I'm ingenuine.
Disingenuous.
...whatever.

Diner.
Dinerettes.
Grace me,
I'm your
favorite.

Serve me, I tip well.
Now show me your *****,
I won't tell.

God I want
To taste it,
to dip
into you.

Ochre on her fair skin.
The twilight sun paints her smile in idealistic hues
as we walk away from the music, from the grass,
from our spot in the shadow of a tree.
Hands held, still swinging and swaying
with the receding bassline.

I get caught up sometimes,
I get busy
over thinking.
I don't like that part of myself.

There's times where
I can't provide
a passionate
hard ****
for her,
and
I feel
like a
lesser man
in those moments.
Trapped in my mind,
hoping that she'll still like me
even though I can't seem to get it up.

There's also times where
I know it doesn't matter,
where all that matters
is falling asleep all
tangled up together.

Times where
all that matters
is a setting sun
after a day
of laughter.
A day of dancing,
and music,
and loved ones.

Beautiful days, dappled with love yet
not always bookended with
glorious raw ***.

Those days count too,
don't they?

I hope so.


I like her.

There's nothing quite like
a fresh pair of work boots,
stiff and clean.

There's nothing better for
stepping right into a pile
of wet, hot dog feces.

Because what good would
work boots be without
some **** underneath?

I don't need this,
it's all refuse
and I refuse
to keep it any longer.

All my beloved,
all my collected
and cherished.
They're heavy
with sentiment,
burdened with
memory.

Artifacts of my past
that I cling to,
like plastic wrap.

Take all of me,
every scrap and
every piece and
send me home
to waste management.

Free my thoughts
from the chains
of remembrance,
so that I may sing again.

Voice in my head got too persuasive.

Men that won't eat *****
are just ******* in disguise.

The color of the slow sand
dribbling through this hourglass
is every shade of pure.

A second-hand secondhand
ticks away, rhythm eroding,
yet building tenure.

Treacle treat,
tricks are neat.
Show me your glimmering memoir.

Life paints it's story
in broad brush strokes of light.
Sun rays, incandescent bulbs.
Fire.
I know colors
are just light.

While I slept,
you went away,
and brilliant light
filled the place
where you used
to play.

Inkless Inkless

Inkless Inkless


Can't write

Love is a hollow tube
where ink used to be,
but is now gone too soon.

Plastic carcass

Bite into you

You can sprint at the sun
for as long as you want,
but you'll never outrun
your shadows.

An empty fortune cookie.

I didn't want to eat it anyway
but now I feel like ****,
just crunching it up
and throwing it away
without even being told
my ******* lucky numbers.

30 M 5'8" 160lbs

Don't really have my **** together.
Live in a small apartment with drop ceilings.
Still **** the bed occasionally.
Borderline alcoholic.

Rolled the dice on a **** the other day
and I **** my pants.

Balding prematurely.
Emotionally unavailable.
Intimacy issues.
Afraid of commitment.
Vape constantly.
Currently ******* my Fleshlight twice a day.

I don't fold my laundry,
just dump it in a pile on the couch.

Can't cook,
clean occasionally.
Brush my teeth once a day.
Pretend to be a writer to garner attention.

Outwardly come off as brooding and intellectual,
actually just endlessly introspective.
Have no valuable skill set,
will not be able to provide.

I have curtains,
but they're really just leftovers from my ex
and now I use them as fancy hanging napkins.

Bad case of foot fungus.

Terrible with money,
impulsive and predictable.

Generally lethargic but still skinny
due to malnutrition.

Looking for a woman to love me then leave me,
fulfilling my endless cycle of self-pity.
All in all a total man-child with little to offer.
Hit me up, prolly not doing anything.

I can't,
and furthermore;
I ain't even want to.

Dance, hum and sing.
Something about rings.
Teak, teal, topaz.

I can't.
Don't ask me
if I can.

Don't ask me
nothing.

I'll touch your blue jeans
without consent.

I'll slide my hand up
the back of your leg and
really dig my nails in.

I'll use both hands
to pull you apart,
to draw you closer and
up against my heart.
Up against my chin.

Shirtless,
skin to skin.

You'll be starved for breath,
I'll be just starting to begin.

Our pace
will race
and together
we'll sin.

Heartbroken I'll ponder
our little origin.

A fashion show,
a shared love of expression.

Come and
come again.

Ahh, that sweet familiarity.
Effervescent glugs of flowing amber,
laminarity long forgotten
with this well-practiced wrist.

Some still spills,
occasionally.

Sop it up with a sleeve,
or one of the *** laden socks
on the ground.

