If the world was ruled by bad guys.

There would be lies littered across the sidewalk.

No-one could talk their own song.

For you are always wrong.

When the heart run rampant with sweating armpits.

Like a river of silk.

Still and flowing.

No-one knowing how.

The breath is like…


We call him Superman.

The way we grab his unshaven prickled face.

When the sun sprawls over the treetops.

And Friday evening yawns the day away.

Me and Austin sit with legs crossed and eyes fixed.

The Xbox controllers used to be white.

A perfect mixture of prepubescent sweat and…


It was all good.

Before the importance of my leaking eyes.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I look.

You look.

Music from the people.

No voice. No song.

But still, sounds dance rhythm-less.

Melting into a conspiring desolation.

Droning on with faux pas grandiosity.

Be cool and carefree.

And they will praise…


I am a man

who has said I love you

to six different women

without ever knowing how to love.

I am a man who wants to change the world

but never my ambition,

to be on the golden podiums.

I am a man who wants to be toughest.

Yet…


Let them take from you.

Let them forget you.

Let them use you.

It will make them gay in the morning.

For the good and unholy.

Nothing is new.

The people are the same.

The building are the same.

The dreams are the same.

Does it kill you that you…


The voices waft to the tides.

Unraveling dearest fictions.

Finally loosened and bare.

Each toe wiggling in the cold renewing sand.

Breathe in gulps of love with unremissed truth.

Let crazy glint in your eye.

A good time doesn't need a reason why.

The marijuana kisses hug the soul.

The beer cans are keys to the divine.

Your laughter is music.

Your silence is applause.

You know, You know.

Even when the sun is a lifeguard.

Acceptance never needed saving.

A slower form of the same dying.

Enjoying with no joy.

Doing what the good men do.

The failings and missteps sit with the turkey.

Seduction of the complainers, with aspiring convincing.

The world is on fire.

And you believe them.

And make unneeded enemies out of men.

Who are burning inside.


The sun with it’s vigorous patrolling.

Assuring of heaven.

Paradise like the postal cards.

Colorless traversing to idle, going.

The Rocky Balboa concrete is only a road at night.

Assembly lines are soothing.

Like a mother’s touch.

Even in unweary times.

Even in freight-less nights.

Repetitious metals are back and…


Superfluous social media.

My addiction, to modern acceptance.

Mental health, the children’s disease.

Too much good things.

Stomach aches from estranged personalities.

Private mental hospitals in pant pockets.

Complaining without consequences.

Let misery be our song.

Raining on happy jesters.

Dancing in translucent shoes.

No marks left to make.

My feet, leaving a smell.

Rancid and sweating.

Her perfume with a rolling eyes.

I leave no assurance.

The ugly and undisturbed.

Santa Monica street lights keep the chaos.

The wafting stars and existential lips.

Must we plan with no maps.

Trivial disasters in 2am McDonald’s drive throughs.

God is not talking or listening.

Looking at you with your burgers.

A headset fastened as with his eyes to an untied boot

You laugh, talking your burgers.

Running from momma, from poppa.

Into residual, unrepeatable memories.

God is,

Personless in every person.


The breath is wet.

The air is soft.

Prisoners are escaping.

No chains.

Unneeded realities, talking of coffee beaks and Christmas vacation.

The incessant burning.

The soul is blazing.

Cast it out before it warms a stranger.

Toothless and filled with wisdom.

He asks not for money.

An unwavering concern…


A knock on the wood white.

Salutations to the prior good.

Whom want the dream.

At the fine hours of pleasant convenience.

When ears rattling with glittering obeisance.

The vacant promise of a dreamers acquiescence.

The air fills with Gold.

The aroma of complacent stares.

No doing or wishing.

Lay back into couch of bone.

Comfort from their hardships.

To talk of the known language.

Of getting and of attack.

Only if you know the depths of the righteous.

They sit unbridled and unconcerned with the outside.

Bedroom glistening of lost attachments.

No aesthetic for the hopeful, ordinary and dirty.

The insular mysticism is ravaging.

In the endless attempts to break free.

To find home on the disheveled stained carpet.

To find soul on the dog urine grass patches.

Clayton Cooper

ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ — ᴘᴏᴇᴛ — ᴛʜɪɴᴋᴇʀ

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