I Worship Nothing


Wasted, wicked wallow.

 Stamped shut to incomplete a reign

penance of prejudice.

And justice a barren form.

The child and his soil 

a barren farm.  Tilled, wicked, wallowing.

Wick burnt down, barren howl.

He scrapes. 


Secret thoughts, actions, selfish indulgences, 

blacken the landscape like nubs after a forest fire. 

Rooks hang thick in the sky, the entire scene 

bleak homogeneity. 

I crawl? This valley, discontent.

Sooty and stinking, but maybe

 only on the surface;

I, too, burnt and withered. The fire, 

my own creation, I can more-or-less


10 December

Sansevieria, ficus, rubber tree

People sitting intentionally apart

Toe socks and sad(?) phone call

Nobody is looking at me

The greying weight of industry piling up

Make up applied in some perfunctory fashion,

foundation obscuring basic human features, the contrast and lines

that make a face; something inexplicable about it. 

In some semblance of keeping up appearances, my fingers move across the keys

in a very deliberate manner,

the strokes helping maintain a façade. 

This pretense is the ache that courses through my forearms

and radiates out to my fingertips.

When I touch you, you feel this stinging,

[Find a word for the need to be noticed],

the desperate heat.


(Source: mackenzie-burke)


Bother, bother

Bore, boorish 

Ghoul, you!

Fingers, sinew, stitching past blame to

present shortcomings

Your faults [a] mine

Tattoo by Jason Leisge

Tattoo by Jason Leisge