Don't come here,
the door is locked and
the person within
is no longer
the person you remember.

Though he's always been here,
waiting to swim.

He floats atop the gallons of flowing amber
that I've been trying to drown him in.

Smiling his bitter smile,
bearing his knowing grin.

Circlet of yellow petals
ringed 'round a freckled face of seeds.
Auburn and rose gold,
ever-flowing rivulets of green.

My flower smiles in the dawn,
when the new light touches
and drapes her in radiant balm.
She's always smiling at the sun
with nary the slightest whisper
or hint of an obfuscated qualm.

That fickle sun never says goodbye,
and even on moonless nights
she turns to face the eastern sky.
With her eyes full of the stars above,
she knows that tomorrow will come
and carry with it a brand new sun

to once again set her sights upon.


My sunflower
shining so true,
I know why
I love you.

Give me the frigid,
bless me with
sacred cold.

So that you may curl up against me,
and I'll not be
too hot to hold.

I'll rake my fingers through the loose dirt,
the gravel and the disintegrating asphalt.

I'll sift it
in search
of what's
been lost.

Dropped, slipped through
my buttery mitts.

Squeeze the stones.

I can hear my heartbeat in my teeth.
I can feel the sunshine on the nape of my neck.
I can taste the dust of desperation,
it dries my tongue to a raspy strip of jerky.
I can smell you here. Coating my lungs
like a plague.

Exhale.

When, at night, I'm alone with
chapped dryness on my lips
I close my eyes and just imagine
you giving me a Vaseline kiss.

Grab me by the beard
and tell me
to get my ******* **** together.

Ah,
uncaptured thoughts.

There's seldom a prospect more frightening to me,
thus I don a notebook & glorious pen
as my sword and shield
with which I'll tirelessly defend
my ever wavering memory.

Met this broad on tinder,
she told me that she was hesitant about dating
due to the fact that she just got out of
an abusive relationship.

Sounds like just my type of gal,
I wonder how her relationship with her father is.
I'm salivating now.

I sympathized with her, and said that I too
had just gotten out of an abusive relationship.
I recounted the story about how, after two years
of daily emotional and physical abuse,
my ex had at last found the courage and support
that she needed to finally leave my ***. That ****.

The waffle god never taught me to swim
through his crashing waves of authentic maple syrup,
and my butter pad hat slowly begins to melt
and blind my eyes
as my thoughts run fiery hot
with pulsing liquid rage
for the contempt I have
about this futile trial.

I'm happier dead and drowned
afloat face down
atop the vast, vacuous,
and viscous liquid sugar
that has thoroughly coated
my lungs and my throat.

Have you got 600 grand
invested in Haliburton?
Or maybe Raytheon?

I do. I support war.

I love war.

More war, more money.
I'd vote for Cheney
if I could, but
a vote for Harris
will have to do.

Governor Shapiro is signing bombs,
he should sign every bullet.
If his name doesn't fit
he can shorten it
to "$"

The whale carcass of our country
is still warm to the touch,
but we will feast upon it
until there's nothing left.

Our bunkers will be our tombs,
lined with dollar bills,
soaked with blood.

I want war with Russia,
all out, no more proxies.
Save the remnants of Ukraine
and send our children instead.
I want war with China, war
with Korea.
I want war,
I want more,
I want money.
I want to watch the night horizon
ablaze with future archeologist's delight.
Vote for Cheney with me.
Vote for money,
I want MONEY.
I WANT MONEY.
YOU SHOULD TOO.

Popped a zit
right there on my head.
I went too hard
and it bled, and bled.
Wish I could've
ignored it instead.
But my face looks okay
with a touch of red.

Long live the life of unread books,
the life of collections and trinkets.
Perpendicular to how it should've been.
Parallel with everyone's honest expectations.

Forever glean nothing, but appear learned.
Forever clean, something is clearly earned
by this claim so staked in naked dirt,
dirt comprised of crumbled aspirations
and so many pettily wasted tomorrows.

So,
so many.

"Whomever I was in my past life
must've been a complete and total ******."


                                          - Me in my next life.

Halloween was yesterday,
Thanksgiving is tomorrow,
and next week I'll be dead.

There is something
inherently unattractive
about a woman
with a high number
of ****** partners.

I will judge you
by your body count.

