Friday, February 27, 2015

Fixated


So fixated on the road we traveled upon
That I neglected to see when you left me.
Where have you gone?
I can't turn back the time.
The minute hand moves in cadence with mine.
In circles we spun.
Now you're out on the run,
And I can't match your stride.

I'll travel wide. I'll travel far.
I don't need a map, and I don't need a car
To find my way back to your heart.

So fixated on the roles we thought were wrong.
I played my part. Deceit was my art,
But you caught on.

We found solace in the trees.
Covered up with leaves,
The world cannot plague us now.
If you stay with me
I promise I can be
A stronger man somehow.
You're the one thing I cannot do without.

So I'll travel wide. I'll travel far.
I don't need a map, and I don't need a car
To find my way back to your heart.

- afm

Standstill


You caught the cradle when it was falling.
You hurried faster when I was calling.
You wrapped the bandage when I was bleeding.
You kissed my bruises when they needed healing.
My careless days are far from over.
I'm still drunk, and you're still sober,
Sober to the bone,
So learn to let me go.

"How could I let go of something so beautiful?
I think you should know that I can't do this on my own."
I'll stop trying, you'll stop caring.
Call me blind, but I'm still staring at the kid I know,
The kid I know who'll never grow.

I'm not the hero. I'm not the villain.
I'm just a criminal who's only stealin'
All your time and all your pride.
All the things that you call mine
Are buried down below,
So learn to let me go.

"How could I let go of something so beautiful?
I think you should know that I can't do this on my own."
I'll stop trying, you'll stop caring.
Call me blind, but I'm still staring at the kid I know,
The kid I know who'll never grow.

- afm

Monday, February 23, 2015

The Alex Show - Episode 68

Life is so short. I wonder how much of it I've wasted reminding myself this.

Sunday, February 22, 2015

third is the one with the hairy chest

video
I was taught to be second to none, but they say first is the worst.
Take the wheel and drive, son. They gave me keys to a hearse.
In this day in age, it's not about the money you make,
Or the people you touch or the lives that you save,
But how many likes you get on your pictures, so that's why I figure
I'll apply the same idea to my grave.
No sons to list, not husband or mister.
No "he'll be dearly missed," no passage, no scripture.
Just a blown up selfie of me flippin' my finger while grabbin' my dick
Turned half way around so you can plant one on my kisser.
Speaking of plants and of birds,
I'd much rather prefer no place for the flowers to grow or the wallowers to sit.
Instead, do me a favor. On every able acre replace that space with a canister for the haters to spit.
Or you can light a candle and burn it from both angles,
Hold it still as it burns you and try to test your limits.
Once you can't take it any longer,
Let the flames wander and engulf the cemetery and every body buried in it.
Now, that's a candlelight vigil. No need to keep it simple.
You didn't need to bother, but you did. I feel honored.
Bless the son, the holy ghost, and most of all, bless my father.
Turn around and you'll discover my whole death was but a hoax.
"Th-th-th-that's all, folks," as I appear from Heaven's foyer.
I hope you have enjoyed yourselves. You've been Tom Sawyer'd.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Seeds

Seeding. Seated. Wilted. Weeding. Rip the vineyard. Blistered. Bleeding. Bleeding. Blistered. Filtered. Feeding. Heed the figures. From their reaping. Tenured. Fixtures. Fixated breathing. Every breath will keep you feeding. On the death. Of all those sleeping. Seeded. Sitting. Fear thy reaping.

The Fall

The fall. The jacket fell. Not me. Not spiraling. But a straight plummet. To the salted floor. Patches. Footprints. But leave the fingers out. Not a trace. Not a taste. Leave the senses out. Filed out. Filled out. Spilled out. On the floor. Seeping into the wooden grain. Fill the frame. Till you're nothing more. Than sodded soot. Run afoot. By the foot. By the grain. Do you refrain. From what they took. You mistook. The curator. As a vile crook. All the while they defiled the robber's hand. Shaking hands. Forgotten lands. Apprehend the foreign man. Cast him out. Then let him in. Once the bastard. Now a leader. Of the clan. Torch your kin. Marbled plaster. Shape the sand. Tiny stones. Of broken bones. Now the master. Claim your throne. Take a stand. Take a seat. Rub your hands. And rest your feet. On the frontlines. On repeat. Set the landmines. Then retreat. To the forest. To the leaves. That once fell. In the sprawl. In the winter. In the fall.

