The bed is cold when you turn in at night
   because the frigid winter winds have settled in too
   and like a fool you left the window open all day
You take a dab of speed as the lamp goes dim
   its the only thing to keep tumescence
   when you make love to a lover you no longer love
******* is no longer sport, only a chore
   and the night birds at the window sing a song of sadness
   beady eyes keeping tabs on the city boy's blues
When the day is done the television screeches, unreality television
   you're so depressed and you have nothing, not even sleep
   and the cold body beside you snores through the night
Even on rare occasions of sleep, you only dream of dying
   fiery bus brought with peasant's tokens is burning
   as it flies over some cliff face and you remain stoic
Waking only in afternoon sunsets with a sore head and dry mouth
   stumble down the stairs to an empty kitchen and the cat has **** again
   you clean the mess and make a sandwich, no topping just butter
How many days can pass before you crawl to the shop to buy food
   and you contemplate suicide as you scrape the tub of butter again
   falling upstairs in a somber stupor, vomiting after eating
She comes home from work and calls it off, packing her bags
   you roll another joint without words being spoken
   she closes the door and the already broken window breaks more
Smoking on your herbal solitude and preparing the last hit
   that sweet tender brown in a spoon you found
   it hits the vein and you feel happiness, first and final time
Sitting in some trash-found chair and reading Camus
   these are the final moments, surely you cannot hold on
   Abner Jay is playing and you fall asleep forever

the skull and spine of seventy seven men, extracted.
retribution far past putrefaction.
a pile of bones in the center of town, at the corner of washington
& rochambeau.
gather around.

           do you believe in the boogeyman?

a glitch in the darkness.
an echo of rage, high chroma bacteriophage.
every faithless father,
every sister spared,
every ritual sung just right, a brief blackout,
reconfigured pixels of outer night.

                     [bobby’s sega genesis awakens on its own]

thirty three years to the day, he
died on that suncrest boulevard, returned today just to say “hey.”

graveyard family tree and the moon.
first as a manifestation of electromagnetic phenomena
            in a videogame’s cpu. 1993.
second as a fully-fledged entity materialized via videocassette,
            hungry for pizza and pure vengeance. 2001.
third from beneath bedrock, the quarry belly baste,
            a body buried thrice, undead toxic tumescence,    
            a walking corpse heaving black plasma. 2020.

the sequel.
the son.
the spectral chosen one, he
rips out a throat or two, quite fashionably so,
a man about town throttled and disemboweled,
as friends and neighbors stumble and sprint to escape with their own godforsaken skin.
let the bone collection begin.
emerged in afterschool hallways to **** old classmates turned teachers.
emerged in afterhours offices to devour old buddies turned bankers.
emerged in the quiet dark homes of neighborhood flesh and folk.
blood soaked socks.

why? you ask, must all these people die?
vengeance?    no.
that was a lie.
he killed those people for a laugh
& that’s that.

Quiescence:
The world yet to be;
change is imminent.

Excrescence:
The world as holistic;
change is traumatic.

Juvenescence:
The world as wondrous;
change is fascinating.

Adolescence:
The world as oppressive;
change is institutional.

Tumescence:
The world as idealized;
change is self-discovery.

Hyalescence:
The world as conceived;
change is forgotten.

Obsolescence:
The world as impossible;
change is unimaginable.

Senescence:
The world as finite;
change is death.

Obmutescence:
The world beyond conception;
change is māyā.

Latescence:
The world as a memory;
change is time.

Putrescence:
The world as continuous;
change is nature.

Rejuvenescence:
The world in utero;
change is birth.

Crushing out handclaps like cigarettes
white noise whispering from each speaker
song long over but the melody lingers
codas in my mind, over the reports of car alarms
and muffled conversation
loose plastic groans of the office chair

Another clean night viewed thru slanted blinds
cold feet bare on ashy shadow carpet
smoke in the air, streetlights slit in beams
memory slips, hands type toward
a dreamlike place, some lost day

I set it straight
crippling nonsense intense
packed tight with grilled cheese and avocado
Cazadores and cranberry push back sleep
tiny cardboard boxes fill me
******* fluidity, one brown duck
among the aggressive others
that look on your face
riding a rusted bike on your birthday
your smile luminescent
around the lake and then

perhaps a beer and a hug
potential tumescence grabbed and poked
eating rusty water from an old brown glass
leave a leather letter, a leather gun in hand
garter belt memory, a trombone face
a cardboard avocado, a lost refrain

You're so sweet
I think I'll need dental work before this operation is complete
I intend to fill your cavity

Just a routine cleaning
I'm clearing out this buildup inside of me
Transfusing it into you
Open wide and say "Ah"

Tricky temptress
What's your damage
A throbbing tumescence
An internal hemorrhage
Count slowly back from ten while I put you under

Prepared for the incision
I handle my tool with precision
My IV dripped solution has got all these patients wishin'

I will donate this ***** to whoever needs a heart

All I want for Christmas
is peace on earth
(well, at least in Amerika);
a black, velvet painting of Elvis
(the old, fat Elvis of course);
massive volcanic eruptions
along the Rim of Fire
with ensuing Tsunamis
for a bit of Yule excitement;
A Maserati (red, gently used);
health, happiness and peace of mind
for my friends and children;
a stuffed and mounted Cassowary
(but still safely caged);
a distance learning course
in Alchemy and White Magick;
continued success and mastery of
obscurity, poverty and poetry;
for all the men I served with
to be alive, thriving and happy;
for all the women I've loved
to remember me and smile;
for Steve McQueen to play me
in the upcoming movie of my life;
the usual end to world hunger
(more Kale for everyone!);
a bottle of pure testosterone,
tumescence and liver disease combined
(just once, Doc, I promise);
a routine, tropical winter for Pennsylvania;
release from the burden of time,
but not immediately;
to end all my dreams with laughter;
to meet and shake hands with Buddha;
and, of course, to see you again.
Think that's too much to ask?
It goes without saying
I have been very, very good
(just ask my loving, schizophrenic cat).

You seem to remember robust days of anarchy. Heroic limbs. Tungsten nerves. Oak-like tumescence. But they may have been fictions imagined beneath dripping choppers or among Tennessee wild flowers. Your feathers now reject flight and time has pressed all blossoms. Everyday chaos directs your steps. The anaconda in the mud puddle only a curious worm. Shrunken shoes, but reminders of mortality. Where does light go when it’s dark? Why these dreams of deserted airports? Where has lust absconded? The universe looms a question of questions. The mute shades know all, but it’s difficult to comprehend nothing. You miss the caprice of logic. Confusion rains. You stagger beneath the headlines of oblivion besotted with sobriety. A corpse in Argentina guards the labyrinth's portal. Kale refuses to surrender its secrets even under torture. The fangs of women drip enigmas. Even the slugs have abandoned reason. The antennae of the night sing silence. You await a message from reality announcing the invasion is imminent. Do nothing until you hear from me. The sun shines, having no alternative, on the nothing new world.

I refuse to drown in you, he thinks as he looks once more in her tidal eyes. I refuse to drown in you again. Yet she is already unleashing her waves upon his shores. They lap at him with all the conniving eagerness of a dog's aimless devotion. He takes his last breath. His whole being yearns to lose itself in her hint of cleavage -- no, not the whole being, just the part that pulls strongest when the moon is out and the wolves howl -- and he spins under the assault of her simple availability. He is pulled under. I refuse he cries weakly, mouth emptying into the empty night, lungs bubbling vainly and knowing that as he raves he will break his vows again and blame the harlot, the *****, the temptress who mothered his manhood to tumescence; so that she could for a moment own his essence. And as he plans ahead to decry and deny the shame that this will bring he feels for the ring in his pocket, safe for when the act will be over.

i bathe myself with
the music that i alone, hear.

i heed the flinch
of my heart's centrifuge -
gyrates purely without
a hand holding it,
in a lonesome,
contrapuntal waltz.

i lie naked yet untouched,
this aloneness.

even my words prosper in
the tumescence of speechlessness.

hurrying back to
dimming light
is my body ready to feed
the wick of this dark.
traipsing the
bareness of this pantheon
is my soul,
and no one else's.
solemnity scales the stars
and transforms them
into margins to fence my own universe:

  i am the only celestial here,
   spinning in a thousand days
     of restlessness.

GREEN SILENCE

Dust settles
on the ladybird.

She sits on the window sill
dead to the world

pretty
as paste jewelry

courted by a terra cotta
Priapus

chatting her up
unaware that she is

dead.

She remains deeply
unimpressed

by his ability
to keep it up.

A fly lands on the very
tip top of his tumescence.

It's enough to make
a dead ladybird laugh.

The dance of net curtains
animates the moment.

Outside the silence
is stained green

by chestnut leaves
flirting with the sun.

You can write your life in elegies, the culture still remains the same
Some say we can make the truth or zero-knowledge from song and dance
Old and aged, insatiable and satiate our addictions lancing us on horses hedonistic
If I were a psychiatrist I'd read you, talk of zero summers, in Hebrew biopsy and medicines, a free think of hope, dangerous thing
But, soon wildflowers will be writing about you makes it worth selling, trouble bed's made and occupied by ***** and mead
If I were a state of mind, I'd be a person of my lines of stares
I write these as an essay on the highs of cultural expression, Tanks can also be a form of cultural expression
Maybe it's oppression on the fire of the year of ten soldiers on the freedom of the nightlight and lively likeness if we were searching for lost gold
It's a way we write about the memories and have free will and fears too, truant about freedom often losing courage and killing kings, queens often make out of it really sad
Rarely, raffle, rabble fiefdom, caviling censuring frenetic energy, virile yelling, on the catatonic hall in the cat in the LA Alhambra hall, or maybe souls pass in that dark hall
It is in the falling stars, into the years as they go by on the fault line of insatiate desires, burning fires in the circles of hell
Arriving in this Le suiva drama or friends in our pallbearers of different friends married to different soulS
Hangovers and everything, black and blue, white and black I cannot tell that the kitten is following in its the prologue of lithe likewise following the battered suitcases on the ways, and long ago
Something like this friendship and relations, festering autumn, seasons change and the summers brings the music of the piano man, Billy Joel
Plays in the freedom that reeks of freedom in the hallway, reflecting in the drunk cigarettes, starched shirts often come in the forum of swarth men, in the frescoed building painted with freewill to achieve
Heights for freewill and tumescence in tempestuous objectivity, of how we look at life, grades of herons, Freud's animals degraded in this foxtail, a plant across the house
In yonder tempered mental gaze, it's struggling to solve these worlds in fewer drinks and more works
Works offered their dreams, we offer the night terrors and midnight mistreatment
Treatize odyssey, riches to rags, muses can call me in my sleep and leave me out wry
Dry

His college years were coming to a close
Soon, he became aware of Mrs. Christian
The wife of the headmaster
A German woman with hips luxuriously hanging
Her stomach was slightly loose
But, so were her *******
Yet, she carried them with confidence

He noticed her soon enough
One day, he broke his arm on the field
Mrs. Christian brought to him his meals
Nursed him as she sat on his leg
He could feel his ******* grow
As her *** warmed on the sheets
Yet, such warmth was platonic, still

Sometime later, he stood in the corridor
She asked him to polish his shoes
As he looked down
He caught a glimpse of her cleavage
A pink robe inside, revealing itself
He realized that he had more than a fetish
It was a real fixation
He had become hooked

"You called me, Mrs. Christian."
"Ah. Yes."
"I am aware that the headmaster wished something from me."
"Yes, William."
"Er. You need something."
"Only to inform you, your education is complete."
They turned up the music and waltzed.

Her pink robe, after being removed, was skimpier than he had first thought
Yet, he carefully considered if the tuition included this
He didn't mind her teaching hands too much
As he tried very hard to arouse her purple lips with his hands
Growing impatient, she took her tumescence
And pushed into it, expertly
It was as if the rain had poured for years, unseen by closed eyes

"William. You make me feel."
"Like a woman?"
"No. Just aroused as hell."
"I guess this is ***."
"No. This is art."
"Art is feeling?"
"Touch my heart. You have."

When I witness your beauty
mingle my soul in your galaxies
bathe in your sweet fragrance
see the piercing tumescence
of your desire
your passion to scatter your seeds
in waves of wind
upon the earth
into the most protected regions
of our minds
I know you are a poet
who cannot resist reaching
beyond the confines of your self.

Living in the metropolis of tumescence of vast objectivity
Rabbles and roads and rolling ditches, some damsel being diminutive
Rambunctious raucous youths of roaring tigers in rearing farms
Raging lions in the rhapsody of bellicose bullish belligerence like diction
A corporeal of positively rhapsodic feeling ****** with George and gorges, protean germinus
The syllabi of syllogisms and schisms and oysters smitten truth and hidden haikus
Forsakes scientific fact and *****-shriveling act perniciously for thespian spring fixes
Invectives, ice, and censuring fornicate in an intermittent visceral vision of eternal springs
Of attainable wisdom willfully stirs the ***
Inferrable this clear existence in this penetrable mind can be called pleasant and puerile
Unperturbed and undulating do not work together unless zaftig and scrumptious like scones on summer sign
About your corsets strangulating and stifling your instincts' seceding their senses to the serene providence
Adumbrating the vacillating mind of a God-like might
Stagnancy stoking storied sullen somnambulant sadistically serried, Zeus caring and giving
Dreaming is a pain, dreaming is a chain
But, not in a maiden's caregiving nature
It isn't rudimentary to eat at each letter of this basal dictionary, as words expand in the context
Like the word is word, so spread it and mean it
Just like your legs, just to make sure that the words don't hurt

