Upon entering an empty room

Spider webs finger lick my face like
foreign dogs with cold tongues
as the chug of cheap rhythm scratches
through the open window
and on into wastelands grown black beneath
the backyard of my bed
(that self same bed where only six hours earlier
the girl who looks like Amy Winehouse gave me a blow job
in exchange for praise about her latest shit tattoo)
where my soul tries to
piece itself together
amongst the dust and fluff
of misguided existence.

And I can hear distant dogs barking
with faltering voices
and imagine their red raw tails wagging
like a whippy stick
in the flicking hands of a young
Asian kid
who genetically swats at imaginary flies
and
soldiers inveigling his land.

And still the rhythm chugs

Basking in the thinned heat of late August
my mind cavorts into empty spaces
dotted with awkward reminders
etched onto dog-eared post-its
falling one by two
like flakes of dead skin
from the bone dry walls
of the room they call my skull.

Nothing gets better than Radiohead
killing me
softly with their songs
searching vainly for soul vibrations
with twitching eye and nodding head
beating the crap out of me
with chugging rhythms and
the unifying violence of divine
intervention.

My thoughts turn to you
and the billion things you said
that swirl about my room
in kaleidoscopic pizza experiment
comfort food for a love
that screams from under a
ten foot pile of lies
and a dumpster era
lost of innocence
and dreams.

The lavatory evacuates
from a fatigued airplane flying overhead
and dogs bark
and clouds come
and guitars scratch
to smother me in their grey love
until I am an alien
ascending.

The shit hits the fan

And all I can say to you is


Fuck all of them

and listen.