ryan c. taylor// cachito's song

desert heat with a southwest sky

giving fuck all in the van with the guys

no one could do it better and Frankie just died

Cachitos coming down gonna build and destroy

we don't care where you're from 

we were Southside tx and we're missing our moms

skins, punks,hardcore kids

tx to ca nodding out on a blitz

yuma Arizona is where it really hit 

making our mark just some junkie kids

cachito crying wolf in the back

playing on repeat fuckin all out attack

we ran as one

criminals and hoods

outcasts lost sons

words we write and scars help to remind us so we sing along

some died trying if only to remind us not to fall but soldier on

sub o night with a blue red sky

sirens pulling up thought cachito would die

took it too far and oded on the lie

too high to see the signs can't turn back time

skins, punks, hardcore kids

we were the cats with 9 lives and my brother lost 10

play it back again and again

don't know how I survived can't believe that I did

sweating off the smack

eating suboxone

wish upon a wish

that frank and chito had lived

az days nodding out with my kin

playing on repeat we were Saturdays kids

we run as one

in remembrance lost sons

the path we trudge on

words we write and scars help to remind us so we sing along

some died trying if only to remind us not to fall back but to soldier on.

*liberty and justice 2019

ryan c. taylor//weddings & funerals

come from a long line

of Darryl's and Dawns

martyrs and pawns

goodbyes and so longs

weddings and funerals

open mouth of a past

catching up is criminal

to an ego made of glass

attached to the hard times

like a cough to a lung

*black coffee 10/7/12

ryan c. taylor// exits

something i've awaken to recently.
 too many exits and not enough flee in me.
 too many words about the wither and weakening.
 found death in love and a blank canvas shivering.
 cold in the clutch from a calloused tip softening.
 birth death to birth apartment 5 is the offering.

something old i've come to appreciate.
 the exits left from the holes i used to create.
 bodies piled 6 feet high in a bastard's wake.
 next morning fathered and fed with grace and for mercy's sake.
put boots to feet and press on to embrace mistakes.
next mornings exits are familiar and involve the shakes.

 i'll quote myself for the still sick and say
"everyone's an enemy including you including me"

castrati// new borns(s)

i fathered this

ryan c. taylor// formerly known as

all is well
save the sun
no longer crisp
cumber and some
i feel less of worth
 fear fear to come
too good to be
young darling one
might bear a beast
might bear a nun
might not soon be
might one day come
eyes glistening
 fever of four ones
let's trade soft skin
crown thee the one

ryan c. taylor// argo nunya

wet palms and dry lips paint a skyline of wide hips

i cough cool and bleed spit and write wrongs with a tight grip

i shoved off and called to quit, don't doctor me we're counterfeit

see me in you and go with it,feign sex fiends with sissy shins

fall for me passively like a heel slit

agressively address the past me like you're dope sick

i sew my mouth shut around the worst of friends

say argo nunya to the rest of them

duck out the last month to avoid eviction

should probably stop now and call this fiction

ryan c. taylor// named after a jetson

sit in circles sick and sacred.
emotionally pushed from pen to pavement.
third time's a charm my feline favorite.
i worked weird weak i wish she'd save it.
awkward hands called out her cadence.
a female firm last name not jetson.
i had a hole i wish she slept in.
waited too long and missed the message.
now we don't know and i'm complacent.
she's reached new heights
forgave forgiveness.
fuck fists i'm fine
all fear and friend less.
there is a girl
a once could have been.
old man fear crawled up and crept in.
i no longer know nor care to listen.
she was a picker.
i'm still a peasant.

ryan c. taylor// calcium deficiency

Where men have fought and died for ownership I have spilled milky  
white discharge and denied any relation.
They swoon and croon and cry and write and share secrets and make  
mixtapes and call in sick.
I step in, I get nauseous, I step out.
I am a student, an observer, never meant to stay in certain situations  
for extended periods of time.
Pungent 30 second lust making in Southwest America has me questioning  
my relationship with my Mother.