It's a bit of laughter, that goes a long way to just you
If it comes as no surprise, it goes a long way if we, you're you
Looking for canvases of fruits, and tapedecks of Japan, dying pretty hard
My life's in misery, but, I don't what, does it fear to live?
My life's in inescapable fear, and I don't know what it means
Oh doctor, tell me why will my thy will open to the eye of sun and heaven and earth, red earth I'm bleeding out in these rags forlorn for the lost feeling
Hold my high hopes, in the kite running skies that leave my thoughts dry as long as the picture is finding innocence in your reasons, two simple reasons why this in spells of manic depression
Trapped in a young man, and old and dead that spurs madness
Doesn't the piano chime with the murderous hope in my skullduggerous soul, I don't deserve this madness
Dreaming up of skulls, suddenly realizing the death of thine light in my eyes very dubious, beyond false compare
He said I'd just write you free-prose poetry, but, I'm looking for another letter of the Hades Gate, who heard him leave
I'm blowing in the wind, but, I'm drowning in madhouses
Raging with innocence, innocuous and capricious caveats, and talk of the passion without immediate conscious experience
I'm a body without consciousness, and I hear you in the starry skies of your loveless dust ordered in the years of rag ***** and talk of artichokes artistic, chokes me to tears to see what we've become
In a generation of hysterical madness, and I saw the best minds in the yearly bestsellers written by droning bickering pretentiousness, looking for childhood, they found their flickering peace in their cooked up courage in the collated document of liverwurst and hog tails that promised the empty soul to offer its confusion in a soup of surly murmurs in this silent sky, what ideal do I love to choose, adding two and two?
I'm forgetting everyone when I realize I should have forgotten them a long time ago, in the centuries that repeated in the song
Dancing with repetition, in the mayday of restoring heaven
How about I tell you that I couldn't talk to my doctor?
'Cause **** was the disease
How about I tell you, that my house smells, wishing it could make love to stylish artists and teddy bears with adorable aromas, fragrances of time and my mother can't read me, I just read her I write about the battered suitcases wanna travel the swirling minds of childish about desultory blues on the Ray Charles blues in
Playing in the back of a phonograph, in the corsets and flowery eyes that spell danger if I pluck a star from their supernatural darkness in hand-churned ice cream sitting on a desolate understanding of the homes of the lost souls, and I talk of the ceramic ashcans that process the changed minds
That had understood the changes, in the wind wondering what hit them or in videos of gapes of bad mouth in stammering broken lips
Drama is the art of success, and thunderous claps and the noise wants me to cut my life into half measures, and half hollow men
Some of them now kids, we are the studied men with the ignorant looks searching for the light
Understanding that a child can accept the light, the real tragedy strikes when we realize that an adult is scared of us
Sovereign in slavery, talk of the broken lip in white pallor that cries tears of emotional tears of cottages that sail in Morocco in Tangiers
On the ***** streets of hunts, and jousting verbal catatonic piano brilliant hurt, balancing on the fire
That I can't see, and the fall feels cold as hell, and the terrapin stays in the recesses of the doves flying above them
Falling into the side of the dark moon, and the colored literature in the stammering men was a white, well that's how we had the grapevine in this haven
Lend it's heralding living, in the clothes exchanged for jazz, and talking about jazz like it is, for the black men forgiveness
White men are afraid of black men because of expression. And black men are afraid of white men because of the lack of oppression, or the means to tell it like it is with their white lies and white fears of the black man sitting on a bench with his hand in ice creams, it's freezing outside...

White men fear black men because of depression, dedicated to cause and effect
Ghostless towns of the crossbones soulless towns, and following the logic that makes common sense, to avoid the ghosts of their past in the ideas that need to be kept in the past
Maybe true love waits, but, it's not my barking neighborhood
And I hate women with attitudes, and dogs that don't latch the reciprocated greed in a bit of chalk and white flame, green platitude, because happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing
Where's her mom?
She's crying?
Where's her mother in the neighborhood suburbia?
Cashing in, and cashing out without her looks of financial fickle frenzy going into the cries of the howling crummy apartment, doesn't tell when the broken tears stop before they are complete
******* single torn child, an ultimatum for no limitations if your whiplashes the dashed chair, in the undulating tumescence of buildings in howling midnight in the secret garden
Sunflower you look toward the time, identikit caress these battered feelings in that we all know that ought to be found in the hearts that have lost them glow
We are lost in your glow monarchical, we are writing writhing souls looking for offensive erosion
And defensive simplicity in oil and water
In oil lamps burning midnight lamps inscribed in speakeasies, crowded in a quickie
Affixed I'm free to taste the reality of the hydrogen bomb, the best defense is the strongest offense