Analyze Your Own Shit?

It’s hard to not feel self-absorbed or something to that effect when you’re constantly obsessed with your own work. But for me, this isn’t my own. I mean it is, and it isn’t.

I look back on my own art and wonder what it is all about. When I share my work with others, they ask, “what is this about?” and then throw some of their own ideas at me. Their analysis prompts my own. And their question is one I should be able to answer. Unfortunately, for me, to answer what my own poem is about…I have to read and decode it as if it were an assignment in literature class.

But now, I know.


Teach me how

to start a fire

Wires through my skin

I am just trying to sleep

like a bastard in the womb

Showing all the split ends

with a basket and a broom

(get out of my room)

I get drunk off my dreams

I’ve tried lots of things to stop me from thinking but there is only so much that is fleeting, music is the only meaning. All I am is what I’m bleeding out, everything is slowing beating me into the dirt I’m eating.



No chariots from the gutter
Who am I to justify
I have only lived to surge
I purge with the worst
Not with a harness- your hand does not belong here
I use these callused hands of mine, with wind and fright

That is alright
I am came from a different creature
One made of the true night
We crawl and laugh as we drown
A common affair

Organs made of fruit
Delicious, wet and rotting
So, who cares about drowning?

Though the flame is the game
My laughter cries in rages, ashes and soil
No hands-on hands on hands
No pain bestowed Oh, oh

Yet on callused hands of mine
With wind and fright
That was alright
All right with me

I am of the queerer things that slither in the night
Crawling in the muck as we drown in the bile

Our habitual ritual
Organs like wet fruit
Delicious and decaying
The backwards price of paying

What is the act of caring as bile fills your lungs?
Fire was supposed to be my name

Till dirt, burden, and mo(u)rning
No hands reach, unable, unable (disabled)
No flesh spared on ambiances churning waste
Frying on dark twilights beautiful nightlight

Can you imagine love in trees and sin in the hark?
Without a note to remember to play the pretty song
I was built for this
Assembled on night ride through the Devil’s hiss
I am not too bent about it
Why can’t I forget about it?

I had a thought that burned my eyes
So, I hide, it is worth the ride
And I would not lie
It will forever and never make me cry.
Just Kidding

Oh, my God, this is a curse
Oh, my God, what occurs
What could be worse?
Being here…
Or a hearse?

I came to terms with the fact
My life is a tragedy (I feel the parts)
What the else could you
What the else could I

From me?

Return, Return