Trick-tragic is a like-wise trick phrase I drown in tragic-linked catch-phrases – like when trying to convey pacifism at the cost of war, retribution at the cost of starvation, luxury at the expense of horror – you know, tragedy at the cost of tricks: you know, trick-tragic.

So retreat my passage, to my passage, I’m worn, weaved, passed, and this trail is a time’s timing lie, like a heaven made hell (and) when we breathe fire for the last time, like the first time, and roll down this bent-passage memory like (my) kisses wasted, and toys discarded; you’re a plastic graveyard and I’m not afraid – you’re a snake and I’m not forgiven.
So alive, the walls close in like paranoia on a day without a sun.

Right now and we’ve lost pressure, back then and we’ve lost control, tomorrow and we’ve forgotten yesterday – one more time and we’ve fallen again, like god.

Thank you, and we retreat once more to a passage within.

Like, like… like a train we are intense, a rival army storming behind a verbal spew of generational delirium and I’m praying one more time (now) we’ll talk of something, of god and storms, of fathers and forgiveness, of some untold love story, of in-between-notebook tragedy pieces, bird manifestations – those dreams forgotten by the dreams forgetting. Like deserts – I drown within you.

Like the deserts I drown in, soak in (choke in), like you’re the ink on my page, you’re the tear of an ink traced in between my words, a smudge and I’ve never figured out what the Tip-Top Hatter meant when he told Alice to go fuck herself and forget that everything was as real as a waking-life Lucid awakening.

And I can’t breathe, never could breathe – in this fire, this sea of monster coils, trip-wire tragedies, rock festival insanity – and I can’t breathe, not in this dream, not in this life (I can’t breathe) you.

So alive, like a painter painting a collage of hell and god: a man drowning in a desert, we swim so far, the dust ripping at our scales, a paradise utopia a second’s bitter step away and the sharks circling – thinking dead meat and I’m thinking dead meat – this desert suffocation, a burning, a drowning, and one more trail we’ve failed again: my generational zero forever I’ll never forgive the love you have never shown me.

So we sink, we wake up: in dream, in death.

So alive, and then so forgotten.

This isn’t a love song as much as it is a ‘fuck you’.

This isn’t a death song as much as it is an ‘I love you’ spew tossed out of bars with spit and blood crashing onto pavement like a neu-age metal collision-poem etched into my arm with scabs and angels inking my sorrow like a page-torn tragedy all serrated in (fucking) plastic-green death-surgeon shit smells stinking of some trick-god disease, something reminiscent of rotting skin and fallen Empire: you know, the you and me that end all that never was, never will be, never could be.

So alive, this pain reminds me of this bullshit life with its bullshit words and bullshit meanings – so full of bullshit. Uncalled for was what you think, what you do – not this, not this… not this.

One more time, this story (this shit): you were an angel on a bitter Wednesday morning telling me that love was forgotten on some shit-sad day of loss, our blood-stained sheets from the night before, our passion discarded on the television, our hands crossed in eternal promises forgotten – you were an angel on a bitter Wednesday morning telling me that love was forgotten

This isn’t incision as much as it is stabbing.

This isn’t screaming as much as it’s screeching.

This isn’t blood as much as it’s a river.

This isn’t drowning as much as it’s dust ripping at my skin and sun burning down my throat while the sharks circle closer and closer.

This isn’t as much a love song as it’s a ‘fuck you’.

But, love (and fuck) will never take your place, if you know what I mean.

And again like a midnight taxi ride going nowhere from nowhere, we’ll sing anathema and rock a boat full of animals on a bitter flood’s early morning (like a savior’s song on a sad morning). Sick-shit (like me) and we’re trick-tragic (like you) like god stuck on some trail, vultures above, scavengers of our hearts and we’re a poem-ridden poem in the mind of the writer’s never-written passage, the painting stuck in the mind of a painter’s blank-blank canvas – we’re that tragedy you never hear about. We’re a Sunday-morning special wrapped up in euphemism and innuendo like some section of a Russian urban legend, a priest’s fury – the Middle America on the television – this and that and we’re fed-mist nothing, this and that and a recovery program isn’t really the answer.

Maybe nothing is the answer.

Trick-tragic, and we might be forgotten on this sad-fucked morrow.

A nightmare’s shimmy twist-west – like spider-man t-shirts sold-selling, like the infest writhe of a sixth generation (forgotten), a rancid echo of vile screams settling for a setting sun like a plague-mangled bar-striped banner of pleas and decay, of scum and filth and angels, pixie-dust and lullabies and urges, grunts– plastic-discarded and we’re child-splattered.

Like horror.

Like cocaine mornings and fever-pitched deliriums trashing my volume with sync-matted portions of fed-fast television wars, pitchless prostitutes marching to a beat ‘left-right’ like lifeless children trapped in some sick-mist tragedy rewritten, some desert-plagued nightmare, some fascination with the death and decay of a species that only sells freedom at the price of a 52 inch plasma TV and a corner couch, a desk job with a nothing future, a nothing meaning, some version 3.2, some message 4.8, a jesus 9.0 – a redemption nothing.

In passage once more I drown. Like deserts.

Fever-thorns and we’ve ran from these spaced-circumstances, these rose-bed manifestations of beauty and whispers, emptiness and cold – crippled by the cause and I’ve stumbled once more. Factory-dolls mass-produced and sold to our same children (our mass-produced children) that we feed mass-produced wars on the television-plates like mass-produced stupidity, like our mass-produced fast-food everything…

I’ve lost myself in this passage and I think I just might end this.

And you know why?

It’s because every time I tried to feel something that was mine you made it yours, and because every time I meant something you made it a lie.