ryan c. taylor// wet wombs

this week was spent celebrating young mothers in heat.
restless and fierce.
anvil eyes groping wet men.
receiving living advice from ne'erdowells at coffee shops
teahouses.
surfing the strips.
begging for a starring role in a snuff film.
contemplating irrational decisions with community college
drop outs and bicurious trustfund musicians.
contemplating me.
yearning for 5 minutes of regret.
disregarding the 3rd party.
young mother, swallow me.
with loose skin.
let your womb accept this offering.
head first.
young mother, resent this.
seek therapy.
work me out.
this week was spent celebrating you.
young mother.
you.
who calls in sick to your new life.
whispering obscenities at your seed.
you.
lactating and ill.
moist in all the wrong places.
you.
adolescent and careful.
harmful.
shameful.
retreat to the art wards, young mother.
drink your fill and elevate your soul with acetone speed.
pontificate.
fake the fuck.
forge the feeling.
romanticize misery.

ryan c. taylor// foreign skin

the grand, mournful entrance.

expelled from a coughing womb

into the cold, tight, latex grip of a foreign being.

the saltwater flooding the parish hospital floor

is coming from the face of the carrier.

it all began with a break up.

a forceful push from you.

the virgin mother now a martyr of what

will later become spiritual warfare.

the rest of her life spent clawing at faces

of those who come between her and son.

 

a lifetime will be spent fearing the orphan father.

 

the virgin mothers pilgrimage begins in sulphur.

in wooded green and tanker white highways.

in cocaine fueled sewing circles with son laughing and fat.

pushing, crushing, painful thoughts of where

orphan father lay at night.

 

searching for needle and thread to reconnect.

 

the seeking continues in southeast barrios.

hungry and sick, painstaking and frantic.

lovefilled and withdrawn, undiagnosed and selfless.

the virgin mother weeps, the son explores cracked foundations.

the son searches for orphan father.

 

longing to return to the womb.

 

the son rambles in empty trailer park lots.

eyelids purple and bruised, brothers praising.

closer to orphan father, to machismo wisdom.

farther from the virgin mothers saltwater streams.

farther from love, the son fills the void.

 

jihad in the mental.

 

the journey leads to television sex and bad food.

catholic guilt pouring out of the sons urethra.

the virgin mother begins a 6 month sabbatical

in a psychiatric hospital.

son wanders on, searching for a womans validation.

 

the push from commitment and whats underneath.

 

the son finds an opium swarm.

heart and mind engulfed in warm waves for a decade.

pushing down the fear, the sadness, the pain

that bred social awkwardness and righteous anger.

farther from the orphan father, the son feels the wound.

the retreat inward.

son numbs with water, bleach, vinegar, and lemon juice..

stumbles past the flags, the gang signs, the steel capped

boots, the charges and spikes, the bald heads, the propaganda,

the hooded activists, the train hoppers, the screw heads.

past the poets, the art students, the junkies, the recovering junkies,

the drunks, the dry drunks, the horny hipsters, the cowboy punk rockers,

the trust fund mercenaries, the indie rock aficionados, the hustlers,

the mother whores, the daughter whores.

to break,

to fear,

to search,

to long,

to wage war,

to push,

to retreat,

in foreign skin.

ryan c. taylor// secrets(revised)

My piss has not always been poison, neither has my blood. A cleaner version of myself last existed when I was 14. As long as I can remember I've had an infatuation with holes(God sized) and the art of filling them. Up until the age of 15 I used food, masturbation, violence, girls, gutter weed and malt liquor to fill these holes. These shoddy patch work jobs failed me miserably. I found my solution, my cement, at 15, in opiates; hydrocodone, lorcets, lortabs, fentanyl, morphine, codeine, oxycontin, oxycodone, and eventually heroin.  My first embrace with the nod was when I had my wisdom teeth pulled. After surgery I was prescribed to hydrocodone tablets, and for 3 days I did nothing but sleep, read, dream, and be free. I fell in love for the first time in my life. I found perfection, balance, warmth, passion, and unrestrained love. I started hustling in school afterwards and became a big fan of   the greens and blues.

After high school, the pharmacy game became a huge part of my life, keeping it a secret from most people close to me, besides the few friends that were knee deep in it as well. Prescription pain killers started becoming increasingly more difficult and more expensive to get, up to $5 a pill on the streets with my habit reaching 10 at a time just to feel somewhat comfortable.  Right around this time I had a new neighbor move in upstairs from me in the midtown apartment building I was living in at the time, a character nick named Slave. My new neighbor was a professional middleman dealing in heroin trade, and suggested a cheaper, more powerful alternative to pills. Slave was a born salesman, and sold me on the fact that I could buy a 20 bag and stay high for hours. Being low on cash I was willing and ready, the only problem was Slave had ran out of clean syringes. A pharmacy run was our next step and since the area pharmacists already knew Slave's schemes and refused to sell to him,it was up to me to get the rigs. Shaking from withdrawals, I memorized the script and walked into the pharmacy and nervous explained to the pharmacy tech that my Grandfather was diabetic and visiting from out of town when he realized he had no more syringes and had forgotten to bring his diabetic card. Successful transaction, onto the ritual.

