In Dependence Days

The Sad Mad Hatter

Be less impulsive.

Be less reptilian.

fuck like this

you’ll reach a million.


The sex is great

but the lonely lay

that follows is

hell to pay


And in the dark

the devil whispers

good job, good job,

to the lonely misters


dick still dripping

eyes follow suit

You’ve won again

given her the boot


She grabs her clothes

while you watch

you lay ashamed

hands on your crotch


Cause you know better

you know it hurts

to be fucked for fun

and tricked by flirts


But here you are

with tricks of tongues

you kissed her lips

and above she sung


But shes still gone

it’s all the same

you played again

and lost the game


All that’s left is

your self-pity

you’ll write some shit

that they’ll call gritty


You’re all alone

it doesn’t matter

cry, cry, cry,

you sad mad hatter

Baby Blue

Baby Blue,

just us two

with no one else to tame the fire


Baby Blue,

our secret grew

you fought me till my morals tired


Baby Blue,

alone with you

others wondered what transpired


Baby Blue,

you crept in close

and asked me what I wanted


Baby Blue,

I held my pose

shrunk like a child when taunted


Baby Blue,

what you chose

were whispers that were haunted


Baby Blue,

gave me the noose

and I’d already tied it


Baby Blue,

could I let loose

indulge in sin and hide it


Baby Blue,

I called a truce

with my heart and the bride inside it


Baby Blue.

Baby Blue.

Baby Blue.


Your Baby Blues

still make me wonder.

Spontaneous Human Combustion pt.2

I am still on fire.


Time passes and there is no change.

The world is an incinerator, and the fire is starting to hurt.


Bukowski said what matters most is how well you walk through the fire

But I am walking through a fire while on fire, and while engulfed in flames, you whisper to me.

Your breath is hot and highly flammable. Your whispers make the fire scream.


I keep a notecard in my pocket and scribble the time on it every time I think of you today;

32 times. That’s one less than 31 and one more than 33. The number 32 is divisible by

the numbers one, two, four, eight, sixteen, and thirty-two. It’s simple math. Simple math

is good; grounded in logic, something that has played hide and seek with me since I day I met you.


Numbers. I hate numbers. I don’t like the dominance of logic that’s attached to them. Numbers

can’t just exist; they have to exist for a reason because they were created with that reason in mind.

Numbers are logic, and logic scares me. The heat on my skin gets worse when I focus on the

numbers; I start to feel the sharp pain radiating off every inch of my body. I am still on fire.

This fire, this fire has no logic. How do I stop the fire? I don’t want to burn like this anymore.


There is nothing spontaneous about this. This fire was lit and I’m not sure who lit it. There is a

book of matches in my pocket but I can’t think of a single reason I would start this fire myself. I

think I’m playing hide and seek again. No, I’ve been playing hide and seek. I’ve been seeking for

weeks now.  The pressure is building in my head. The heat will eventually cause my eyes to

pop. I can’t remember what I look like when I’m not covered in this fire. The number 32 is

divisible by the numbers seven, seven, seven, seven, seven and seven. Wait, that’s not right.


The number 32 is bigger than the number 31 and smaller than the number 33. That’s right,

there it is. I found logic. Now, maybe it will tell me how to get out of this incinerator.  No, I don’t  

want to do that; I tell it to go hide again so we can keep playing our game. Actually, I want to take a

break; I’m hungry now. It’s September and the peonies are out of season. I eat the dry, withered

remains of each petal and in my stomach, the fire eats each long dried out stem for sustenance.

I stare at logic. It doesn’t eat, it just watches and judges me silently. It’s waiting for our game of hide and seek to continue.

When it leaves the room I say, The fire hurts, but not that bad.


As I walk out of the room, I ignore the mirror on the wall; I walk out with aimless purpose, a living

contradiction that is as persistent as the flames that are turning my body into a brazen bull for my

heart. The heart is made up of four chambers full of ventricles, valves, atriums, and arteries all designed to work for the person to whom it belongs to. There is logic in the heart. The heart has purpose. The heart is not meant to be given away but protected because without it, all I have is the fire.

The fire that was not spontaneous but built up gradually and tended to by me.

I see it now, the hallucinogenic is making me anxious and suddenly I see and feel all of the fire.

The number 32 is divisible by the numbers one, two, four, eight, sixteen and seven.


Something’s wrong. I thought I figured it out. The number 32 is divisible by the numbers

Seven, seven, seven, seven, seven and seven. The number 32 is smaller than the number seven.

This isn’t working. The fire is creating boils on my skin that pop with every failed attempt.

The heart has seven chambers. The heart has seven atriums. The heart has seven arteries. The

heart has seven valves. The heart has seven ventricles. There is no logic in the heart. My heart is not mine. My heart is meant to be given away. My heart is not for me. I’ve given away my heart 7 times and every time it’s been given back in an urn that logic clutches onto and worships like an idol.


I don’t know what I look like when I’m not on fire anymore. I know that the number 32 is

Divisible by the numbers one, two, four, eight, sixteen, and thirty-two. I know that the number 32

is bigger than the number 31 and smaller than the number 33. I know that the heart has four chambers and that those chambers are full of ventricles, valves, atriums, and arteries. I know that the heart serves a purpose. I know that the heart is not meant to be given away. I know I struck the

match and swallowed it. I know that I started this fire and every fire that came before it.


Spontaneous human combustion. I don’t understand it. I understand it as much as I

understand myself, not at all. When I look in the mirror all I see is fire and smoke that hide my reflection. I can feel my heart pumping. Each rhythmic bump is a reminder of a purpose that

is hiding away with logic. Numbers. There is logic in numbers. Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two,

One; I am as ready as I ever will be. I am closing in on logic. I am closing in on purpose.


As I close in, the fire burns hotter than it ever has before; it wants to be fed, but I have nothing for

it. The fire eats at itself, and I collapse from the pain. I can’t move. What matters most is how well you walk through the fire, but I can’t walk any longer. I can’t hear anything. I can’t hear your

whispering in my ear anymore. What used to be screams on my skin begin to settle.


Logic comes out of hiding and finds me on the floor. It opens the urn and spreads the ashes

of my heart all over my body. For a moment, I feel relief. When you walk back into the room and I pick up my head to look at you, I can feel it all again.


I pull a match out of my pocket, but logic reaches out and catches my hand before

I can strike it. All I want is to be ingulfed in your flame but logic reminds me,


It’ll pass.

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