I've dated an artist for over two years
of headaches and yeast infections.
He's skinny, hairy, and the pointdexter I never knew I wanted.
I never wanted a man
to pin me to his wall as some temporary masterpiece.
But life comes and
kills us into what it wants us to be.
Every time I say “Let's stop”—
I shake my mind like empty soda cans
and roll over and take him again.

My trouble is
I love getting ******.

Though we call it something else, truth is
I am his *****. It's an artistic statement
that's been done a million times over. But he needs me
to tell him he's brilliant.
And so, I bury my cheeks into his chest fur.
Feeling its scratches like a returning stray at the door,
As he twirls his finger around in my mouth
romancing me into
something lovely and agreeable as Zooey Deschanel.

I hope one day I can break away and
just be

my own ***** again. But for now, I walk on all-fours
bent over in sharp-submission
and it's

delicious.
For we are nothing more
than two hungry dogs, running back to each other
panting and stinking
through the pouring rain.

I know we may never be one of the dream people
who make their faces and words, world symbols.

writer, actor, 
filmmaker, photographer:
These are things we say we are. You and me.
We need no one to define us. 
our minds keep and align us 
cozy in our deception like wigged-out mothers. 
But we need others to believe that we are what we are
in order to make us reality.

An artist without proof is an empty box.

And we go unfed, 
though we ache like ***-hungry puppies.
Unable
to do a **** thing, but weep,
yearning to **** on a whopping heap of the good-life.
But we go
unfed.

Early twenties, and we're burnouts already, you and me, 
about the meaning of life and the government and *******.

We met in college
my adorable Humanities degree
cupped in hand with his.
We found solace 
in our disappointment because when we kiss
our sadnesses take root into each other.
So our rough, restless, god-angry loving
never stops
metaphorically, that is.

His desire puts me in a box, and he comes in with, 
and we talk.
My desire sets his box full of flames
so he can climb out, and get free again.
But he knows life puts us all in a box 
and you have to do things people want
in order to win the green paper you got just to keep
that box. One day
I hope to live in the same box as him.

Until then 
I'll be in a foreign land, passing out the alphabet and bandages
and ignoring the world of green paper, 
as I live in a box without a lid.
And, as the hot rain drops, my brain makes a fist
and I picture him.

We are now becoming quite a beautiful film, you and me
as he keeps his longing fastened up to mine 
like a pair of overalls.

All the books I needed to write since I was seven years old will,
kills to say, 
never happen, quite possibly.
But still
I am attempting this thing, this poem 
for you and me,
because
of the feeling inside to throw buckets of paint at the door.

The feeling I get at 2am 
to cut holes into my fingertips
in order to string out an art piece from them.

The feeling that long, sunny Sundays give
to drink tea and wine and go canoeing while
a novel ***** out of me like a bleeding baby.

The feeling I always forget to jot down
after being ***** or mugged or misjudged or beaten to bruises 
when everything is as painstakingly raw and red as poems 
are wired to be.

The feeling that comes when it's just us, 
he does things to my body that makes it crack into smiles
fantastic enough, it can't help but shatter like a mirror
all across the floor. You and me.

We exchange our hearts like gifts, and they are 
empty boxes.
And it's all

I've ever wanted.

She hates

The degradation of being the *****-cow.
Breast-heavy, down on the ground, floppin’ from side to side.
Chained to the stall, moans and groans popping out of the throat.
The face tossed like trash, whamming into the wall,
spit dripping down the chin— now again, her
pink, plump *** in his hands,
and him, the sweaty, ****-monster beating and eating her up like a cookie.
It’s a—
bad dream. it keeps coming
Back. it feels
Filthy. Filthy. Filthy, and
                       razor-axe-sweet.

in stirrups. first time.
He approaches, promising
to move his fingers around gentle
I feel a dark rain crying
in my stomach.


I ask if it'll hurt, he says a bit
of discomfort. the instrument
thumbs up into me
like an alien tap.
What if he slices something?
The point is not that he won't but that he could.


He tells me to spread my legs as wide as shark jaws...
It is his business to see everything. But I don't want anyone to
document that I am not head-to-toe gorgeous-smooth
nor a fresh nature slice of honey and flower petals.
I am making a big deal but can't help but
feel like black mold in spaghetti sauce.
My ****** sits in a forest
like a lumpy, tree stump.
It is ghoulish pink-purple  
against his medical hands.
It sits like a slug, just terrifying
in the cold air.
Glamorous *** depictions popped to dust
like a scary, fat balloon.


After the exam
I feel as though I am covered in paint.
I walk the jungle streets home
People dashing and crashing in spins,
all squeals and barks.
eating and ******* side-by-side in restaurants
men spraying their salty juices, women spraying theirs
it makes me sad but I can only see them as animals
sealing their nasties behind cotton.
Why can't I remember what it feels like
to be a precious, little girl again...


I let out a cow's moan
It's been a while since
I've known that I am a diamond.
my fur and dirt along with my baby-heads for *******
and genitals all a gush
swinging and sweating about
under the probing sun
of God's unfeeling expression.

I wish I was a cigarette
so she'd have a reason to stick me in 
her mouth.

She'd **** me down hard like water.
Put me in, take me out, put me in, take me out,
always back in 
her warm, pink
mouth.

I'd take the fall to hell just to have
seven minutes of her
inhaling me in like happy poison,
disappearing softly
inside of her,
and her, still craving
me
                             long after.

You shove yourself inside of me (though we do not fit)
You, the intruder
take a big, black step
and walk right into me.
You surround every wall. I can’t escape this place at all
because I am the place.

I feel time stretch...

You leave just as hastily as you came in—breathy, throbbing, sore
You leave me empty, gaping and
torn. You walk around, then kick me off
and right now you’re
walking
around. Searching for
something more.

I feel time stretch…

somewhere I am
Laying on the ground, worn; inanimate.
Somewhere.
I can always hear your footsteps.

My belly, a pimpled basketball, 
puffed with pasta, 
and my chest, just a hoop and a net, swishing wine through.
Spent my last ***
on cookies and cakes
stuffing my cheeks in backwards
with gushing gobs and slushy slimes.
I go mad like a fat queen.
my hot mouth, 
now a thick, cocoa-creamy swirl, 
as it turns into a custard-filled pastry of its own. 

I do what I can to feel bliss among ****.
Try to ignore the flies fizzing like seltzer.
The candy wrappers scattered wherever 
like broken-into envelopes.
I feel a large thumb press, press, press
my skull to my ankles. 

Tossing chocolate chunks square into
my throat like bozo buckets.
After a while
It stops being "eating"  
and turns into a factory of into me and out of me.
In the end, the delicious part always gets too salty and 
salt over salt is trash
and nothing stays
an ****** for more than a couple 
pinches of this or that.

my body yells at me, because it wants nothing more but to 
**** devil-face with those teeny-tiny, delicious
throbbing minutes. 
I can't feel my life
and so I have to eat dinner on the floor.