Now all we had to do was cook and poke. Slave handed me a piece of cotton and a spoon, with detailed directions from him I stuck my muddy quarter gram on the dry spoon, added 1 drop of water from a sweaty Busch tall boy, mixed the heroin and water while heating it up with a lighter, and dropped the small piece of cotton in the thick brown mixture. With trembling hands  I plunged the syringe into the piece of cotton, pulled back, and sucked up the medicine. I was too much of a wimp to shoot myself up, plus it was extremely difficult at the time to find a vein on me, so Slave grabbed my wrist, placed it under the oven light, and dug the syringe into a pulsating vein on the top of my hand. Slight pinch, pull out, blood, wipe off, brown, lick off. Ritual almost complete.

Stumbling back from the stove a warmth quickly rushed from my scalp to my toes. The world slowed down for a few minutes and I tried to regain balance as every problem poisoning my mind seeped out of my skin and into thin air. As I'm coming to the realization that I finally found what everyone's been searching for, my stomach roars and I make a quick run to the lowered porcelain altar to pray. Orange juice from yesterday's sickness violently erupted from mouth and nostril in one holy burst. Using the bathtub as leverage I slowly crawled to my feet from the prayer position only to be pushed back down by a nod amplified from the vomit. The quilt had quickly been replaced by my Grandmother hugging a comfortably hot electric blanket around me. The puking intensified the high in such a way that I spent the rest of my nods sticking my finger down my throat working and begging for a liquid outburst with the same focus and desperation a bulimic nun has on pageant day. 

What's most important to know about getting on the horse is the release I get from me. I feel a God consciousness envelop me with every poke, I become confident, capable, comfortable. The thoughts and feelings I had been working so hard to quiet and push down were finally expelled from me, if only for a short period of time. For the first few hours every thing's manageable and non threatening. I can look in the mirror, no more feelings of unworthiness, despair, loneliness, uselessness, anger, depression or self pity. I'm relieved of criticizing thoughts of never being good enough for anyone, of being too lumpy and scarred, of failing my Mother and dissapointing my Father. Relieved of thinking death the only logical solution, the only way to please those who I have known (those I have harmed). It's never cold on the nod.

I soon found out that these thoughts and feelings come back tenfold as soon as I hop off the horse. It quickly became a stressful full time job keeping the dreaded four horsemen( terror, bewilderment, frustration, despair) at bay at all times. With the spirit of a hustler and a fierce determination to never feel again, this daily struggle for reprieve continued for many years. I found myself in a midtown treatment facility February 17th 2010, hurting, hopeless, and willing to surrender. This is catholic guilt, please don't tell my Mom.

ryan c. taylor// i think i have the flu

     This mattress is unbridled euphoria. At least that's what I think Sealy was going for when designing this flowery , royal blue spring-up-the-spine death trap. Truly destined to be the fallback for pall mall whores and "woe is me" dope fiends from the edges and centers of flat Earth. I'm unfortunately not soaking in this mattresses glaring ambiance, for the moment my out is reflecting my in. I think I have the flu; bones are aching, sweat pours from the hot and the cold, unable to eat, able to violently erupt from both holes every 5 minutes,this is the flu alright. Nevermind the fact I've been 2 days without, that my disease might very well be in full force, and every time I close my eyes I have a wet dream of rigging up and nodding out. I decide I'm unworthy of the pleasurable pain this valley of coils offers and turn over, landing on the hard wood floor, cheek down, ass up.

  Moving is not an option, so I take a moment to mentally record my current surroundings. Drops of dried discharge border my mattress along the floor and wall, the smell of sick in the air from an open trash bag in the kitchen filled with shit stained towels. The hardwood floor covered in sticky substance and empty bottles of orange juice and wino firewater. My dog Hank is fighting the swarm of flies with remnants of a pill bottle hanging out of his mouth. I caught him earlier devouring the rest of my sleeping pills I was hoping to use to dream away this ill, I hope he's ok, doesn't seem to be slowing him down at the moment. Some of the flies are beginning to congregate a top of one of the many areas sticky sick on the floor, I wish them the best in all their endeavors. 

