See me hitch, retching, and spit
An awful glob of blackened, steaming bile
A bug writhes, dying slow in the poison
Like a man whose back is pierced with a blade
I fear this is no disease in my guts
Rather waste from my pustulating self
I am clawing at my self
Cracking open a stomach full of spit
My fingers stained with the soot from my guts
And corroded through in the pitch black bile
Using my teeth like a serrated blade
My tongue stings, awash in the dark poison
It maddens me, this poison
How it managed to fester in my self
Slowly it formed like a thousand fold blade
It mingled and covered my teeth like spit
Ate away at something, this awful bile
And made its home, coating my writhing guts
As I sit scrying my guts
I must not hide the proof in this poison
I manufactured this brackish, black bile
Allowed it to well up within my self
To weaponize, to defensively spit
A subtler offense than any crude blade
In the ground I ****** the blade
Preparing to spill the rest of my guts
And I see others, smiles leaking spit
Slurries and suspensions of the poison
The byproduct of our worship of self
This self-absolving, all-filling black bile
I cannot remove the bile
Someone else and better must wield the blade
I must submit all control over self
Submit to the pain of purging my guts
The sound of my head landing in poison
My hair with the bugs in puddles of spit
As it stands, the bile still leaks from my guts
I've met the blade yet not kicked the poison
And my self, I keep a mouth full of spit
Apr 15
Apr 15, 2026 at 10:37 PM UTC
I won't try to hide my dissatisfaction.
I did that for so long, after all.
I dropped a digital gauze over the weeping wounds
while a capable physician flowed salve from his side.
I did it so long that they did scar
and the flesh hardened over my heart
so that it was stuck years behind the rest.
But I say again, it hardened
and its smooth surface was closer to plastic
than a youthful tent.
Now I think I've finally opened them to the chill air
and it would seem such a breeze melts the tissue.
It's all open for folks to see
and I find myself pressing my hand to the opening
trying not to spill on my fellows.
One brother assures me that he would catch it in his hands
and look into it, and absorb it, and report back on it
but I find that coming out of the shame-shaped cave
is holding me back from withdrawing my weakness.
I call to the physician who knows me so well
(for he has not ceased his vigil beside me)
and in close he comes, fingers reaching
for the slashes on my chest.
But seemingly of its own accord
the hand unoccupied by the job of stopping the flow
pushes the physician away.
And once he is far enough
that I can take my eyes off him
something strange happens in me.
I start to bargain with the physician for things
instead of letting him just do his work.
It's as though I won't be content closing these wounds
with real, living flesh.
It's as though I want another flesh thrown in
to become one with.
And some part of me thinks
I can ply the physician's promises
to get what I want.
I'm convinced he wants to give me gifts
once the treatment is through
(a good doctor celebrates with his patients, after all)
so maybe I'm just not patient or appreciative enough.
And I wonder what would happen
should I get the gift I keep hinting at.
As I said, these wounds are younger than the rest of me
and so I think I have some catching up to do with myself.
And I wonder then if I can even keep up with those my age
or if I'd be seen through as a fool and dismissed.
Or perhaps I'll finish the treatment, content to endure it
and then when the gift is offered I push that away, too.
I know why that would be.
Something resembling the gift has been offered
only once in my lifetime
and that for only a couple weeks.
And before that, I tried to wrestle the gift away
from the physician's hands well before I was ready
and my name wasn't even on the box.
The result is that I have very little hope
in what may happen should I venture
to actually reach for the gift.
For I would be loathe not to mention
that there is another pair of hands on the gift at all times
and those hands must have their way, too.
I suppose I've come to believe somewhere
that those hands are always cold and clutching and miserly.
This, despite knowing how warm and open they can be
on my back
or simply shaking my own.
In my self-serving imagination
here I have forgotten that those hands extend
from their own hearts.
And from there my heart turns to a fear
that I could not care for such a heart
and from there I remember that
someone else has already claimed the bulk of that responsibility.
And even as I write this
the physician stands
and I think I hear him sighing.
And why shouldn't he be?
