sell souls to
the nicotine dogs
that gnaw on your
fingertips,

and beg for bone
as crunchy costs
of habit.

a poet’s just
one dumb *******
having the courage
to meddle
with words

far bigger than
any emotion
he’ll ever feel.

no true poet
wants to draw
butterflies
through verse;

we, the *******,
use flowing words
to boast
a ****** life.

cups of
earl gray,
cans on cans
on cans of
lukewarm beer;

to the squeals
of my guitar,
I sustain

a broken back/
a liquid diet.

drink the cold away
with lovingly boiling whiskey,

light up a couple smokes,
sit back

and feel your
eternal love
for
Black Sabbath;

smile,
stretch,
thank the Gods-

repeat.

my father
sat in his room
to the music
he later chose
to raise me
with;

now, I sit
in my room
with the music
he chose
to raise me
to.

even when
he isn’t
looking,

he still sees
the man he
used to be

and I see
the man I
will be-

to our music.

as my eyes roll to the back of my head,
I gain clarity
and tell myself-

“the Earth only spins in one direction;
no amount of delinquency
will ever
give you the power
to change that.”

when times
turn to lines,
and we deform
through indigenous
degeneration-

we, as the ones
that had time stand
perfectly still
at midnight,
between the past
and the
upcoming,

gave in to the
sloth, the
gluttony, the
pride, the
wrath, the
lust, the
greed, the
envy,
and chose to
thrive
eternally,

on the
absurd.

on the absurd,
with the
cheeks and foreheads,
on the absurd
with the
black dresses, shirts
and smiles,
on the absurd,
with all its wobbling,
wishes
and hungover
mourning
in the
morning.

we gave ourselves up
to be groped by the force of time,
and time ended up
making love to us,
*******
majestically.

the table fills
with empty cups,
and we
dance
until
the cups topple,
lay a new,
crackling
plastic
carpet

underneath
our restless hearts
and
beating feet.

a king
spends
a month’s worth
of rent
in four days
to get high
and drunk,
and then
even more
drunk
and a tiny bit
more high
to fit in
yet another
drink
until he’s
just fine.

imagine-
you became poor,
but were a king;

tired boots
collecting
dust,
and coins,
cigarette buds,
on your way.

the only ******
I care for
is your
**** soul-

the quirks,
the pains,
the habits,

the ways
you’d **** yourself
if you
really had the
chance to.

the only ******
I care for
is drinking alone
at four in the morning,

wishing for
something
to take it all
and make it
better;

to
put some
clothes
on it.

artists suffer
for their art,
but poets
live in hell;

they rule
the fire
that others
merely
tried
adapting
to.

blowing smoke out of
my window
and talking
to the cats
that roam around
my backyard
all night;

I want to quit
smoking
and I hate
******* cats,
but

this moment

is a tiny piece
of heaven-
stationary,

as the absurd
spins,
and keeps
spinning.

she always
eats her pastry
first,
and then
her yogurt-
the one with the
mushy apricots
inside.

I take away her
empty plate,
and leave
her
to her cappuccino;
at the same table,
at the same time of day,
every day.

people come
and go,
then come
and go
some more,

but among the
ashtrays
and all the
spilled drinks
there’s beauty
in her
consistency.

at the same table,
at the same time of day,
like that
one ******* tree
you can always see
in your head,
but don’t know
the age nor origin;

just a
tree
that you will
always
*******
remember.

at the same table,
at the same time of day;

every day.

drink until your
stomach bleeds
and *******
bleeds
and only then
can you truly
say
that alcohol
is your
best friend.

drink until your
insides bleed
and life
just kinda
wanes
between periods of
blood, *****
and ****** *****;

only then
can you truly call
alcohol
your
best friend,
your savior.

drink to
the others-
all of them.

he will drink
to Black Sabbath,
smoke,
then take
his life;

not yet
though.

not just
yet.

the sun rolls around
my fingers,
and I juggle

the moon,
the universe,

the men
and the
women;

it all falls into my
palms.

the sun burns
my hands,
as I juggle
everything
the universe ever
had to
offer.