 I have show flyers on my walls from places played and situations I was in, some records, cds, old movies and books on the floor, things I like, interests held and genres covered that I use to identify me and hide behind. Months prior my one bedroom was filled with things to hide behind, all were pawned in order to support the daily attempt to hide from. If I could move to face the sun, I would have attempted to pawn these  too, I don't think this is the flu. Opiates kill pain, no opiates invite pain, and since it's been 2 days with out, this could possibly be pain welcome. Upstairs has been without for 2 days, he's up and moving, so I suspect he's got some brown stashed for moments like these, he's also got a window in the back, cracked open at all times. If I could only walk, rather than crawl, a nightmove would be in order, I'm unfortunately paralyzed for the moment and will have to wait for home delivery. Until the situation upstairs changes, I'll continue to lay, cheek down, ass up, waiting for fruitition

ryan c. taylor// paws

brain beat by hammers

head full of hell couldn't sleep last night

screaming at the mirror think i lost my mind

light busting through the window from the war outside

got off the horse now i'm cursing life

wanna pull the plug with an exacto knife

wanna shut up the voices with a 45

wanna smash up the town and everyone in sight

get out of my head

fucking leave me alone

wanna watch it all burn

from my window

think i'm going insane

think i'm losing control

wanna shut up my brain

with an assault rifle

get out of my head

fucking leave me alone

wanna watch it all burn

from my window

think i'm going insane

think i did years ago

wanna paint the wall

with fragments of my skull

streetlights screaming

pounding the floor at the SLH

wondering how it ever got this way

praying for the pain to evaporate

itter and remorseful as i walk the streets

hoping for the day that i'll get relief

full of anger and depression think i've reached my peak

full of fear of tomorrow and what awaits for mbe

get out of my head

fucking leave me alone

wanna watch it all burn

from my window

think i'm going insane

think i'm losing control

wanna shut up my brain

with an assault rifle

get out of my head

fucking leave me alone

wanna watch it all burn

from my window

think i'm going insane

think i did years ago

wanna paint the wall

with fragments of my skull

self loathing asshole

bitter and remorseful as i walk the streets

hoping for the day that i'll get relief

full of anger and depression think i've reached my peak

full of fear of tomorrow and what awaits for me

get out of my head

fucking leave me alone

wanna watch it all burn

from my window

think i'm going insane

think i'm losing control

wanna shut up my brain

with an assault rifle

get out of my head

fucking leave me alone

wanna watch it all burn

from my window

think i'm going insane

think i did years ago

wanna paint the wall

*ryan c. Taylor 2010

ryan c. taylor// titan anthem

titan blood go

perverse and reckless

we travel in packs down the midtown streets

violent obsessions

we're here to ruin your night yea we got ill means

we're here to have fun at your expense

hooligoon stomp

tb plays to win

wwooooaaah we're gonna get it in

we've got the suss

animals in heat

we're titan blood

we can't be beat

we keep the faith

houston elite

we're titan blood

kings of the streets

ignorant and careless

smashing up the town we don't talk to police

brazen and shameless

titans on the prowl enemies of peace

wherever we go tensions increased

staring in disgust at what's around me

woooaaahh enemies of peace

we are the truth

houston elite

we're titan blood

we can't be beat

we've got the suss

won't accept defeat

we're titan blood

kings of the streets

*titan blood 2010

ryan c. taylor// pain worship

i saw a plane crash right in front of me, in my backyard, are you listening?

i swear it happened, all the passengers died, the pilot lived, are you listening?

he crawled out from the wreckage, he said to me

"it could have been you, it was a bird i was avoiding"

did you fly too low?

did she fly too high?

he said "the latter, but the bird didn't die"

you give it your all, and all you get, is a plane crash, it's pain worship

the pilot wanted to clip her wings

her silly drive for success left 200 dead

she told her friends she was gonna reach the heavens

if she could just get past those black clouds

did they die in vain?

did she find god?

she's not here now, life drags on

you give it your all, and all you get, is a black cloud, it's pain worship
fear fathered me
brokens humbling
uncontrollably
this is life what with me
refusing to be free
this is life with me

