The sky is a ridiculous heartache blue All the colors are fleshed out and blurry, kind of surreal So I’m staying inside because it’s dull and dark and I’m hungover Where the excess of last night doesn't slap against my senses Through the window a happy remorseless view, the birds whistling a Disney tune An appropriate contrast to draw clarity from But that ain’t happening Pounding head and bounding day Singing bird and groaning pain Bet it's on purpose One of those God jokes You're funny, rea...

He’s an early thirties balder named Jimi the Hun, A mind torn by memories, synced to a satellite’s beam, infinitely elastic, constantly stretching and shrinking to fit capacity. His knuckles are cracked and busted like a beat-up old car. Behind him, a non-Euclidean tower of massacred electronics, lined by a parapet of motherboards and spiraled coaxial wiring, six feet high and crashing in against itself, casings paralleling inside to support the weight. His hands had been moving without consc...

Sprawled out and dying in a spectrum of grays The model of economic, industrial decay How hopeless he felt, while taking it all in Standing against the backdrop of cancerous buildings, busted up and boarded The youth pock walls with aerosol desperation Commiserating their vague recognition, that something here is missing Their thoughts slip around it like greasy fingers On the verge but never able To realize They've been sold out So let's get burnt out Blur weeks into tiny ambiguous partition...

He had squandered the fortunes of apathy, let slip the rare and inordinate gift awarded him for gliding through life, listless and free, without ambition or regret. Amy Lane had landed in the lap of Charlie Down without so much as an ounce of effort, and he had loved her. But as is generally the case with great fortune and luck Charlie could not appreciate what he had been handed. He spent his days with her adrift in a calm and warming sea, he grew complacent and happy and fat. And then he lo...

After thirteen years of being a cop Rasa had still never made it out of the station and into the field, still relegated to the most menial task's, watching as the other cops passed by so fast that if it were a cartoon you'd see him spin in his chair, leaving behind paper remnants of their success. His days consisted of filling out nearly endless reports and cataloging banal crimes that would most likely end up being filed away and never referenced again. Though fulfilling at first the monoton...