In a rickety, rustic wooden chair
next to a matching table in a matching room,
one pink tentacle
wrapped around the ornate handle of a
tiny white tea cup,
the other suctioned to a page of an
antique volume of vaginal poetry,
I observe myself in a broken mirror.  
My 50 smiling fly eyes are beguiling but villainous,
inebriated but inhumane,
like black pearls of gooified obsidian
bejeweling the chunky strawberry jelly
of my veinous face.  
My beak is small like the wren's.  
My expression is in unison with my thought:
This mirror is very very broken.

It doesn't always Happen.
Even though it hardly stays still.

Some don't realize its presence


Some will never see that it's passed


Some seem to have no recollection


It's the unbecoming of a star
The deconstruction of a song.

A lukewarm pile of fresh *****
And the scattered pieces of a broken heart
Or some other wildly clichéd dross
A vague color between green and grey
Maybe some recent cigarette butts
In it are uncomfortable memories
Immortalized vindictive shards of the past
A boot print to assert the endless shame

Nothing positive is ever in *****
It's a relief of pain and dullness
It contains the distilled essence of heartache

I haven't thrown up in years
I must have so much pent up waste in me
Waste of the self, garbage of the soul
Unholy, rancid, putrid, odorous *****
Or am I perhaps forgetting something?

There is tranquil solitude in *****
Isolated, cold, mechanical self-reflection
Representations of pathetic shame
Cruel hatred in regurgitated carrots and corn
No disgust except that which the perceiver suggests

What point is there in disgust and regret then?
The ugly and incapacitating truth escaped

Perhaps the reason I do not, is because I am!
Quetzal, the drunken ***** of the Holy Spirit
Reflecting all the disgust God hides
Transposed onto unshapely fractures
Cavities and chasms, gaping on the cloth of Eden

Become as *****, lukewarm and odorous!
The purest and cleanest reflection of God's adoration

my favourite description of love
comes from a curt confession from bukowski:
"love is a dog from hell".

what more does one want to know?
if one has felt love,
and i mean,
really felt it;
suffered for it;
felt the brunt of despair;
known the sleepless nights;
the restless nights;
the doubt;
the belief;
the constant flip flop
between the two;
between heartbreak and happiness;
the will to endure all sadness;
the knowledge that such strength
will only bring about sadness;
the horror of seeing in real time
love end
from the eyes of another;
to have been crushed by a weight
which could leave you without air
for years
and yet oddly
still have the presence of mind
to look back on it with tenderness;
to know that lust and love
are entirely separate;
and one needs only a memory
to keep the embers alive.

then i believe
a dog from hell
sums it up rather nicely.

Masterpiece of a passion painted, a lady mistress of
her fairest dame; So gentle of heart, and a love
all to wish acquainted; In the trends of oldest fashion,

Of her bright eyes of angelic fire, gliding, whereupon
two stars are dancing; Man takes hand to a leading
guide; His soul and eyes stolen— As amazement was
what he found; For by God, you are His art piece created,

Yet so disturbing to my mind, as words to express have
me so defeated; Worthy it is, speaking of you, tastes like
treasure.