*black coffee 10/7/12

ryan c. taylor// rough draft

this is a daily reprieve for me, myself, and me.

keep head down, keep knees locked, stay put and keep reading.

focus on an object in the distance when walking.

never let your eyes leave this object, nod your head but don't listen to others.

stick to a script when explaining to others what you've been up to.

memorize this script and remember your mother will always love you.

play the role of the victim in every situation you encounter daily.

constantly remind yourself you've failed your father and ex lovers.

change your wardrobe a minimum of 5 times each morning before leaving the house.

always look behind you, avoid stools or chairs with no backs.

remember to always appear interested, and act as if you can relate.

co sign on other peoples bullshit as much as possible.

let others affect you, there's always space available for rent in your head.

lose weight.

gain weight.

socialize.

isolate.

*black coffee 2014

ryan c.taylor// historically speaking

hellfire and brimstone/cliches get me home/ i hate the way you moan/somebody shut that dog up/ this can't go on, for too long/ i really wish it could but historically speaking

i break hearts

i catch cases

i cum quick

real evasive

i don't fulfill expectations

i'll be back at the trap house by dawn, historically speaking

old rigs, new bones/ in ghettos unknown/ third ward, fourth ward, second i'm home/ black out the windows/ unplug the phone/ shut that fucking dog up because...

i wreck homes

i never "get it"

i piss and moan

when i'm deep in it

i run fast when she says i'm pathetic

back to the trap by dawn, historically speaking

(you know what she'll do?) she'll tell her friends, her friends'll tell her friends, her friends'll tell her friends, someone will tell their mom. (quit laughing)

i wreck homes

i never "get it"

i cum quick

real evasive

i don't fulfill expectations

i'll be back at the trap by dawn, historically speaking

she'll tell her friends, her friends'll tell her friends, her friends'll tell her friends, her friends'll tell her friends and on and on and on and on and on

*the burden 2010

ryan c. taylor// anchorless (part 2)

the compass broke months ago-saving up pennies just to know where i need to go, pity party of 1 left me in the cold, weird when I'm sober to every body but you,yea you. got me wondering what i gotta do to get you, yea you. to look at me like i look at you. north star, carry me home-home being my head where I know that I'm not alone,and when I'm fixed we can go where you wanna go, until then I just wanted you to know that you, yea you. encompass everything that matters to me. you,yea you. represent everything that I want to be. anchorless, but far from free-and if you knew what i knew you would tell me to fuckin leave, a little weird from the drugs it ain't you it's me, being a bastard staying cold is hard in the heat, and you? yea you could be my anchor if for once I would let you be you? yea you could go to hell with me if you wanted to. xoxo

ryan c. taylor// scott st. blues(part 1)

bleach-water-rinse-repeat, cookin' up mud to the sound of a 100 thieves, wheel chair man still fronts if it's in a week, his old lady still fucks at the triple 3, and me? me. still walking like someones after me? me. still talking like someones listening. sweat-shoot-sleep-repeat, walking down scott like i own every fucking thing, DFFL if you know what i fucking mean, and if you don't may gods grace keep you wondering about me? me. still acting like it's all in the past for me? me. still writing like it means something. laugh-cry-laugh-repeat, less talk more type syrup city is killing me, 3rd ward got me begging for fuckin peace, as if peace would keep me from slowly killing me? me. still talking like someones listening. yea me? me. still walking like the world is after me. I am a carrier for selfishness-I was saved from selflessness-While you embody all thats self righteous- Bleach-Water-Rinse- I got poison piss.

ryan c. taylor//gutter world

I wanna go like Pimp, Screw, and Big Moe, hiding out and sleepwalking with Jimbo the last shot got me thinkin' 'bout my kinfolk, back when I used to see him bangin nothing but C notes, lately for me it's been more blues than food, more tar than brew,more sleep than you, picking roaches out my teeth in the moon god's serenity won't be visiting anytime soon. I saw death approaching- bloodshot eyes-it looked just liked me, and I swear it called for me-commanding voice said "you look lonely", fuck father forgive me, can't kill this tick-chest won't stop pounding, father please believe me-not my fault- mind & body diseased, I fucking felt it coming-chapped lips, black eyes- I heard no angels singing. "Pops" whispered "It's all ending"- no more strung out nights, the fucking ship is sinking.