WOULDA SHOULDA COULDA

woulda shoulda coulda
=================

some things are better staying could'ves...would'ves or whens... for if they become shouldves, they're more prone to be constant ghosts of never.

I...shouldve loved but never
had a heart...
wouldve tried but never knew
how.

when im able i will....
(blank)

and what fresh heaven is
this dorothy?

you know better than to
question the digger about
the depth of the rabbit
holes...

you never get a sane
answer and its NOT tea
in that cup...its...

well anyway.

no bother about that love.

let us discuss the
times we wouldve but
never...

and be the nows we shouldve
been.

(before our hearts died.).

lamentations of a tragic clown

lamentations of
a tragic clown/.
++++++++++++

today i am the
tragic clown

laughing
ugly tears.

yesterday i was
a man.

(haunted by
a

multitude
of fears.)

you ask me
why

i

break these
lines.

and marvel
how

they seem
to

sink...

deeper in

the

mire of
time!

(i do so

thus,

to make
you

think.)
++++

last night
i

was the

happy fool.

who had
first

discovered
the

intensity of
Love.

but

ill forever
be the
tragic clown.

(now)

(A Never
Ceasing Mourning
Dove.)

j.stephen.h.

skull kissed bullet lullaby

skull kissed bullet lullaby.
+++++++++++++++++++++

on september 8th
2013, my brother
kissed a bullet with
his skull.

he always
had an odd romance
with death.

(and never believed
in things like human
souls.)

i cant remember
the last thing he said
to me, because i was
blasted...

but,

I know that he called.

(probably to lament
his misery, and remind
me how all good men
fall.)

it was his idea...
to ...
burn the midnight
muse in me,

to..
show the world
how sick it was,
and reveal how
I (by extension)
am simply in the
lead.
             +

theres really no
need for prophets
anymore,

because every
man
is a prophet unto
himself...

trying to open
heavens door,

but more often
peering in the
Cellar of Hell.

(so easy to..
confuse the two.)

            +

on september 8th
2013 the memory
of true loss first
entered my skull...

and..
i have this sick
romance with
death.

(which stains my
very soul.)

j.stephen.h.
+++++++++++++++

note: this is based upon
a true story that i wish was
not a true story.

R.I.P

Donovon.

the death of hateful flowers

the death of hateful flowers.
+++++++++++++++++++++

her: where were you
my love?

him: drunkenly ranting
at the sky,

and wishing death upon
Hateful Flowers.

her:why stephen,
why??

him: Because of the wretched
"I"
iNsIdE!

(which Haunts Me Through
The Midnight
Hours.)
            +

Her: Oh If Only I Had
Heavens Power.

The Things I would
Achieve!

No True Love would
ever Sour,

and All Men Would
Believe!!


him:which is why im
under your spell.

because i'd never known
a moments peace and
my life has been pure
hell.

her: oh, surely, surely
there was some good?

him:never.

i've always been
misunderstood, and
out of place...

except when we two
are together,

and I can see your
laughing face!

her:so, why the drunken
ranting at the stars?

the constant state of
worldly questioning?

him: because life has
rent my soul with scars
and pain beyond worth
mentioning!

her: oh, stephen i love
you more by every hour,...
i

(interrupted as he gets
up and begins to walk
out without ceremony.)

where are you going??

him:

to pick you a flower.

j.stephen.h.

lying stars

the stars are liars you know.
dont
trust the wretched things my
love.

don't...
fret away your lonesome days
in
wait for things which shall not
be.

be your own star shining in the
fires
of lifes tragedy love...

take life by its broken wings and
mend
the words unspoken in your
soul.

another haunted smile to desecrate

another haunted
smile to desecrate.
+++++++++++++++

Her EyEs
wErE
the last MeAl
that
    I
aTe.

GrAy
sToRmS
waiTing
    for
A
SuNnY dAy..

which bore
tHe QuEsTiOn

could tHiS
     lOvE
be 
FaTe??!!

(or another
HaunTed 
   sMiLe
to 
DeSecRaTe??!!)

jsh

love/hate cookies

love/hate cookies.
++++13++++++

i once took all of my
love/fear/hate and
rolled it into a
middle finger shaped
fuck you cookie for
all the world to see,
eat,.. and ponder
philosophically.

the critics were the
first to choke on the
salty dough of my arts
dissent.

they said i was
 "crazy"
but

the voices assured me
that im well

enough to know the
world is more

fake than a politician
on election day.

so where do i go
from here?

when every rabbit
hole has been
explored

and foxes are smart
enough to

swim rather than
jump down

ditches where
dead things

eat wishes like
fallen stars

breeding
puppet

Masters who
create

our Mortal
Scars!!

whats crazy
about that?

forgive me if
your nine to
five society

cannot appreciate
my Thirteenth
Existence in this
Dreaded Place.

(at least there's
love/hate cookies.)

jsh

ironically bearded hipster demons

ironically bearded hipster demons.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
sure...everyone has
demons, but mine are
worse (and you probably
don't know them)

they are ancient, ironically
bearded hipster demons
who scoff at the modernity
of your convention.

they were...demons before
being a demon was "cool"
and "mainstream" (even before
it was cool to apply exclamation
points to words for stated
emphasis.)

they are coffee house demons.
(non fat latte non whip demons)
and write novels that no one
has ever seen, read, or will
be worthy to see and read because
they are not amongst the
"avant garde".

i've tried exorcising my
demons...

but...

that would be uncool.
so i just write about them.

(neener neener nooh.)

a respectful jab at eliot

a respectful jab at eliot.
_______________

not with a
bang,
but a limp
right?

the beast
felt
an inescapable
hunger
pang

that lasted
through
the night.

time for
countless visions
and
revisions...?

this is the
stuff..

but no decision
or
indecision seems
good
enough....

to halt the
progress of
decline..

the molded
bread
some call divine

yet dip into
the devils
bloody wine!

and
the women...

the women
come and go...

chattering
about dead
souls like
picasso

as I
(in Silence)
sit...

(wondering
about the next
destination
I shall limp.)

j.s.h.

lost in the stare

lost in the stare.
+++++++++++
and...
right before
you
think you're
through

her
eyes
become
hungry stars
that
devour you.

and..
you're glad
to
be beaten...

happy to
be eaten..

lost in
the stare
of
This Angel
from
Afar.

jsh

for anna