Monday, February 16, 2015

a walk below the surface

i've been playing with fire for so long/ burning bridges and turning heads/ the spectators speculate from a close distance/ and debate whether the flames are in need of assistance/ he'll land in the ocean/ a neutral notion on the attack/ shrugging shoulders and turning back/ i never learned how to swim/ i never thought of the advantage/ i was thrown in the pool, but my limbs would protest/ striking the slippery, salty, cerulean surface/ sinking with all that i possess/ i realized the importance, but it served no purpose/ my riches abundant, yet nothing proved buoyant/ swiftly swept under the violent torrent/ it came in waves/ measures of happiness measured by the current/ but lacking the oxygen i need and the confidence to breathe/ a tangible currency/ but feeling nothing beneath/ my feet reached the sand, but i was far from the shore/ supply and demand were valued no more

- afm

better left buried

i lost my footing on the trampled path/ covered tracks, consumed the bread/ buried the parcel and the bag/ i had to go stag/ the stagnant sun was beaming down/ once it gleamed/ but now it seems to melt me deep below the ground/
i'll carry nothing/ i'll care for no one/ take the money, take the plans/ bury it all into the sand/ it's better left buried/ better left buried/ take the photos, holograms/ bury it all into the sand/
the shooter's shooting branches in the fen/ arid wetlands, blaring sounds/ buried the bullet in the head/ i'm better off dead/ then swimming for the chest/ teach a man to fish, but still he'll wish to inherit it/ so pluck your lashes/ pray to fascists/ forget the forest and the tracks/ if life's a gift, then leave the tag/ i'll exchange it/ for a mattress on display/ since either way i'm on my back/
i'll carry nothing/ i'll care for no one/ take the money, take the plans/ bury it all into the sand/ it's better left buried/ better left buried/ take the photos, holograms/ bury it all into the sand/ a barely breathing apparatus/ a crowning case for the problematic/ forget your patterns/ forget your status/ bury the bag and cover your tracks

- afm

Saints And Sinners

If lust is a sin, then I sin for you.
Much like the wind I can feel it without proof.
If greed is a sin, then my arms sin for you.
I can hold you forever, it simply won't do.

They say time will heal all wounds.
Then I am frozen in time if that is true.
They say give up. They say try hard.
I say do as you please.
You can live with purity,
Or burn beside me.

If lust is a sin, then I sin for you.
Much like the winds at sea it can't be subdued.
If greed is a sin, then my heart sins for you.
It overflows past its brim, and it spills for you.

They say time will heal all wounds.
Then I am frozen in time if that is true.
They say give up. They say try hard.
I say do as you please.
You can live with purity,
Or burn beside me.

Saturday, February 7, 2015

The Wait Is Endless, The Weight Tremendous

The gate was left open with malicious intent.
Your fate was not chosen, but a business assent.
Lead and be followed by the hollow adherent.
Open and swallow to be coherent,
Or choke on the bottle and pretend that you demand it.
Reckless abandonment, for your life is but an instant,
Yet we're hung up on the news and the views it elicits.
Dazed and confused, crazed then induced.
Sedate the abstruse like slaves in the noose.
A door to door census bearing questions that are senseless,
Yielding well-constructed answers with no ounce of sentiment.
The air we ingest grows thin from embellishment.
We'll charge by the breath to cover the deficit.
We're building buildings on buildings with rooms made for elephants,
And sending the billing to tombs of unfortunates.
Desolate inhabitants of arrogant gentlemen
Healing the world for extravagant elements.
Marble and granite are granted to skeletons,
Succumbing the manic with middling medicine.
The slate was made broken. You wiped it clean just for profit.
The gate was left open, and we refuse to close it.
You can blame it on the government or Jesus of Nazareth,
But at the end of the day it's your reflection where the mirror sits.
There's no emergency entrance, only a mandatory exit.
Walk, do not run is the bane of our existence.


- afm


Friday, February 6, 2015

Slaughterhouse 6

So it goes.
. . .

There was no one. No one was around him. Nothing at all, for that matter. The other prisoners swiftly dispersed throughout the streets. Billy did an about-face, and once more for good measure. Only the inhabitants of the mines remained. He was alone, but he was free – and so was the wagon, abandoned no longer.

There were no reigns in the wagon. No grain or water for the horses. An empty coffin. Fitting, since they were still attached to their bridles, clearly left for dead. Billy did not think twice on the matter. Whether their previous owners were abandoned in desperation or currently floating in the post-war debris, their loss was now his gain. 

So it goes.

Billy found some rope they were using as equipment to hoist up the corpses at the mines. He tied a fisherman’s knot around the hitch conjoining it with two bowlines, placing each one securely around the horses. Still, far from a carriage. A coffin on wheels. Death's chariot. Freedom was not certain, unless one finds sovereignty in death. It was time to find solace. It was time to find life. With a quick flick of the wrist they were off.


. . .


No grain. No water. The horses collapsed in a matter of minutes. Billy was so set on reaching a destination, he forgot the nothingness that encompassed him outstretched for miles and miles. The bombings defeated the Germans just as they defeated his chances of survival. The horses lied dead by their ropes, Billy was at the end of his.
So it goes