After all, I look rather silly
with my hand over my open heart
and the red dripping on my shoes
and seeping into my shirt
and staining my fingertips
and all the while muttering,
"I need the healing -- and something else, too."
I can't even say I've been driven to desperation yet.
And it is because the truth is
I could go the rest of my life
with these wounds still open.
It would be uncomfortable
and it would keep one hand unfit for service
but I could do it.
And the physician will one day take me home
even if he's shaking his head at my foolishness
'til the very end.
I don't want that to be the final picture of my life.
But to be honest with you and the physician
I have one alternative I prefer
and one I really don't.
I haven't even talked about how it feels like
both are being pushed my way
at the same time
all at once
by everybody.
But as long as I'm still being honest
I'm not going to
because I feel tired just thinking about it.
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 5:21 PM UTC
Into the forest a young man descends
A hawking nymph he finds in a hollow
Their fill of love they take, the ev'ning spend
Three blesséd children from 'neath her follow
But in the forest a hungry hole waits
Out from it comes life's fellow, dresséd black
Lurks o'er children by house's iron grates
Long and deep his pangs the nymph's spirit wrack
And now does the young man drift as a ghost
Soaked to the bone in the dark that surrounds
And now does she join with pale shiv'ring host
In unforeseen vision up from the ground
"I shall be brave now, in delving so deep
Now may you smile, may you laugh while you weep"
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 8:39 PM UTC
The door opens its **** laced
With sweat slicked hands trying
The body to help escape the
House on account of all the awful
Silence on the inside rather be
Drawn to the noise outside for
This crowd of folks the mind
Barely knows are gathered seeming
To worship almost with flashes of
Phones cameras and grasping claws
(ANDALLSEEMEDWELL)
The mouth opens teeth knock
Together like ceramic knives like
The ones the ears always hear of
On the TV hawked by the hero
Of the airwaves with all his wolfish
Nestling with the rest the mouth
Opens and the tongue dances its
Tune feeling the dry come calling
Knowing all the head should have to
Do just like the rest of them with
The neck bent and the skin creased
(WHATDOYOUSEE)
Claws are pointed to the sky where
All those eyes are strained to catch
A glimpse of what it is that the eyes
Are dreading to meet yet the neck
Does the head's bidding and cranes
To see the figure in the air cloaked
In a dark shroud draped head to toe
And its back is arched and they can't
See the mouth opened beneath the
Cloth is being molded to its teeth
The hands and feet are exposed and
White and chained and from them drips
(αἷμα ROTVINE דָּם)
The cloth undulates like the wings of
A doom-drunk dragon come to
Breathe death underneath its great
Teeth bared serpentine glee
It's like a flag hung over that thing
The parents never wanted you to
See in the attic that hides inside the
Shame engulfs the crowd and then
They notice the sound of what is
Coming out the figure's mouth and
It's a hissing gasp like it's fighting for
Air so cold so siphoned by this sound
And all the mind can think to cry is
(MTNSCOVERME)
One claw clutches a miracle glass in
Small fingers adorned with nails
Driven into cuticles gnashed at
By cuspids pulled tight by a set of
Bracing wind seeming to invade the
Figure brushes the arms with steel
Limbs come close and protect the
Core groups of followers come and
Crouch by the digital stream to eat
The flesh and drink the blood and
Toss the bones and never once
Look into the vessel holding this
Miracle glass and its one red eye
And a swirling filling thing exuding
(ζωή ● ζάω ● βίος)
Now there is a new face and a new claw
Clutching a corded receiver for the
Voice sent quavering out to the homes
Of those still trapped inside and loyal
To the dying thing called a broadcast
And the voice keeps its song above
The mind now drifting underneath the
Shroud seeming to try and tangle in
The hair is up on the back of the neck
As the mind remembers too vividly the
Time slowed when the eyes saw the
Little body wrapped in a sheet
Flecked with hematic ink from the
Impacted a small community just south
Of the greater central metropolitan area
(BREAKINGNEWSBULLETINREPORTALERT)
And now the voice is being strangled
By the deep Southern accent so
Long ago buried beneath the Midwest
It slithers from between the front teeth
Like a strip of aluminum slicing
The gums feel bone dry all suddenly
And the head feels like it's burning
The eyes sting like tears are trying to
Race down the clenched jaw and
The hands grip together so tight on
The receiver now receiving nothing
And the legs are being urged by
The mind insisting that they must
Be anywhere else but beneath the
Figure continues to **** in air
The only exhales from elsewhere say
("I think ■■■ having a panic attack"
"Get ■■■ in the van"
"Well we can't keep ■■■ in there all day ■■■ gotta finish this story")
There is one head adorned with
Shaded glasses hiding the eyes from
The light is so alien and painful since
The house has gone from prison to
Sheltering the body from all that is
Outside became so hostile the mind
Resolved to know nothing of others
Except their voices and faces until
Even the faces became offensive and
Even warped like put together by
Mad gods who turned to be false and
Only parts of the self inflated and
Pained hours turned to days of not
Knowing what day it is and now the
Note that the paper and pen are
Stillness covers them and the desk
Upon that day the mind had decided
(TOWHOMITMAYPLEASEBENOTCONCERNED)
Another mouth screams of the Divine
Clutching at the volume and only
Lusting after its tail end times letter
It claims to know just what harbinger
This figure is bringing about but one
Drop catches the forehead though it
Is nowhere underneath the pained
Being a professional on the stage the
Mask doesn't slip but the mind thinks
Of the day the spouse left the bed
Cold day much too late in the year
And now the spirit cannot recall the
Last time the Name had been lifted
Up in the private corners of the house
Above the cabinet of burning amber
Drained nearly dry one night as the
Body lay on the floor cursing with the
Body's release bringing the only warmth
("Hey, just checkin' in! I know things have been rough for you...let's catch up sometime, grab lunch! I'm prayin' for ya!")
A tremendous crack is heard and all
The claws lower like it was a whip
And so of a sort it was as the figure
Writhes in its prison in the air and
Finally straightens as if it intends to
Gives the mob something new to
Talking lowers to a whisper among
The many hands cling to the nearest
Bodies are uncomfortable with the
Contact has been made, they think
But the figure is still swallowing the
Air steps aside as it continues to lean
Forward with its back still groaning
Louder than its mouth like a tree
Giving way to the teeth of a blade and
Now the covered face is parallel to
The mob that shuffles away from its
Own horrified expression on its teeth
That show a grimace or haunted grin
(L1ANDL2ANDL3)
And now all the ears want to shrink
Back into the homes all the bodies
Emerged from when it first appeared
Because they tingle with the stillness
Now descending like a hunting arrow
Aimed at them because the figure
Has stopped the inflowing current of
Air feels suffocating now to the mob
Some voices begin to scream wordless
And some begin to shout pleas of
Sounds like desperation escape the
Mouths stretched open by wonder
Some say things like "say something"
As if the covered ears can hear the
Timid spirits drifting out the vessels
And somehow the figure's breath hitches
And some still say they saw that its
Diaphragm contracted to scream out
But many minds still aren't sure whether
They or the figure asked the question
( A A A G G O N N Y Y Y )
Are we
Alone
?!?!!??!
?!??!???
?!?!?!!!
?!??!???
?!??!!??
?!??!!!!
?!???!!!
?!??!!!!
?!?!??!!
?!?!????
?!?????!
?!?!??!?
?!?????!
?!??!?!!
?!??!!??
?!???!?!
?!?!?!??
?!??!!!!
?!?!??!!
Dec 30, 2025
Dec 30, 2025 at 9:24 PM UTC
We hear the babble
Out from the miracle glass
We drink it with lust
And people are voids
Pits for our vomitous hate
A red-blue slurry
And they are products
Paywalls, **** flesh machines
Our drugs for the self
And they are garbage
To be thrown out for their sins
To spare us their stench
[I believe in God
The Father, Heaven-Maker
And that of the earth]
And I have some friends
Who are not talking right now
But that seems so small
And there lies the Bride
Gut-stabbed by her own children
Her husband weeping
And sometimes this town
Suffocates in its nothing
Kids dying in it
And on many nights
I've been struck with the plain thought
"I need a good cry"
[And Jesus the Son
The only One from the start
He's the whole story]
And the more it goes
The more it becomes crystal
Often I'm the fool
And I've been so stuck
Thinking on all that happened
Five long years ago
And I've spent that time
Trying to prove to myself
That I'm different now
And I'm less angry
But the great cosmic joke is
Now I'm just more sad
[And the Holy Ghost
Who has come and has spoken
Through imperfect men]
And a tongue sparks flames
Til a bullet steals his speech
His widow lies cold
And kids' guts are strewn
There's a bad guy behind them
That makes it okay
And I think my voice
Is just more noise atop noise
A hellish clamor
Gracious Lord Jesus
Son of the one Living God
Have mercy on us
[And in the one Church
And that the glorious New
Will swallow the old]
Oct 15, 2025
Oct 15, 2025 at 1:54 AM UTC
(A realization of otherness)
Frenzied shaking has taken my soul
I am crushed by the burning of gold-brined teeth
My unclean lips draw back in a grimace
As I rest my head against the beam of
Some ragged torture device and get
Splinters driven into my constricting scalp
Take a spike and drive it through my temple
Into this piece of time-worn timber which
Is saturated with skin flakes from my victims
(The reception of the sacrament)
Shall I not raise my filth-clotted hands up to
This presence which is like smoke and fills
My lungs with the kind of fear true power brings?
Let there be flesh to envelop my quaking body
Let it be caught between my teeth and drape
My skin in a new raiment of priesthood
Let there be hematic torrents rushing down
To clean out the wounds and make them imperishable
To be better drink from well-dug cisterns
May 18, 2025
May 18, 2025 at 6:49 PM UTC
How the hand you extend is marked with scars
How familiar you are with rejection
How beautiful are those discolored stars
How none have been touched by hate's infection
How many are tears that drip on your chest
How much heat they hold, all stinging and strong
How much love they hold, how much do they bless
How strange that they're for the one who did wrong
How much do I ache when I meet your gaze
How my heart feels like it's all out of joint
How much does it break as you gently say,
"How could all you've done ever be the point?"
I burst my seams trying to hold your gift
A miracle hug across a great rift
May 8, 2025
May 8, 2025 at 8:47 PM UTC
I was five hours through my trip of eight
When I saw through bug guts light tearing cloud
I was thinking about clips sent my way
Of her play with the offspring of her own
Laughing without regard for somber weight
Which hung on us like a funeral shroud
Her spirit was ready were it the day
She was prepared if then she would have flown
But how it closed with a coffin lid’s freight
What tears under such sorrow we allowed
In front of his daughter dying he lay
Soon enough I’d have his pictures alone
In the light I saw insects smashed to death
“Three hours left” I said under my breath
May 3, 2025
May 3, 2025 at 6:06 PM UTC
Lightning tongue
Brother tree
Strike the dirt
Breaking free
Roots emerge
Like a snake
Snap like cords
Crack the lake
Speak sword-tongue
Cut me loose
Catch me with
Holy noose
Let me not
Plead, "Away"
YHWH God
Lord, please stay
Earthy tongue
Gentle words
Friendship won
Nesting birds
Turn about
Long ago
What's that sound?
I don't know
Dove wing tongue
Remind me
Of all that
Love spoke He
Calm me down
Know my groan
Report back
Glowing stone
Let me speak
Orphan tongue
Granting me
Only lungs
Solely You
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 8:19 PM UTC
There she lies curled on a cold concrete slab
Eviscerate midsection gushing blood
And her face and clothes are ***** and drab
Ruinated thoroughly with thrown mud
Sometimes I wonder if we're wielding rage
In service to the worship of our self
Never realizing our flaws and their wage
Tucked them away on an overlooked shelf
Hearing her husband's heart-weary crying
Ever we play the unsatisfied spouse
Villains pursuing which leaves love dying
Ever we plot to be first in the house
I guess you're right as I stare at the floor
Left gut-stabbed, she can't hurt us anymore
Apr 30, 2025
Apr 30, 2025 at 12:43 AM UTC