With a mouth full of bile,
I kiss your rotting lips.
I spew my rancid seed
on your blackened eyes
and know they will soon
be crusted shut, tainted
by my sickly venom.

I am poison.

I seep into
your wet parts and
consume all that is good and pure,
leaving nothing but shit in
your bloodstream, vomit in your lungs.

I am malignant by nature,
malevolent by choice.

And I have chosen you as next.

It's only you,
my dearest, my darkest;
it's only your
soft voice I hear
in the small hours.

These lilac bushes breathe
your name and the soil listens,
remembering everything.

It's only a whisper
of rose oil and
amber, of silk and
skin.

Just a whisper.

It's only you
in the small hours.

am not kissing you
within five seconds
of seeing your eyes
in shared sunlight,
then the earthworms
will swarm to our
feet and by seven seconds
our tongues will touch
and the universe will
stop holding it’s breath,
knowing our time has begun.

Luna waxes, wanes.
Blood. Water. Our passions tide.
Gravity's death grip.

I'm sick of writing bullshit
angst fueled piles of
shit poems about how much
I think about stupid bitches
and how I sickly miss their sadistic
tendencies exercised upon my
unsuspecting psyche.

I write of greys and nothings
and try to create murky landscapes
because I'm fucking bored and high
and I know that kind of shit
resonates with some of you creepy fuckers.

I wrote so many fucking poems for her,
for you, dearest.
So many poems I thought you would see
how much I love you, how much I would give all of myself.
For nothing.
I told you no the other day,
after not hearing from you for months.
That twisted my guts but I asked
my sister what to do and she is
one of the few creatures with a vagina
I trust.

I'm sick of reading other peoples
shit of lost love and broken hearts
and shit gone wrong and he loves
her but she likes pussy and fucking
empty heads smashing empty hearts
and abuse and neglect and so many
fucking gut wrenching tales of woe
it makes me sad to be a part of this..
pathetic conglomeration of fools, humans.

Sure, there is some positive shit out there,
but even that makes me want to puke.
I'm envious and doubtful, cynical and jaded.

I want to believe my one is out there,
but I'm not getting any prettier
or any smarter
and I have grown weary of
even trying to try.

I'm tired and pissed
and I just want a soft
sweet smelling pile of flesh
next to me rubbing my
temples and whispering in my ear
stories of bugs and latex body paint
and what dress she is going to wear
for me.

Fuck.

I'm tired of writing poems like this
and I'm tired of reading poems like this
and I only want a sweet dripping pussy on my face.
I never claimed to be a poet.

You can do it now, if you want.
Get fucked up,
Fucked over,
Stepped on,
Fucked with
and just plain fucked.

Right in your ass, if you want.

You can wallow and writhe
in miserys mud, carve a new scar
and think it's all your fault,
If you want.

You can even throw a bag
of your body parts into the river,
if that's your kind of happy.
You can do it now, if you want.

You can drop the false smiles
and start telling these mother fuckers
how it really is, also.

It's ok to drop a little venom in the tea
because these fucks have pissed on the carpet
too many times and nobody likes
a loud mouth drunk bitch.

Some just have it coming and I'm ok with being the one that gives it to them.
Because I can.
So can you, if you want.

So if it's a toss up between
getting fucked or
rising above,
bend over bitch because
I'm not letting you
stand in my way.

My blood runs thick
for those I love.
If you are mine
you feel it in your bones
and I am the sound
of sugar that makes you wet.

Here and now, alone,
My thoughts turn to you,
your pale skin
your new glasses.
Your black hair is
getting longer.
I didn't expect to find
a picture of you waiting
for me this morning,
I didn't expect to
feel this emptiness
eat me again.

I thought I was getting better.

With a flutter of joy
comes a deep red on her cheeks,
neck and collarbones follow suit.

Our creek and the sky
and the earth
and the birds
give us all the
answers so let us find
other uses for our tongues.

Together in this
quiet and safe
garden we have created,
we will share our secrets
with the flowers
and listen to the stories
of earthworms.

We will give
the soil
small tastes of ourselves
under Luna's smile.

Let us drink deep
from this water
cold and clear
and become one
under the mighty
Cottonwood trees.

With a warm glow
around my tired bones,
I feel the chemicals
slowly take effect.

It's ok with me, precious,
if you think I'm ugly.
I'll love you just the same.

My hands knew your skin
before we ever touched lips
because you are missing from me.

It's ok my dear,
if we never live
I'll love you just the same.
It's the honey on your lips
that keeps me on my knees.

Shadows taste like unanswered crickets and last years leaves.
This question crawls in your skin
as you try to wring the answers out of orgasms.
There is no right or wrong
in the realm of exo-skeletons
so the crickets sing as
I part the earth and
come on your sacred soil.

I know what I am.

You are my sugar,
white and heaping.

There is only this.
There is only now.

You are here
and I am there
and I will choke on these
shadows the way you choke me
behind your lovely lashes.
Don’t die so soon,precious;
I have many flowers to
spread on your skin.

Today I killed
the last piece
of love
inside me.

I fed it poison
and watched it
convulse and die
as the cicadas rotated
shifts in my ears.

Yesterday a blind woman
touched my face
as I carried her through
the desert to
the Holy Lake in the mountains.
She touched my face
and asked me to put her down;
she no longer wanted my help
because she knew my
nothing was greater than hers.

Tonight I drink the shadows
of your name, heavy with
time.

Blood.
So much blood.
Bright red against her pale skin,
and his wood floors.

