I told my secrets

to the daisies when

darkness began

to overtake my reflection.

but I don't trust

very well,

so I'm throwing matches

to cover my tracks,

and watering the earth

in gasoline,

I dream of feeding

the future with char because,

grass grows better

when something dies.

tomorrow looks

pretty fuckin good

when I consider,

what I'm about to do.

is real, he is laughing

we are simply a cat chasing a red light on the wall

not knowing where it comes from,

or where it goes when it

so suddenly

disappears

if we are only as the ones around us,

then i must surely count on misery being a permanent guest,

a roll out bed on the floor, toothbrush, socks and shoes

stacked against the corner where the gray walls meet

he cries at night when the cats bite our toes and makes the sting brighter

i haven't summoned the nerve to evict the lonesome character

he is comfortable here, made a home inside our heads

and he never, ever, sees the sun.

I built a ship in a bottle:

Sails sown from sadness,

A mast made of madness,

A keel constructed from calamity.

I sailed it in a glass sea,

Winds sending it in search of

A harbor of peace

Destined to never be.

With a rat-a-tattoo

You marked me dead

That Colt 45

Pointed straight

At my head

There's a gun

In the roses

And rings in our noses

If anyone asks

Yeah, we're pretty bad-ass

I'm throwing a party

At the gates of hell

If you dare join us-

"Don't ask. Don't tell."

-DeRicki

(Tattoo art by Crash Vonmason - @crashmason on Instagram)

P roclamation of the written word in all its forms, splendorous opt

R eflections mirrored there across the vastness of this earthly sphere

O vertures of authors' crafts, genres varied wide

S hared expressions by all peoples global

E verlasting inscriptions electronically sustained

Pray thee, pray thee, once more.

The knocking at the door,

The prism at the floor, once more.

My warm white breathing.

All seeing, all seeming,

Again, the door, once more.

A flick, a shift, all methods futile,

Will try again to break this lock,

This lock so worn and brittle,

From future turns of the nightly clock.

Time ticks, it tocks,

It speaks like rhymes

Unfolds and winds

To guide the flock.

And the key there often sits.

In quiet repose it sighs.

In truth, it isn't kind

But scarcely admits,

That time is a film of sorts.

It begins and ends

Only in a sense of course.

It spends

The days, the hours,

Like kings use power,

Like envy uses love

To rise above.

Once more,

The knock at the door,

The prism at the floor.

The bell unused,

The light perused,

Once more, the room is locked.