is a sacrifice of one thing for another.
Maybe we’ll have it, or maybe we won’t.
I could have had everything I wanted for free,
in the end I paid for everything I didn’t want to go away

I had something I was writing you; it wasn’t a sonnet or anything like an ode, limerick, or quatrain-no it was just something-nothing like a burlesque, or villanelle You know it had shape, and sound, and visual! Perhaps a rondeau

I got it all mixed up and by mistake discovered ways of seeing things I could never have found on purpose

What good is all this money, if all it can buy is a first class ticket 6ft under.