I’ve made friends
with the half-dead
spider
in my bathroom;

we watch each other’s
attempts at crawling
every morning-

him, in any
general direction,
and me,
to ease my stomach
into the toilet bowl.

he cheers for me
as I retch
and retch
and throw up
a little
stomach bile,

spit,
wipe my mouth,
thank my audience;

he’s my
best friend,
but he
doesn’t drink
unfortunately.

and let He waketh after death,
and live a life
without another
passing.  

mine soul will rest
and I will
shell on
forward,

baby,

shell on-
asleep; yet

fully grasping.

the pastor drives
to church,
arrives by
half-six

to ring the bells
for God
with a burning passion;

ringing those
******* bells
as if
Judgement Day
is just around
the corner.

my mother
is the type of
person

to ****
on a waiter’s tray,

force the
poor *******
to eat it

and only then,
potentially,
consider tipping.

some parts of the rain
really do welcome
the plant within us
to grow;

the stem chokes you
and the thorns cut up your throat.

the plant will eventually
bloom out of your mouth
and then, all of us,
will never know

of feeling cold,
nor of pleasantly
dry thirst.

and those who will know

are to be left
alone;
unbeknownst,
until they’re gone.

a woman sells me
cigarettes
way past midnight,

and she
always smiles
at the sight of my
bald head,

coughing, as I
pay for
the same thing
that caused
my cough
just
the other day.

women will
serve you
eggs
for breakfast
to give you
all the
required
nutritional energy
for an
upcoming
difficult day;

men will
serve you
beer
for breakfast
to let you
celebrate
waking up-

the only
truly
difficult
part
of a
sad ****’s
day.

a fly
drowned in
my glass
of whiskey;

I drank it
because
I’m a filthy
****,

just a
drunk
filthy
****.

my heart is in
too many pieces-

some got
lodged into
my arms,

the others
rest in my
ugly feet,

I think
there’s a
couple
in my
head;

most lay, drowned,
in my stomach,
marinating
in whiskey, wine
and beer.

I’ve referred
to many
as my
“best friend”,
but alcohol
always answers,
always stays with me,

never
wakes up
and
decides
to just
leave
me.

no matter
how dizzy with love
the smallest creatures
become,

under the right
circumstances
the puppy
will always
attack
the lion,

and win.

the saddest lives
are of those
which
get along with
their
rich parents,

a high-school love
easily pursued
into
an early
marriage,

the constant availability
of opportunities
to try
a bit of
everything
without
consequences/ regrets
upon quitting.

there’s just
no substance
to
any
of it;
a life lacking
substance
is no life
at all,

so set your
cash
on fire-
count pennies
for another pack
of cigarettes
to torture
your poor, wheezing
lungs,

and have no idea
where your
next
much-needed
drink
will come from,
you miserable
*******
alcoholic.

a life lacking
substance
is no life
at all.

pull out your eyes
and only then tell me
what you have really seen;

pull out your teeth
and only then try chewing
on my shards of glass

painlessly.

I met a dog
that would only
feed off
stories,

we sat-
me, on an old
***-stained chair
with this dog
by my side-

and I told stories,
of new and old;
this ******* dog
was wagging its tail
at the
saddest stories,
things that
should never
even be
told.

it proceeded to
gnaw
violently
at my calf
and occasionally
digging into my thigh,
as if it could smell
that the
most
miserable
misanthropic
stories
fester under my
skin;
stories on
all sorts of
failed
things.

“this ******* dog,
I tell ya,
is a real
sadistic
****”-
I write
with a chunk
of flesh
missing
from my
side.

art has
no discounts;
it creates habits
which you can't support,
it creates
leftover
cigarette buds
which are suddenly
so attractive
and smokable.
it cuts scars
right open,
makes them
ripe
for seeding,
it rots the seeds,
proceeds to
plant them
in any
visible sore
and then,
one day,
you're suddenly
decaying.

art has
no discounts,
only one form of
contract-
"sign here
to agree
to a lack
of food
and an increase
in the rate
of your
mental
degeneration".

art has
no discounts;
yet here I sit,
writing,
because there's
no
universe
without
it .