Wide-Eyed Spasms

Just a Phase

in increments I rest my eyes
taking time to stay awhile
hiding from the pained surprise
of waking in tomorrow

voltage feeding every problem
lucid but not really here though
love when light decides that I'm
the one that needs its glow most

travel far for all I cherish
waiting for the clock to perish
maybe if I turn it back
the hands won't catch my drift

ending up where I should not
dragging out an afterthought
slowly rolling down a hill
with brake lines that I've cut
Organic Thoughts, Uncategorized, Wide-Eyed Spasms

My Only House

She wears her hair the way she thinks

I love

the sound her breath

emits the stars,

my floating vessel,

ajar under ceiling stains.


I’ve slipped away in smiles,

she glides my helpless nothing.

In her velvet I purr.


You found me after the bombs stopped.

Open wounds, lollipops,

crashed cars, holy walls,



the creaks from every corner of every room that warm my depths

in your house

is my everything.


Tell me dear,

will you wander with me a while?


Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

Enter to Escape

Landfills of feverish outcasts, fit only for friends of the fallen.
The tallest is the ladder, it seems only right.
Children climb first, and arrange towards the morning warmth.
“Run my friends,” as the tall man turns back, “they’ve returned.”

Layered mechanical horizons, metal sheets ejected into the crevice, mother’s voice
under the steel placements, “God help us.”
a second interjecting, “At least now I can get some sleep.”

The tall man’s torso faces the rising sun, his legs splay across an orphan’s lifeless frame.
The hole began to spin violently.
The torso disintegrates.

The spinning ceases.
A boy and a girl stand over where they once resided.
Gigantic magnets lift for the reveal.
A stew of flesh, bones, and entrails float carelessly.
A man approaches.
Clean shaven, wearing dark. A proper suit, not a single mark.

He stares, his hand strengthening the brain in his chin,
“Bad Batch”.
His eyes rose to the children, “dispose of this.”

The young ones close their eyes,
and destroy the evidence,
embrace the forgetting.

Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

The Box

It is mine.
I have nurtured it forever, where years speak like seconds.
It shines ominously as I caress its wondrous skin.
Protecting an orb of yes, of do not lose it.

They took it from me when I was awake.
They set it in a glass case at the foot of my bed when I slept.

It is mine.
I stare at it through the pain. Polish applied every other day.
Light at certain angles shows the future,
but the dimness is understandable in such an enclosure.

Baseball bats only shower splinters.
Power drills weep like the fighting breath of dying animals.
My fists bleed for hours after the attempt.
The box is angry that I want it back.

It is not mine.

Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

Return to:

The substance of nothing
is nothing of substance.
A warehouse of souls transmits through their
Does the body choose?
Does the soul choose the body?
We forced car accidents to test the rigidity of sorrow,
a poor performance.
The numbers cowered in the corners, a union of fear
from the timely tyrant.

It smooths to be sharp. Swallowing regurgitation. Running in mirrors from outside,
We must hide.
Stuffing the clouds for us. I present to you,
the lovely reader,
a deafening sound with a shriek on the side.
Hold the climax.
Joint custody of pleasurable perils. The night watchman dances around the fire.
A pit of gripping fingertips boil over with popping cyst money hits.

My whites are drying on the clothesline outside.
The rain started hours ago.

Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

The Place Between

Rolling fields of a
fiery length. I long.

Ravens cast shadowed voids upon
the woolen coats, the fragile monocle
crashes upon the pavement. Stretched
break the novelty of Resurrection.
Prosthetic, the advance of advancement, the
blood is pooling in the bathtub, chasing
linoleum alleyways.
The mathematical hindsight, dragging through the woods towards
the river.
It’s all the river.

Younger days are afraid, I’ve asked for them.

Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

Falling Through

The hour of the minute
resets seconds into moments,
loyal minds into conscious
The gleam, it glints, a fully aware
trumepty pile of
self-realized crucifixions.

But I know no more than those
before the calm of storm in
doors of steel plated mouth gaurds.

No more,
no less a source of dramatic intelligence, more so an escape
to solace.
Drums have played my tune through the night waves.
Beating the slave I call I, named in regards to my siblings in the sky.

Don’t refuse the hand when it’s might is fast apporaching to the moment of comfortably trailing streams through your canvas of hair.
We need reassurance, constant
piercings of consumer convergence in our fine little minds.

Dreams dream of you, of I.
They fear when they wake.
Foreign paintings devoid of
a proctor’s mindless

Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms


Sensations drifting into
focus. Slowing visions
return an answer last seen
when you first asked
the question.

It’s never enough.
The battlefields, bombshelled.
Languishing amidst the
a young man
weeps an ocean into his
Holy helmet, a new commitment.

our sisters question our
question us.

Listen to the falling rocks escaping
the hollow crypts carved into the mountain face.
Regurgitation of
an exaggerated meal.
The devastation commencing becomes a gluttonous landfill.

Wide-Eyed Spasms

Dreaming Dreams

I awake asleep.
Destined to a fate, a fault in my frame.
I hang from these rafters as the circus below
whistles and whirls,
and yet I

Sleeping with an intruder,
with a faceless husk plotting.
His pokes and prods
when the signals reconnect.

And yet still
a stone.

Each ring a lost note.
The shaking is detrimental only
if I say so.

these piney paths I roam.

Wide-Eyed Spasms

Sleeping Breath

You show no solace, you beast, you foe. The night drags like a carcass behind this three-wheeled wagon, and I will guide it, my eyelids pinned to my cheeks and forehead. I will not yield, for you have not. I will not rest until you expose yourself from the shadows.

She breaths so softly. The air like whispers from a world banishing me. I long to be there, to touch the chaos of slumber, the madness of my own mind.
She breaths so softly when she sleeps. Her lips sit open, playing with the wind, like the horizon dancing with the pink, urging the clouds to caress its shores.
So softly, so sound, her movements are still. Her beauty is in her peace, and her breath, her sleeping breath.

I will watch you from this lonely boat, rocking, a nuisance, the smacking water louder than a landslide breaking through a cabin door, tearing the room apart, leaving nothing but the residue of a place pieced together by the fragments of what should be.

I will stay in the static,
you wandering bastard.