Knowing how to paint is key, so they say,
When to brush and stroke, or erase it away.
But some painters out there just cannot paint,
They keep adding and adding; makes me faint!
Without knowledge or a care for the rest,
These women slather on makeup with zest!
Some demonic possession is at work;
Like some creature in the dark on the lurk,
Waiting for a victim who they can jump,
To ****** and caress and um, ****…
But enough of these victims, these lost men,
It is these creatures of “virtue,” these women!
Who capture the eye of peers with disdain,
Who then suffer in agony and pain!
Let us look at this process at it’s core;
But not to the point where it is a bore!
How the blank canvas of a womans face,
Is slowly and precisely won through race,
Of multiple brushes dabbing at paint,
Trying to turn a sinner to a saint!
The fine brush used to paint plump lips bright red,
And pale powders of primer of the dead.
To seize the image of porcelain death,
To mimic the perfection of Queen Beth.
The slight graze of the check with some faint pink,
And the strong tracing of the blackest ink!
On the lids and the lash of the blind eye,
Who fails to see that their face is a lie.
But for me that is surely not the case,
For in the mirror that is not my face!

I believe in the match, white phosphorus,
scratch of Bic lighter spurting like a miniature sun
in the deadpan havoc of the darkest night.

I believe in the neon sign, blare of argon
red like lava. The invitation to come inside a place
where everyone is a saint in rehabilitation.

I do not believe in a steeple. I do have a church:
it is full of cripples carrying their hearts like a crutch.
It is full of ***** fingernails, swollen thumbs,

epileptic prayer circles, a choir of bums, riff-raff,
pulled off the street into the warmth of this fiery song.
We are all martyrs burning, like pyres, exploding

in moments of sorrow like gunpowder. God is not
in this church. We are too far from his icy heaven to hear
the cold menace of his manic threats. We are aflame,

making heaven out of the hells we were born into,
the ones we had no choice but to carry like a deformation,
but making our heavens the kind where work is.

We have built heaven out of pillars of words. We
have scorched even the newest of testaments, sifting
through its ash to divine new meaning of resurrection.

I do not believe heaven or hell are nouns. I do not
believe they are adjectives. They are verbs! ******* it
they are verbs: boiling or churning with photographs

of every failure, every success, every bruised knee,
every severed tie, every father that did not love us,
every mother who could not save us, every lover who

kissed the dark sides of our light hearts. I believe
you make heaven, that you make hell. I believe in
only the fire, crackling like skin molting from sunburn.

I want only to be consumed. The world is too far ruined
to douse this from me. Let me burn. If you look closely,
there are doves in the smoke, my bones glowing branches.

For a moment

You lost your breath

Your heartbeat quickens

Cheeks red

Sweat sweet and a light moan

And then the fire rages...

Lust is a War Zone

Clothes scattered about the room

Gentle fingers and claw marks

On our backs,

On our knees,

Hands and feet...

Lust is Primal

Passionate kisses

Heavy breathing

Bodies in rhythm

Eyes fixated on the each other

Lust for Love

A girl appeared to him one day, as beautiful and virtuous as Venus herself. As a saint he was inquired to leave her be, one could even say that an appearance such as this could be named a trial of faith, an incredibly cruel trial. And oh how unquestionably worthy of his title he was, but not nearly worth as much as a caress of her warm hand. He almost immediately let out a cry as he cursed his god. He left his eternal oath to enter the beauty and darkness of the unknown. What a wonderfully dark abyss it was.