Crumpled, a heap on the floor,
she bleeds and moans, ruined.

Mechanisms years in the wanting, seconds to bloom,
he gave her the love she thought was dead.

Even the ones that know how to
take a big cock sometimes
bleed, just not this much.

So much blood.

42 since I started to breathe rotting leaves under a November blizzard.
34 since I entered this body that day on the porch.
32 since I understood violence to be an accepted
part of life.

So many years I have carried this burden and I am tired, so tired.

So many sad Novembers.

But it's April now and 29 since I tasted a woman's mouth. 26 since I discovered how it felt to be inside another human, while completely inside myself.

It's April now and I crave the pale round goblets of milky skin these young flowers offer.
New rituals indeed smolder as centuries unfold.

It's only been 12 since I knew I was part of God
and 7 since I started hating us for being so close.

It was last March since I lost faith in you and I haven't stopped breathing shadows.
I am so tired, dearest.
What must I do?
It's April now, the walnut tree is black against the streetlight; the sycamores line the empty boulevard and I can smell the ghosts in the park.

These milky skies and milky thighs burn in
my skull.  January has lost her way
again as everyone forgets about the poets.
It's the poets that get them through a grey December.
We all share the same air, we all breathe
each other.
There is a lone willow tree, in the cradle of the park, bearing your divine name, which can be heard whispered by the ghosts who wander
on this lonely reservoir.

I am pining for dried tea bags and empty dresses as long summer nights bring insects and revelations.
I am your stone gargoyle.

and dirty, slimy and rotten
to the core.
The Id rules here
so fucking and fighting
at playtime now means
raping and killing
for breakfast.
I had feelings once
when the world was bright
and what the fists didn't beat out of me,
the women devoured.
I would give anything
to just be the mighty
sycamore guarding
the park.
Anything to not be this, now.
No lilies in my eyes
since you left me,
like they all do.
No amber
or candles
or soft kisses on
wet thighs.
Nothing but filth
and the familiar stench of
being alone and unwanted
here.
Filth and refuse,
remnants of earlier tortures,
limbs and guts,
decaying art of us
stinking up the place.
It's a sunny day here but
the shadow of our rot
weighs heavy.

My cherry blossoms.
Gather slowly, my precious,
the day is long, here.

Another midnight
Bach's cello soothes the cold air.
Scorpion eclipse.

One room away is a woman
who wants me to fuck her.
She is beautiful, intelligent, and drunk.

I am ugly, intelligent, and sober.

Even though my highest and best
tells me to walk away with a smile,
my core screams for a ruining.

One room away is a drunk, horny,
dripping work of art who is also
very, very lucky.

Charles tells me to listen to
my cock and Pablo whispers a reminder
to remember the smell
of early morning wheat
and your eyelashes
while Walt and I gaze at the stars
and think of death.

I smile to myself,
soaking in the after glow
of vanilla chai, good weed,
and dead poets.

One room away is a woman
who's fate was in my sadistic hands.
Two rooms away is a twelve year old
who is dreaming of flag football
and Vans and getting to
level 37 of Skyrim
and one day,
after he wakes up
and after we have our
toaster strudel,
and somewhere in between
me stopping for coffee
and dropping him off,
I'll remind him
that good pussy is everywhere
so take your time and do it right
and when you just don't want to
look at their face,
make some tea,
catch a buzz,
and read some poetry.

With stones in my eyes
and your flesh
between my teeth,
I rot a little more.

My plants weep and wander
as I try to
conjure your smells
from the cold.

Grey is the color of your skin
and the night is thick
with our black blood.

Closing my eyes,
breathing deep,
my hands remember
the curve of your hip
and the miles between us
are molecules.

Another breath and
amber fills my mouth.
Tea bags drying
and good whiskey
with limes
and lilac
and bleach
and mastiffs
and skin
all burn in me now
with enough heat
to tighten the flesh
around my ribs.

I cannot stand this empty
air and the weight
of our nothing
has stamped me flat.

No cherry blossoms here
as the lies
cover the soil,
poisoning the root.

Another breath,
my head tilts back
and mouth opens
in remembrance of our sacrament.

With a dry mouth and bound feet,
I ponder your undoing.
Seeing you
reduced to a quivering mass
of gellied flesh
is going to make me feel quite satisfied.


Quite satisfied indeed.

I won't be worried about who is right or wrong.
I won't be thinking of egos and consequences.

My mind is made up
and some beatings are in order.

I will have one goal and that
is to inflict pain and suffering
on you and your entire family.

Every last stinking one of you fat stupid fucks.

You see, you think you know me, and you are correct. You do. You know me better than most.
You don't know this part.
You have never seen what I am capable of,
what I have done.
  
You know not the lengths of great
personal sacrifice I will endure
just to see you bleed,
motherfucker.

I will stew
and brood
and contemplate
and daydream about
your mouth caving
under my fists.

Bitch.

I'm going to take
what little manhood
you have left
and completely destroy
everything left to do with it.

Nothing can save you,
my mind is made up.
You have no hope.
I don't have to wonder
if I will see you,
I will.
Be ready to bleed.
My mind is made up.
Nothing can save you.

You can get it wrong, at 1 a.m.
If you listen to the whispers
of the blue smoke.

Intentional bruises sneak in between the thunder and we build our altar on the ashes of tradition.

Now.
you are My sugar.

The drums and whistles of our dead keep rhythm as we dance alone in the cold of our
Great Nothing.

You can get it wrong at 1a.m.
If you wait for the smoke to clear.