honestly**;
what could you possibly see in her?



"She's blonde and
she makes me feel bad
about myself. What more
could I possibly want?"

I take a walk into the parkour graveyard,
looking for Polish dealers and cellphone halos.
I heard Thoth resides in sobriety,
but words fail me
whenever you are near.

I let my tongue run in endless stutters,
disguising 'I love you' as some off-hand request.
I could take you to dinner,
I could show you a longing
without the need for ***.

This late-night food has lost its flavour.
This ******* never picked up.
All that is left is to dial these numbers,
and wait by the window
for any car but yours.

Let's take a walk to the railway bridge.
We'll smoke a joint by the open forest.
You'll push your breath into mine,
make me high,
and forget why I ever
felt so low.

Sweltering insurgencies of electric power chords
Tribal reverberations of skin-stretched drum boards
Rolling and filling; syncopating the noise
Of the ***-less toys
The ****-less boys
Enraptured in the music
The anthem
Of invidious phantoms
My eyes hurt inside and
I want to pull them out and
Scrape out the gunk and rust
that’s behind my self-indulgent perseverance
so I can cry
for the first time in years…

Wrapping my hands around his slender torso
Licking away the paint, the dripping ooze; more so
Than hastening my ****** and mordant urges
To bite what emerges
And my mouth purges
The obelisk from underneath
The iron-pierced jester
The voracious molester
My hand tightens as I grip
his throat tighter and
I want to squeeze until his eyes pop
from his sockets and
laugh until I puke against the walls,
watching the ****** fluids mix
like an execrable marinara sauce…

I turned thirty while still being sixteen
The vivid beauty of the world was only in dreams
But none of mine, none that I can recall
Many years have passed since I took the oral fall
Where no one saw
Intransigent need to live
For the snake in my veins hungered for more
So many had their way
until I was limp and sore.
Defamatory fingers of mire and strife
Probing and stretching
My insides
And devilishly comforting
With limpid ambrosia
That’s infected by bilious worms and maggots covered in icing
And fruit

Amatory gauntlets fastened and secured over
Handless limbs that retract under matriculated frictions
That fracture, crack, morph, distort
Emphasize, marginalize
Rationalize, desensitize
Acts of *******, evasion, moral drainage;
Pieces, bits, chunks, sections, portions, servings;
Arms, legs, eyes, tongues, fingers, toes,
Love, lust, infatuation
Adoration
Boys, girls, women, men,
Angels, demons, monsters, humans
Creators, gods, titans, divas
All extended and limited from the minds that worship
Sanctify, mesmerize, glorify, rectify
While humans eat more, love more, **** more
Than the angels, demons, monsters, and titans
We ponder and cherish
Nevermore, for me
Ever lore, for all
Crows surround
And chaos found.

yes,
i look like my mother.
but i feel the need to remind you
with a swift chair to the face
(i think that'll get the point across, don't you?)
that i look very much like my father.
i don't give a single ****
what your last name is
that you're my mom's
cousin
you can shove that snotty
backhanded
comment
up your ***,
mitchell.
i have no relation
to that name
despite my blood
despite my nose
that looks so much like your side
you are not one side of a family
you are one side of a war

i didn't realize
that i could fight abuse
feed starving children
stop someone from smoking
heal someone of cancer
by sitting on my ***
and applying pressure to a button
on my $1,200 dollar
laptop
maybe i should devote
my entire facebook
to this cause
maybe i'll even
start a social media
revolution

i remembered today
in the shower
that pottery kit
the aunt that now hates me
because i chose to live with my dad
gave me
for my
seventh
birthday.
i was so surprised
so excited
because i never knew that i liked pottery
until that bright yellow box
entered the scene
(my aunt did this sort of thing
a lot to me
with knitting
and scrapbooking
only those things
i hate)
ripping the box open
i found all the necessary components
the wheel,
the clay
those other funky things
and had gotten all set up
when i realized
that the motor that made it run
which was some sort of pedal
was not in the box
i searched for it
i cried to mom for it
finally
i found the box again
and it said
that the pedal
was sold separately
not included
you'd have to wait
mom'd say
i've waited
for thirteen years
and now i wonder
if i was supposed to learn that lesson
at an early age
whatever the **** that lesson was
because that pottery wheel
with no motor
and no hope of getting one
for at least thirteen more years
would be
me.

She said she liked her coffee cold and dark
like the seas separating her bed and Denmark:

harsh and bitter and brown in the largest
cup we own, so when drinking it
your nose would drown
into an abyss of cheap-coffee-granule-
buy-one-get-one-free ****;

and delivered with it upon the stolen tray,
taken from that shop's Kitchen Must Haves display,
was a plate with two triangles of lightly toasted
toast laid out like the ankles of my late Grandma
(but we weren't together then so, to you,
it just looked like some toast arranged nicely on a plate for us two);

also on the stolen tray from that shop's Kitchen Must Haves display,
was a lovely array of cut of up fruit arranged liked
canapés at every cheap-wedding-buffet:
grapes cut into unfathomable shapes
and slices of kiwi our fingers could never negotiate
and avocado which was there just to cure invisible
weight gain and bad morning breath,
but that's what Google told me so
I can't take it as a guarantee;

and in all of this I was apparently making a fool of myself
because serving you a delicious breakfast
to the sound of Frank Sinatra's Moon River
is not what we discussed, ever- even last night or last week,
in fact, we never talked about this horrendously
unique breakfast.

Happy Anniversary.