Hidden stigmatas fall from your heaven
Solidly landing as a pathway to your righteousness
Running from your broken land
Broken lamp
To provide you with silver thread no more
Centuries of torment squeal under burnt rubber
And mudslides turn to avalanches
Room for the becoming
Pens leak ink over new white blouses
Draped over chairs like makeshift tents
Next to fireplaces to read
Seclusion from enormous intruders like yourself
Dusty pills litter the night table
Subtle reminders of doom once left
Left to chance
Echoing clacks as ***** scatter everywhere
Across the green felt next to the portrait
Covered by the heavy burgundy velvet drape
Whose eyes are blind to your savage beauty
You put the bell in the jar and cried out lonesome
Too many times before
You tried to pick some mushrooms
But it’s harder than you thought.

Sometimes I feel like a walking calamity.

sort of unfinished-
like a painting missing just that last daub.
Like a sketch instead of a snapshot.

I'm clothes that don't totally fit.

I feel ungrateful- often.
Smarmy and altruistic.
A vain liar.

the princess ideal is not for me
nor is the martyr

but lately I feel I wear both the dress, the cross and the crown.

Invisible stigmatas staining my palms.

Bearing everyone's burdens but my own.
When did I decide that was my job?

Who chose to put me in this role?

If I am in charge of my own destiny, why did I choose such a lousy one?


in the final fight,
I won't walk to the light. I'll brandish my umbrella for the storm cloud.

I've painted on the silver lining for others. They've eaten my words.
But this is something I cannot swallow.

Oh life- you bitter pill.

I'm tired of all these fake backbiters
Their petty tongues can't ******* desire
It lies beyond these dives and old tires
Beyond the earth and the funeral pyre
Cause every pair of friendly eyes
Contains a knave, a *****, a spy
They salivate on the juice of your mistakes
Pry open your wounds, so they can smile
This wicked little town is full of dreamers
Local hopefuls, kind souls and believers
Also known as calumny beamers
Bankrupt spirits, synthetic schemers
So pardon me if my presence I detract
Rather face the Tree than a talebearer's fact
You curse my organs, my ornamental torment
So from the Shadow, I'll never look back
Humiliation is the purest ruse
It's all fun and games until someone gets truth
But these stigmatas will turn to bruises
And from this place, I'll be destitute
A real friend
Always gathers up ammo
Incase the end comes
Guess I never got the memo

.one of the "things" i've learned... from exploring the freudian madonna-***** complex of modern woman... when it comes to prostitutes? no erectile "dysfunction"... oddly enough... it's like... two couldrons of polar-opposite subjects met, settled for the primordial object-object relation, and left, each other, to pursue their prior to the interaction: intentions... it's almost fascinating, how the madonna-***** complex would play out in my head, every time i chanced upon casual ***... without a clarity of a transaction... which: is self-evident when going to (either): priest, psychiatrists, or *******. how many examples of casual ***? what, you want me to recount the number of times an emancipated woman, wanted to do it under the bed-sheets... cocoon-style? do it with a *******... **** me: the whole affair feels breezy... you both take a shower prior, there's this whole aesthetic about ***, it's not something clumsy akin to extract from tinder... hence my choice in bypass... freedom... b'ah... the clarity of transation, i'm sometimes allowed to forget my genitals, and smooch for an hour... and when i hear of the modern "game" tactics... clueless... i have absolutely no idea what freedom implies these days, without a clarity of transaction... there's bound to be a transaction moment at some point... thinking about going to a butcher 'elps... i'm raw meat, she's raw meat... there's no chance to experience ******* theatre of subjects, prickly points of interest... labyrinth start-up builders of relationships...  i couldn't imagine myself the theatre of a pick-up artists... i'd hate to pry upon unsuspecting subject matters... point (a) i would be unable to do so, and (b) i couldn't begin to fathom the fogginess surrounding a delayed format of transaction... (c) i'm a terrible liar... at least with a ******* i can be honest... how frequently (d) once every 3 years will do me just fine... one nadir... 5 hours... i was encouraged to do two at the same time, i declined... how did i get the money? i lied about a death in the family... managed to convince the bank manager to extend my over-draft limit... 5 hours... no sildenafil... no three-some... three prostitutes? it was just one of those nights... but... like hell if i'd wish to replicate that sort of freedom among the Loki-harem... of the emancipated women of today's western society... unless forgetting your genitals, smooching for an hour, and hearing the words: you're nice... is somehow gesticulating ***-slaves? sign me up... i once had a wild thought... of applying for the position of bodyguard in a brothel... i know where absolute freedom leads to, as a man, the sinking of VASA... roulette helter skelter down to the bottom of an emptied bottle of ms. amber... while listening to something by GHOST - not ever, no since Abba - i guess a woman's experiencing of exercising the most fanatical variation of freedom... will not be, akin to this "manly" affair of, culminating nonchalence.

while some of us, didn't get a chance
to experience the sort of canvas
of life, whereby multiple
mistakes could be encountered...
and be subsequently
   made...
  i guess: lucky "us"...
regrets? perhaps some,
sepsis like
         stigmatas?
   not really:
like Kafka said,
   hardly a concern
for missing something,
when you've never
had a chance to either
have, or architect
    a sense of loss around...
today i tried explaining
the curiosity of hand-writting
to my mother...
while filling out her
disability form...
     she was caught,
when she found herself
unable to read some of her
hand-writing...
   i can't remember the last time
i used one hand to write,
i've managed to place
my hands to an ideal before
the altar of the keyboard...
why is it then...
that we learn
the french alphabet sequence...
i.e.

   a b c d e f g h i j k l
m n o p q r s t u v w x y z

when...
the keyboard says:

q w e r t y u i o p
    a s d f g h j k l
   z x c v b n m                 eh?

fancy some chiromancy
with a gypsy, ******?!

in the past 10 years?
1 date... sloppy seconds
from a nightclub,
we spent 2 hours in a park
drinking wine,
we moved to a pub,
she lied about meeting friends
for food,
            i stayed,
finished a pint...
    what? she couldn't keep up
with me...
   i drink: that's basic...
but even me drunk,
and her somewhat sober,
would not have
    become convenient
on subjects matters of
a shared interest...

don't know,
i forgot about how i was supposed
to feel when i followed up
on a meaningful transaction
in a brothel...
           feeling is not exactly
a privy concern for me,
as a man:
i'm supposed to be both
the object, and the natural
proclaimation of
the source of objectivity,
of categories, of boundaries...
i'm not a woman,
not a subject,
   and all of what subjectivity
i'm supposed to entertain...
no, that's gone too...

but animals like me...
i find it hard to force the she,
cat, from my bed when i've finally
drank my last of ms. amber,
and it pains me...
i remember one relationship,
****** me up....
i tended to fall asleep
embracing her...
spoon? is that what you call
cuddling behind her back?
always on the left side...
   i never wanted to let go...
but then i realized that
the entire left flank of my body
was numb...
   and then i'd flick myself
to the other side,
   and she would do
the antithesis...

      love's most gracious moments
are solely confined
to the cinema of memory.

two proofs of solipsism...
as a non-thought experiment...
(a) handwriting...
people are so defensive about
their handwriting,
   it's as if i'm expected
to be able to read their scribbles,
their chicken etchings...
it's enough that i can read
my own... but theirs'?
**** me... near impossible...
notably with the pulverising
norm of script, writing done by two hands...
what the hell are people expecting?
(b) farting...
   that's not even funny...
how many people can you find,
who would find their own farts
"offensive"?
      imagine a crowded tube carriage...
well... you shy one out,
a ****...
   who can stand this perfume,
the most?
   only you...
        i'd love to be a jewish matchmaker
on the grounds of:
  well... only if you can
   spare yourself to stand
each others' farts;
         what a dating utopia.

a vague memory of relationships,
something,
as vast, as it is nothing but
an act of sheepish nodding...
     to be so dependent
on another...
           to set about i.q. plagiarism,
to make "things"
mutually inclusive,
rather than keeping
a mutually exclusive attitude...
to format
          gemini in siamese?
i could sacrifice my i.q. upon
this altar,
but seeing my previous attempts
to do so...
   and seeing them fail...
i'll just stick to the original intent,
me, object, her, object,
   at least i.q. doesn't matter
in relation to prostitutes...
and have you ever seen
a self-objectifying woman?
where she can't play tricks with
contraception?
   that's what put me off...
      
   once again: sad, happy, morose...
is that even relevant,
esp. now?
           you can't get more
"puritanical" ***,
   other than with prostitutes -
two people, anonymous,
with with their faces
later like tattoos on their memory...
1066... a tattoo from my surrogate
mother, England...
   i'm supposed to remember it...
i sure as **** remember
           Edward the Confessor...
i don't know why...
but he's my favourite king...
he's just, so... nuanced in a mingling
of availability and vagueness...

loser living with his parents...
cooks, cleans...
   weird...
   and drinks a liter of whiskey
almost every night...
and the cats like him...
   and he's not homeless...
  what sort of man is he?
a curiosity,
an oddity...
          i still don't know why
these "people" put up with me...
perhaps i'm only the well
assured ******* on a piece
of paper...
         oh: that high-threshold
of experiencing pain?
   it's a schizoid "thing"...
or a bilingual "thing"...
     ha ha.... i forget which is which...
what sort of drunk am i?
pedantic about spelling...
curious about the behaviour
of vowels, in hebrew,
acting as pseudo-diacritical markers...

    eclectic interests...
but then... a focused narrow expression
of but a handful of interests...
the sort of "miracle"
that is not looking
for an antithesis of "god"
via... passing on the genes;
what was that about,
to begin with,
                 in the atheistic circles?

i began and i will end with
this observation:
of atheists concerned with passing
on the genes...
as... highly, **** me: highly suspect.

p.s. i tried, once, or twice,
to allow my cat to sleep with me
in the same bed...
   no chance...
     so... me sleeping in the same
bed, with a woman?
if i can't sleep with a cat in the same
bed?
   where would a woman
fit, into a revision?

His rosary repeats every chance
the means collect in pocket of his
well-torn jeans held up by a busted
leather belt, destroyed by bicep
binding and makeshift holes.
His meditation is medicated,
his god is chemically composed.
The stigmatas rise in elbows
covered by long sleeves in
July’s heat. He says he can see
heaven, not in glints of white light,
but in clandestine calm. In his
induced repose he repents
to the soft hum of Tuesday’s
sun, and once again,
he wakes.


A.M. Davis

mom was a radically insolvent
courtesan of the underpass camps
exploited by a grim and grimy past
reckless as the day is long
hosting a tourism so shameless
her own union set her on fire
to prevent further such mortifications
I advised her to talk to her real self
and got 5 blank staring minutes
basically because she didn't have one
only an extremely accurate echo
but she was a rebel and I loved her
kept her head lice population down
just so she could tell me the occasional
bedtime story on an empty stomach
hear now the legend of the Headless Man
once and a long ago
lived a lonely man with no head
one of the many stigmatized gentry
in the long forgotten social media uprising
somehow he could see hear and gesture
even though the neck was a pink nub
but he was hung like a meatloaf
making maidens titter at the village well
sighing rolling their eyes gasping flushed
um wait where was I
ah yes ... he fell in love
with the Bodiless Woman of course
knowing she could be of some use
it's a story of egregious assumptions
a belching sewer of lust and depravity
a juggernaut of rash sensual ambition
um wait where was I
ah right ... in the village below
the holy men were belled into a caucus
around Rowena’s oracle head
they came as the ancient test required
to run barefoot across the fire pit
at Detroit Jimmy's Bad to the Bone BBQ
the winner was a few inches shorter
from the igneous victory tap dance
a ritual purification of the sense of motion
accompanied by stigmatas and signs of wonder
Detroit Jimmy married Nub and Rowena
in a cabbage patch ceremony under the stars
wicked little boy went Row
on their wedding night mud bath
work me like your first bag of fries
invited Nub in a spasm of disorder
and they rode upstate in his Rocket 88
the road spreading gently
like a great pastry

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon

mom was a radically insolvent
courtesan of the underpass camps
exploited by a grim and grimy past
reckless as the day is long
hosting a tourism so shameless
her own union set her on fire
to prevent further such mortifications
I advised her to talk to her real self
and got 5 blank staring minutes
basically because she didn't have one
only an extremely accurate echo
but she was a rebel and I loved her
kept her head lice population down
just so she could tell me the occasional
bedtime story on an empty stomach
hear now the legend of the Headless Man
once and a long ago
lived a lonely man with no head
one of the many stigmatized gentry
in the long forgotten social media uprising
somehow he could see hear and gesture
even though the neck was a pink nub
but he was hung like a meatloaf
making maidens titter at the village well
sighing rolling their eyes gasping flushed
um wait where was I
ah yes ... he fell in love
with the Bodiless Woman of course
knowing she could be of some use
it's a story of egregious assumptions
a belching sewer of lust and depravity
a juggernaut of rash sensual ambition
um wait where was I
ah right ... in the village below
the holy men were belled into a caucus
around Rowena’s oracle head
they came as the ancient test required
to run barefoot across the fire pit
at Detroit Jimmy's Bad to the Bone BBQ
the winner was a few inches shorter
from the igneous victory tap dance
a ritual purification of the sense of motion
accompanied by stigmatas and signs of wonder
Detroit Jimmy married Nub and Rowena
in a cabbage patch ceremony under the stars
wicked little boy went Row
on their wedding night mud bath
work me like your first bag of fries
invited Nub in a spasm of disorder
and they rode upstate in his Rocket 88
the road spreading gently
like a great pastry

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon