That other part of me is hemorrhaging again
You can see it if I pull up my shirt
It’s just below the scar on my stomach
Don't you see it?
That’s ok; no one does the first time
You have to get used to the idea that something
Something lives inside your body
Other than yourself.
It’s like letting the pus of an infection
Or the twisting the water out of a damp towel
Counting the minutes, are we?
Those cracks in the medicine cabinet are getting bigger
By the day
The walls are hollowing out
As much as you to picture me,
You’re going to be distracted by the woman walking the other way
Crossing your path wearing black stockings,
a low trim skirt
And a pale face that bears no eyes.
I’m past the elevators, in apt# 276—
Ignore the violently shuddering man in 274
Like an idling phantom, turning to catch you
Our synthetic blood laced with FDA-approved preservatives
The bass boosted from trunks of Cadillac coup-devilles
Synths layers—then delayed, and phased through mixer boards
Faces given masks to paint and supply over masses with
Industrial strength dream pop for Death metal Floridians
Mesa Boogie rectifier amps thrashing and impregnating ears
Scotch eggs soft boiled and left in saucers of cream and Irish whiskey
Children walking single file face towards modern Auschwitz.
Snail trails over rotten apple cores
Left by riot girl Eves
And warned by Adam O’ Conservatism
Ahead of corporate delusions of grandeur
The people raise banners to spoon-fed malcontent fools,
Hiding the holes in their teeth,
Using metal clamps for their jaws and joints
Hosing down any person not white in appearance
And pigmentation, putting the carcasses in
Meat grinders and rubber soles
The devil in the frying pan, ready to harden arteries like teenage *****
An incoherent mess of self-indulgent metaphors
Spewing from rushing fingers tips on clashing keyboards
And aching, sore, tense back muscles,
And weakened nimble fingers
From a late 20s savant or loser
Unfulfilled, unquenched, unsatisfied, but—
The time will come when we shine and when we reap what we sew
And live lives that we always wanted for ourselves
But the longer we wait the older we get,
and the days don’t last as long
The weeks fly by
And the eternal year of our youth is
but the quick and fleeting year of our age
At one point does the ambition and aspiration,
fade like our energy in our bodies?
We learn to live with disappointment
and join the herd of others like us
And praise the idols of the limelight
The industrial age for the modern American economy,
For when the night has a thousand eyes
And we’re a thousand kisses deep
And we shed tears only angels can envy
We’ll know what sorrow is
captured on film and described in books
Where literature can emphasize—
illustrate with text what paintings couldn’t
It’s a stupid septuagenarian fantasy that fades
With the vagrant woodsman covered in ash and coal
Roswell interstellar lights escaping over the 1950s desert
And the roads smelling of sulphur and shrimp
Crystallized cathedral spires
I’ll get naked for a dive bar lunch of psychosexual deviants
And Warhol-esque color coding mixed drinks under neon flickering
and horse fly buzzing
And clubs to dance till the apocalypse can edge our lust
Seek fulfillment in the retro ultra-nuclear fusion reactor made up by
Technobabble neuromancers sitting in platinum rooms waiting
for the show to be picked up for a revival on cable 25 years later.
We’ll run the blade against the grain and find that soft spot
For the blackened metal to merge with flesh
and can call itself bone when we know it’s all just really
Artificial.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 2:59 AM UTC
Out of this world and through burned storybooks
Vespers and vapors of death-rattle breaths
Turn to birth cries only mists can hear
Through the chasm of her eyes
Like dark pits of asphalt
On a rainy night road
Wet and open.
We’re ghosts to a passing plane of shifting lives
Where broken glass crunch like egg shells
Under leather boots with steel toes
Worn by long torso-less patrolmen
Speaking in evangelical tongues
And slipping
The Silver-screen silhouettes telling me sweet nothings
And invisible people play moonlight sonatas
With skin-covered cellos and djembes
Near waterfalls and deep valleys
Of green and prosperous dreams
And life.
Animals to the metropolis, Human to the paper jungles—
Controlled, creative chaos next to whimsical
notorious passivity; it’s eclectic like tea.
Where do these words take us?
Where do worlds take you?
Everywhere and nowhere
But mostly
Anywhere.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC
All is fine, on the other side
Misshapen cats and dolls
Those tricksters have it all
In empty spaces and pillow cases
Lighting striking twice, now thrice
Creating avenues that illuminate
handsome jackals that **********
All is fine, when dead inside
The furnace lights itself
From the pain I solely dealt
Naked and afraid; with complete dismay
Nothing as long as that eternal song
commemorating an epic tale
blurred by time’s murky veil.
All contrived, within my mind
Galvanized heart beats
Occupy walls of streets
To love and not be loved
What remains from ink stains?
A tongue well-lubricated with wine
Spewing quotidian antidepressant lines
All is said, while coaxed in red
The deniers of vices both flesh and soul
Instilled from the burnt bridges toll
So torn and ***** so wanting of ***
So lavishly beaten. Pleasurably defeated.
A thousand eyes poking from brick ovens
Summoned through muck and devil covens
All inside, my guts and mind.
Lungs full of American Spirits cigs
Scalped head like an old lady wigs
Birds of a feather, doused in boiling weather
Flock together with kids forever
All my exes live lives I could not give them
And I live alone, denying I miss them.
All is fine, on my side.
All is fine, really.
All is.
Fine...
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 8:32 AM UTC
Lately, I’ve come across odd characters and purveyors
Players and soothsayers of such fallacy; yearning and moral foliage
that stirs up something inside of me.
Something that is not inspiration but equally so
Just and robust—inescapable even,
unsure what the word is…
We’re all owners of a false paradise.
That warm place between life and death
It’s meant for a love one that never takes it away
or purposely fills in the gap left in ruins:
A home underneath the veins and a place beneath that as well
A prison made of tendons
With ligaments attached to heart-shaped locks—
Nooks and crannies in the corners of joints and bones.
It’s the lust for life
And the bargain for a soul
Less than zero *****
Given to while in the cold.
The realization remains peripheral
Nonetheless opaque and visceral
Painting a mordant but striking visual
That sharply penetrates the individual.
Pharmaceuticals help dislodge the jaw and
tempt the ravishing worms of intestinal intrigue
to slither out from the bowels and say their piece.
“Hi, I’m anonymous and I’m an addict,
But only by the broadest, modest definition of the term
More like an ill-advised profession,”
they say with a subtle wink in their sponsor’s direction.
It’s the lust for life
A fierce addiction
With hedonists as victims
Catered to a primal submission.
They’ll hate me; fear my desire to split from myself.
I’m an empathetic Jekyll, an apathetic Hyde.
A tainted Seraphim, a saintly devil-kisser.
One half a feral Bonnie with an over-jerked Clyde.
And when all is said and done
with carnage coming out of the wishing well
You’ll see that I am both a vision
Of Heaven and Hell.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
It’s 1:21am on a Thursday night and there’s no rain
where there should be.
There’s no weeping over the seven-colored earths
and the erosion of the skin is building up.
I have a mouth full of stumbling words,
nervous and absurd,
like wax flowers and plastic china cups;
bottles of placebos.
I have masks on the walls
and body parts on the floor.
Dim light from violet lampshades painting worlds
with minimal effort, but with profound meanings
that pretentious collegiates speak over bearded elders
while stuck in fishbowl towns, separated from the oceans of
metropolitan beliefs.
*Pulling nail fibers from fingertips with crooked teeth,
a habitual ritual christened from a darker half.
Waves of feral multitude plunging the streets
As riots of people made of fire chant the names of fallen angels
And personified martyrs.*
Episode after episode of plot-thickening exposition,
the weight of which is but a feather to the pull of the moon.
To **** my privates to a saddened resolution that’s
sweeter than a mutual **** for the sake of love.
*Penetrating me with needles as thick as bones,
Brittle as sculpted phalluses made of teeth.
Drilled out from the cavities and clamped iron
that make me grind and ******
In my sleep
out of nightmarish extremity.
Or persistent calamity.*
She’s dead, wrapped in plastic
And fountains are pouring mercury
Profuse silver-stained drooling
Ostracized from sane certainty
*The thunder of guttural bellowing
In the chasm of bed sheets,
where leather bound demons
split ***** hands under ice knifes
Muffled voices
And embryo faces
Tearing out primal smiles
Tied with black laces
In a public amphitheater.*
She’s dead, wrapped in plastic
And fountains are pouring mercury
Second time I’m seeing it drool
With a last moment of certainty.
It’s 1:41 on a Friday morning and there’s rain.
Finally.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
3am, the epitome of perpetual night.
The hour of the wolf in sheep’s clothing
Alabaster clocks, ebony needles for hands
Walking to one-second beats on dripping wall paper,
exposing the blood in the house and meat in the pipes.
I see shadows of the malevolent past:
Rings of smoke and cum-stained magazines
Lies woven into eyelashes, sealing them shut
Bleak figures made of shattered glass
Transparency, their only truth.
And dawn shows the new day
A stage of light like sweet Arcadia
The pages written for me to walk upon
Every hour summarizes a year’s worth of turmoil,
an abstract of vicious malcontent youth.
Standing against usurpers and cattle-branding parents
I will not allow the false punishments to continue
Nor the raging strangulation subjugate my woe
Sweating fingers penetrate the holes
All while pleasure and pain in endured.
As the sundial strikes noon, life meets the middle
Leaves falling off trees while amidst the winter
Hands tired and dry; legs crooked and frail
I will wipe the dust of my friends away from me
Like nothing and everything in between.
The tomorrow won’t come this time
The prelude to eternity will be a last gasp of air
And I’ll welcome the suffocation like a lost brother
And abhor the condemnations like a pious father
And I’ll think fondly of that fading mother
As the light of day segues to a haze of fire
I’ll take those reluctant steps that I must
Ravel my life’s threads into a warm coat
And I will meet you at that cold and violent dusk.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
“Lucratively tedious” is what I called him.
That odd-ball collector of street-wise poets
Bulking up the lost devil anthologies while
Drowning black coffee with wordsmith stoics
Ready to deal a winning hand
at a moment’s notice.
The carnal majesty of fever blizzard erotica,
Stories penned with the sweat on oily skins.
The curtains of neon phantasmagoria
showcase psychosexual fiends and harlequins
Sing away raw vocal cord fire while I’m
dancing with Queens of glamorous sins.
He had that red tail swinging in the rain
She watched, the emissary of jaded seduction
With pale skin and leather lips abundant
Stroking hair full of snakes and destruction
With a wardrobe fit for 1980s metal scenes
As he in turn supplemented instruction.
It’s those bedlam vices creeping through the creases
Playing in our heads like a thousand movie reels
Desired fantasies mutated into corrupted realities
Shameful like the artificial chemicals we call meals
Some things need to be ruined to be appreciated
Just Like ol’ Lucy in her stiletto heels.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
“Breathe it in
The stardust air
The lung-clamping smoke
And vile pious inflammation.”
Listening to sounds of irritation:
Humming of the fluorescent bulbs;
Shoes sticking to linoleum tiles;
Flies buzzing behind my ears,
Leaving me to count the years
And spaces between spaces
Fill the lonely night
until
All is silent now.
Then,
Tooth and nail and eye crust
Fading away to off-beat lunacy.
Her spine slithers sinisterly as she performs
With Vaseline greased hair that stands like horns
People stalking like beasts with mental disorders
Hobbling penguins and droll-ass walrus punks.
Cold liquor manipulating my contemplation
And I have moments of primal desperation
A monster suckling another monster
Bodies tangled like olive tree roots
Delicious and dreadful
Fraught and shameful
It’s the way of all flesh.
Among
Modern Soothsayers
and plenty of culinary racists,
Spraying ***** onto parchment pages
With forked tongues dancing on ***** stages
Coffee for blood and computer screens for eyes
With cool cats strutting to unknown leeching voices
Bottle-slung pistol whip hooligans with eyes of yellow stains
From chronic ink-sprayers of riots in narrow sectioned lanes
Snapping fingers to juke box ghosts and royal jazz sires.
Fourteen gypsy demons wanting to pull me apart
Showcasing trinkets and rubies she adorned
All while she smiles and performs
And the weight of the world
falls between my fingers,
Like cascading sand.
As I write,
The rhythm is changing
Like seasons in secluded eternity:
Orchestrations of sexplosions overtake the carnal scene
With hair pulling and gnawing teeth on the table in front of me
Those Bohemian idolaters basking in acid kiddy pools
Using tired variations of apologies in eastside sin city
Arousing the vortex of virtuous degradation
In a hole of sunken matchstick validation.
Eyes of judges like the public census
And taboo connotations
Rule this attrition.
Rusting
Leaking stalls
Blue-plate special
Of sprayed blood on walls
The essence of color and voice
The culmination of illusory choice
Dances of erasers and procreators
Fever dreams of police shooting children
Like movie monsters and misunderstood heroes
Specters and Banshee sympathizers
Marching to ******** synthesizers
Burning ***** blue postmen
With afropunk priests
Of astonishing feats
To whom
May
Be
Concerned.
This deep sleep exists
To mediate the social cysts
The reprimand the blundering kids in the mists
From dreaming of their world without the risks
Of falling into fields of blackened earth
Where it all burns like a first world birth
And greater souls speak of my worth.
So I cannot wake up
The deep sleep
Is there for that.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Our Father,
who art in heaven
Mother Earth,
who art in Hell.
Burnt to ash,
ready Armageddon
Watch the sky
where angels fell
Zipper-mouths pulled tight
as the Cross passes the way
Carnal masks shimmer light
As sludge engulfs the day.
Vicious, vicarious crows of blackened ember
Cawing and moaning; devilishly romantic
The touch of fingertips on lips I remember
Left her womanhood wet and frantic.
Unchained desires that surely are satanic.
Those hours in confessional amongst lying sycophants
Console weeping eyes and tarnished souls
Elected “Saints” stand tall with hypocritical blather
Condemning children with eyes like burning coals
“But virgins taste sweeter,” as the angels say
With sins like spices which season raw meat
But innocence-takers hide beneath crimson beds
Sitting atop thrones as stewards to God’s seat
Will those that fall, eventually rise?
All creatures tempted by tangible discord
Would we disobey the Grand one’s design,
If we follow the path that derives from the Lord?
Samaritans run extinct in the iron fire roads
And jukebox ****** priests play The Doors
Demon-eye coffee, dark like oily foes
I sip and read about the murders in the Moors
Devil executions fuel the jungles outside
Angels Abandoning service to kids like me
Fixers and hitters of the skid south side
Shouts from the shadows, “Hey, Nothing to see!”
Violent red dresses accompanying long limb girls
Spreading legs for daddy and **** daddy do’s
Magic hallucinogens showing circles and swirls
In faces under hoods and sky-crying moods
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
These storybooks woven with leathery imbrication
Filling my palms with vile indication
Detailing such wickedness and strife
What ethereal threads cling to life?
Such labyrinthine desires scrapping in my mind
My soul from body; that body which isn’t kind
To delve deeper within the wounds that sever
To fellow wolves, demons and toothless beggars
Unholy martyrs preach from a podium underground
Ablaze in hellfire, monsters of the ravenous mound
Black tongues and cheeks full of worms and leeches
Coals flung and burning over deafening speeches
Sumptuous in eloquence, these tossers and man-boys
Evocative displays of violence, hushed by silence and toys
Beseeched, reprimanded in city squares with common folk
Feeding dogs in heat slop with a pail and tote
Children waving hi to people in cages, smiling indifferently
Don’t they know what this is? Yes and no, forever in shame
Don’t they know there be wickedness afoot?
There be shadows of molestation
And whips of industry
Eyes removed and replaced with bar-codes
There be devils amongst the valiant
And dark angels amongst us
The few and proud
Recite aloud:
“Darkness brings uninvited guests
And our bodies are bare
Give us a blessing, a crumb or drop
Of life that we all can share.”
Veins full of rubies and auburn sapphires
Creepers laced in the cowls of cadavers
Red water thicker than mud and spit
The fatherland sicker than a rotten ****
There be dark angels amongst us, telling tales deep-seated
They be grave and weary, their lives left defeated
Now in the wilderness they give slothful lectures
But it’s only fools who listen to these rambling specters
And soon no one listens
Save for the moon that glistens
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC