living here, and thinking this much: no aches and pains in the next life—but does this yearning for God never abate? hurt people hurt people, go down Moses, oh, the things I suffer for a pair of blue eyes—lonely as shit in this capital of difference—a far cry, i think, from my heavenly home . . .
what sickness is this that gets my goat—making me angry at what doesn’t float my boat? Well it’s my problem, not theirs, that much I know, and yet, in the next life, i don’t imagine a world as isolated as this.
well, don’t hear my words and think, well, he needs to get out more, because, as it happens, i’ve been out there in more places than one—there’s nothing, in this life, to make things right—this place, as such, is as good as any . . .

So what, then, is my condition? this idea—the feeling that i’ll die from what I’m missing—must surely go, at once, into remission—I will it to be that way. i never loved a woman that loved me; i only loved in fact, that which was bad for me . . . because, i think, of my mission: something that I seemingly committed to before I came to this earth.
now, the gravity of that decision—this idea that i’ll collapse into a black hole—is real; i feel it when I consider: my one true love, also, feels the gap between us—doing her best, through no small power of her own, to feed upon both time and space—as if that reality might replace the void, in our heart, that, without our knowledge, would connect us both.

knee deep in the life that i prescribe—
I wake up, a little, from a shitty week,
chasing the dragon and his diatribe.
tell me why, my darling, our life would peak:

I don’t know about you, but I’ll be fine,
thinking on all that I’ve done with my time,
walking, for the world, a thin blue line.
Finding someone to love can’t be a crime:

Here we are, then, standing steadfast with His reaction, redirecting His energy, instead, it might seem, of dumping it, and taking in, then, an adulterated stream. Well, i feel a little desire—it comes with the frustrations of understanding mathematics; but, to be sure, i don’t know what my true love looks like, and, therefore, I can’t exactly unload
All i know, at this time, is that, in this life, we are separated—indeed, we live, for now, separate lives . . . don’t i torture myself to think that she might love somebody else? That wouldn’t necessarily be the case—i’m too hard on her, especially, considering, this life is a disgrace—hardly the civilization that I would associate myself with.

Back to my depression, ginger in a sling
trying to be ok with the limited
knowledge that I am recovering,
not feeling so great, wishing he was dead,

sucking up to China, flexing in bed.
downside of a modicum of mania,
think i’ll go back to the life i dread—
life in godforsaken America,

Now you’re back again, swearing that you’ll be my friend after you do to me what you do to him; well, this is just me, can’t get off unless I fucking betray somebody  method acting for the road, don’t know when I’ll be getting home—well, thinking, shithead, that this is a dream and the person I am is on the way . . . would you like to be somebody else, just for a day?
No, on the contrary, I’m somebody else every day of the week—the person I am lives in heaven; he’s not forced, do tell, into method acting, becoming the voice of God knows how many. Well, do your thing, abomination to woman kind, look what happens after you do time  complicated fantasy . . . striking at the quick—i know normal people don’t experience this

saddle up, young blood, we’re going for
a ride—the troll king lives at the ocean,
fighting each other with our broad sword,
loving a princess that remains a virgin

troll king, no doubt, wants to make me afraid
hold on to power and you will be saved,
do you think of anything but getting laid?
i suffer, so i write, eases the agony,

tackling his idiotic shame, wrangling
for a better life—believing I’ll get there
so I’m happy as shit, rolling rawhide
from orbit to orbit. Well, chaos, darkness

is all they can see, and so, I must ask
(sticking to my guns), what’s wrong friend,
with dick-less heaven? My Jesus, at one
time, loved me so, made me feel happy

Emerging from something so show me your
gun—polite as reindeer in the afternoon
sun  well, there we go, warp speed’s a no,
and I’m feeling the ache of an earthquake

rattling my bones  jackhammer and sea salts,
taking a bath: I’d get off the sauce but
that wasn’t my path mystery rider
ghost rider in the azure sky—he faults

diseased lightning striking me twice, don’t
know all these people, their head in a vice
so what if none of them, in my heaven,
exist—or even worse, they exist elsewhere

every bit as good as me. but i believe the
way we live our life informs us in
the life to come—to be outstanding, here,
and, therefore, there, is the favored outcome