I'll be turning 34 this year too, and I feel it. It feels like a calling, like a proverbial mother ringing a triangle hung on the porch calling me in for dinner on a hot summer night spent hitting lightning bugs with a wiffle ball bat and watching them light up in an arc as they fall to their death. I turn to look towards the warm hue radiating from the house and know that it's time to go in for dinner, but on my walk to the front steps I keep desperately searching for something worthy to distract me from going inside. Something to make this perfect night last just five minutes longer, something worth looking back for and... I don't see a **** thing. Every step I take I keep passing by interesting rocks guaranteed to be hiding all sorts of fun bugs but as I walk I kick them over only to find vapid nothingness. I miss my friends as I climb the first step, with my hand on the banister I look over my shoulder and glance behind me but only see blackness. Everyone else has gone home, and it's just not the same without someone to spend the time with. Friends to paint the canvas of my memories. Just nothing. As I step into the house I realize that this is actually not that bad at all, even though Mom is gone and Grandpa and Dad are gone too. I walk over to the kitchen and grab a pan, fry up some eggs and bacon. "Breakfast for dinner again?" I hear her voice tease me in the back of my mind and answer audibly with a smile "of course, you know I like switching it up." I eat dinner at the kitchen table and google my local trade unions that happen to be taking apprentices. IBEW? International brotherhood of electrical workers huh? I finish off the last of my dippy eggs with the toast I made as I fill out the application, apprehensive at first and then welcoming the questions. Satisfied at how simple it was. A glance at the half-drunk bottle of whiskey on top of the fridge, followed immediately by a peek at the overly-full recycling bin filled with empty bottles.

Wonder where
The clocks lead.
Sunsets? dreams?
Dewy grass underfeet?
Wonder where
The clocks lead.
With fervor, so desperately
Racing home to laundered sheets.
What lies unknowingly beneath?
Pondering what it all could mean.
Wonder where the clocks will lead.
See the dancing silhouettes stretch,
Like inky putty pulled across the street.
The sped up sound of wilting trees,
The hushed whispers of falling leaves.
The hands of time hold us all between
What once was, and what has yet to be.
Wasted, watching these ticking machines,
Wondering where these clocks will lead.

This bottle's been pressed
from two separate halfs.

As is much in life.

Love.

Teamwork.

We're all just as bound together
as this bitter vessel of liquor.

Just gotta pay less attention
to the seam,

and focus more on
what's inside.

The sharpened edge of light
Cuts through lofty clouds,
Like a bite taken out of cotton candy,
And shines with a boding, ochre imminence
Of the day that's to come.

Breath comes out
In puffs of coiling steam,
Is this reality
Or is this just a dream?

Reach for a hand
Passing by in a stream,
Do they need help
Or are they at peace?

The blunted darkness of night
Bludgeons the solemn crowds,
Like a buffeting storm of sand,
And it washes away all innocence
To expose what's been done.

Sure he always walks around
with his head hanging down,
but I'll be ****** if
he doesn't find the best stones.

Isn't it always a sonuvabitch,
When someone takes the wind out of your sails?

My uncle hung himself in twenty-sixteen.
At that time I had been thinking about suicide
For maybe three or four years,
And when I had heard that he went and actually did it
I remember feeling so irritated.
I remember thinking that he stole my thunder,
He went and crowned himself the selfish King
And I was left being the Prince of ******* nothing.

Suicide had been my fall back for awhile,
It offered me a certainty that I couldn't find
In my day to day life.
It offered me a sense of control.
When I couldn't sleep at night
I could just remind myself that
No matter how bad things seemed,
Or how massively I ****** up my life,
That I always had a way out.
I always had that escape hatch.
It was calming imagining the cold circle of a barrel
Pressed into the roof of my mouth,
It soothed my existential dread and
It gave me a swaggering confidence
That I wore like a cloak of indifference.
Nothing mattered,
I didn't give a **** about anything.

When Mike hung himself I spent the following weeks
Living with my Aunt, and my two cousins.
A new widow, and her children.
I lived there and helped her make funeral plans,
I helped in any way that I could,
And I watched the aftermath unfold
Like an emotional tidal wave.

I used to think about commiting suicide
To help me fall asleep.
Now I just think about my family,
How much I love them and
How much they love me.
I sleep like a baby.

Tommy said
"everything changes"
when I tried to bring up
the good days spent drinking
up in Sheppton at Vince's bar.

Back when it was still Vince's
and I was still mourning a life
that I didn't even enjoy living.

It didn't matter though,
I would've mourned anything.
Any reason to drink
was reason enough for me.

I looked over at Tommy
and we shared a moment
of remembrance
for those ****** up nights.

"Everything changes, huh?"
I said, raising my eyebrows.
"It has to,"
he replied
"otherwise we'd all still be the same."

He finished his beer and stood up,
turning up his collar and pulling his paper boy hat down
he left without saying goodbye.
I turned back to face the TV, wondering.

Wondering what was going to change next.