pink buzz
listen to her splashing tongue
and my lip trilling licks
shivering liquid traffic at her delicatessen
opening wide for corned beef ****, mayonnaisy
black lipstick lips taste like Drambuie
and belch a garland of muttering burps
passed candy mint teeth and swirling lips

let the fireworks smoke the sky
as it billows and sprouts
from my rubbery ***** crystal dream
its open skin exhumed
breathing hard with a strained pulse
peering from my trousers zipper
like a pugnacious criminal
a kicking pony between our legs

before
a quick shower
i rinse off
this squeaky poodled up
dally-whacker
all wavy and bowed
like a curled pigtail

falling eye lids drop like venetian blinds
and accentuate a Chinese lantern
casting crimson light as blood linen
while a whipped cream parfait
poured out
bursting with love
at exactly
midnight in the afternoon

There's a saying
if you want a *** life dont get married

Back in the day wealthy men had courtesans for pleasure
concubines for quick *** and marriage were about land, labor and the forging of kindship for galvanizing power among tribes and feudal clans

Folks knew better than to have *** with only one person for a lifetime, like that was gonna work

Since contemporaneous studies show that *** among married people often becomes voided at least in part except for *******,
you know, when he sits up and begs and she plays dead

Aside from cheating just to remain sane, today we are going with computers who are our concubines, made internet ******* our mistress
and technology the replacement for human intimacy

I think of guys like Harvey Weinstein, not that I condone his actions and for that matter *** trafficking, both abhorrent.
Do I need to say it?

The problem is that they both along with **** remain symptomatic of a systemic relentless ****** deprivation, that feels like a slow suffocation to many. We outlaw every form of *** and the pure ecstasy of lust either overtly or subliminally that isn't either in marriage, a serious relationship or at least the appearance of one for ***** sake.

Bill Gates among other public notables has been reported to have had acquaintance with Epstein. This game changer businessman looked understandably horrified at any inference of involvement with this notorious slime of course or his infamous ****** Island.

What's more fascistic than circumscribing ****** behavior to such an extreme that people are utterly alienated by their most intimate and sacred desires and feel forced into criminality irrespective of the grave penalties. I'm not blaming anybody persa but why is it any stupider, than the express product of histories 2000-year weave of sensual and ****** disenfranchisement than not getting vaccinated so we dont end up killing our friends, family, and ourselves or thinking Trump is the second coming of the Golden Sun God.

Many of us treat the impulse of desire like its temporary insanity and just wana hurry up and get over with, like wiping filth under the carpet.   

As a society we are still victims of medieval thinking for all our apparent progress, unable to integrate the primal and social without tripping over our own shoelaces and each other's.

The way to a man's heart is not through his stomach
Make the bedroom an alter to Venus
then just go out for dinner.

"roses are red
ice-cream is cold
take off your cloths
and do what your told"

All I know is that I'm 74 and I still haven't had my first period

I go to the refrigerator
to get some food

I go to the bank
to get some money

So what if I have a gun

By the way, did you know that the good ole USA according to Salon Magazine is not even on the list of most sexually satisfied countries. Even communist China has us beat, never mind Switzerland, Italy, Japan, Spain, the Netherlands, Brazil, Greece, Mexico, India, Australia, Germany, and Nigeria to name a few. 
  
  The legacy of the Christian imprimatur has devastated the ****** ecosystem of the American Psyche.  The language used by the middle minded "good people" to describe sexuality is often an ugly cocktail composed of derisive language, like disgusting, slimy, unclean, offensive, obscene, squalid, and nasty to name some. I was once married to a woman who weaponized *** using the word disgusting, meaning my desire for her was disgusting, and I'm disgusting. It was devastating. How could that end well? These words remain a mantra of harm in many relationships shaping a marriage towards abject failure. Isn't Venus already fickle enough without calling that regal gift-giver of love and ****** pleasure an omnibus of epithets?
  
  Can you tell the other person your deepest darkest secrets and feel safe? Can they tell you theirs, or is trust an issue?  
Do we wheedle each other with deception to save face and struggle in a gimping relationship assigning it to crutches, a wheelchair, or an early death propagated by an unholy trinity of ignorance, frustration and co-belligerence on the subject of erotasisim as we clutch hopelessly to hope, wondering how things get so loused up?
Most relationships end over finance and ****** unhappiness.

  While cyber **** is accused of bringing out the worst in us  a short trip through contemporary anthropology demonstrates *** remains ***** irrespective of cyber ***, besides have you seen my stained collector magazine collection at the Museum of *** in NYC?
  
Check it out.
1 Weird ****** Practices from all around the world
1.1 Egypt- Public *******
1.2 Mangaia- Old women sleep with much younger men
1.3 Ancient Greece- Young boy lover to an elder male
1.4 Nepal- Brothers share a wife
1.5 New Guinea- Sambian tribe drinks *****
1.6 Indonesia- *** with strangers on Pon festival
1.8 Cambodia- *** will multiple partners before finding the one
1.9 West Africa- Wife stealing festival
1.10 Marquesas Island, French Polynesia- Children watch their parents having ***
1.11 Inis Beag-Make love with underpants on
1.12 Chattisgarh, India- No emotional attachment ***
1.13 Columbia- Make a man trip to have ***
1.14 Haiti- ****** dance
1.15 New England- No-no to penetrative ***
1.16 Rural Austria- Armpit flavored apples
2 15 Unsolved and Perplexing Mysteries of India
2 17 Japanese ***** Festival
  
  As for language  I prefer mango drip shake kissy witchy **** myself, as opposed to disgusting, but profanity can be bicameral too. On one hand of course it can be cruel on the other it can be an aphrodisiac. Ooow your so gona get it you little *****
Context in its intersectional shades of emotional content is everything.
Do we appreciate the impulses of the chaotic dusky subconscious that may fascinate when it comes to those ****** ideations that may cross our minds in the most private of moments Why not use them to enrich your life, or do we run from them and our primal truth? 
 
  While most all praise only tenderness who says *** is just about love, gentility, and the tender promulgated by middle-minded. Is this **** worm pathology rooted in anti-****** Victorian confabulations of the synoptic religions like tattoo ink into the psychic skin forming a deep seated stain of medieval horrors evocative of a Boschesque inferno with bubbling skin, pitch forks and melting collagen? No, no dont hurt me 
  
  In a life filled with stress and endless concerns about survival ****** expression is a sacred oasis for many of us, not another place to be told what we should do, or feel, or think, or be subliminally infested by the Piscean age pathogens as we currently remain still in the grips of the old Roman empire.
  
  Through an in depth exploration of erotasisim through ****, personal experience and literature we might know our own shadows better, share them happily with others, and bring that dark harvest to light so it doesn't trip us up in an exchange of lies to others but most importantly to our selves. At least when you hookup on a social media ***/date oriented site people tend to tell you the most intimate things about themselves up front.  

It may be important to note the difference between mere sexuality and erotasisim. Sexuality is a beautiful impulse but eroticism raises *** to the status of art. Besides *** itself I think of the athletic sensuality of belly dancing as an example.

"if its *****
*****
naughty
or just plane wrong
i want it"

  To acknowledge the shadow, or better yet enjoy it, doesn't at all mean we are devoid of decency, kindness and love. May I suggest that those virtues are so much more potent when they are part of an integrated whole of our being including the dark side. Real musicians, artists, writers and for that matter people who have the spine to be authentic don't just play the vanilla notes and neither do exciting lovers.
God save the kink!

one
two
three
take out your wee wee

four
five
grab your bride

six
seven
eight
open her gate

nine
ten
**** her then
....
commentary
Q...What do you like about this poem?
A...What I like about this poem is what it doesnt say

mountains of blue tunnels
run through arteries of rock
imperceptible blue ball in a black sea of pitchforks
float grizzled faced giants
built out of spectacular cataclysms
in pounded stumps
in eternal night
in intoxicating beauty
careen ragged Titans

their mouths
flaming windows and scorched thoraxes
with a thousand spinning eyes
burn flybys
deviant stone **** shaped meteors
cull  from an infinitude of minutiae
formed accretions   gutted pierced
pocked and blunt
******* the black mother
in a sea of the wicked gorgeous marble stars
those ancestral monsters of glory and hell

my refuge
a dancing mad woman
with lush lips like ***** flowers
thighs like oily carafes
her eyes grin spaceships
and swing ******* like hams

her mouth     her mouth
a gaggle of spruced ******
hungry hips sway
a belly  a belly dance of chimes and bells
the smoking heart trembles with art and love
the trembling mind burns with over spilling moons

bare feet tender still
like silk dances to the shake
of cymbals and drums
wandering resolute on broken roads
in rooms of mice
terrified of fate and broad thin skies
in the shapes of gorgons
that stare down    reflecting
that i may know myself and bare up
like puzzles that fit in pictures
of endless fragments
and legends of desire

oratory serpents
clatter in a persuasive dream
a paralyzed consciousness
reveal barbiturates with legs
in fur coats
that shed watery memories
caressing corralled limbs
that spin skulls and speak
in French kisses
and ****** tongues

the burning bush burns
in a global crisis
leaving a deserted Jesus
with nailed hands
clawing torments claw
though crossed planked halos
milled by innocents
and admonishments and laws
to **** with me
so I **** with it
while rafting angry gods and devils
encircle in a white faced sky
all vying for the top spot
while sledge hammering
power brokers and hells bankers
terrorize me?

before i die
my heart and torso a blood sabbath
i invoke voodoo like a witch
in dark woods dim din
trolling in a ditch, a twitch, a stitch
a spiraling babble of sonorous tongues
invocations that shiver the cosmos
and rip the vaults of heaven

only to cascade
with tears that fall
like descending venetian blinds
kissing Babylon's feet
in a turning spell on mythological firmaments
of circles within circles
burning incense
and ******* in her hair and spit
until she appears just so
eye to eye in a distant life
and i am born
in her sweet wet mouth

Sometimes a poem is a surrogate kiss,
or hug, a transmission of love,
aching desire,
sometimes demonic or angelic
or all of them
in a great swooning web
that wants to swallow and be swallowed

i ate a cookie
and it turned
into the body of Elvis Presley
i ate a *******
and now apparently 
i'm a catholic

Sam Harris

i'm as tiny as a fake something 
in the middle of nowhere
on the edge of nothing
wing-like 
with brazen teeth for grinning bites 
and the knee of listening 
howling into a phone
telling of hunger for food and herb
in a dream of diagraming sleep

~~~

she has no respect for the weak
hating her vulnerability
shrunken living in a cardboard room
stiff and dry the size of the sky
ranting tears in braids of rain
a five o'clock shadow of begging meditations
until deaths' lips formed the shape of O 
shaping a tunnel rimed in late afternoon
telling me her body is but metaphor
for orbiting angels
a fashionable estate of limbs
in apple fruited curved headlands
and demitasse islands of past desire
floating in pink glimmering heavenly clouds
licking the blue
where the emptiness of life used to be

she shimmers rainbow tranquilizers 
packaged by twos 
in shinny tinfoil marvels
slick as icicles
for the perfect dose 
you can feel in your hand like braille 

at tongues touch 
it folds into dark warm nothing
showing her that death 
has it's own special charisma
like calico tattoos
or syncopating neon moons

deaths mouth opens like an opera singer 
and eats her eyes 
till these sunken alters liquidate
and breath ascends distant from the ache of want
in the knee of forgetting
red and wet
black as crows

how do i know what i think
if i dont write it down

i cant stop talking crazy
                                                    
bad ideas are rooted in Neuro Pathogens
idea parasites'

**** worms of irrationality

i'm a mess underneath the surface causing me to suffer a mental complex which is under digested unarticulated expression

the universal dialogue of misunderstanding

post modernism is an idea pathology
                                            
okay, mental constructs and language dont transform reality                      

reason remains lost through the sneaky ****** language of white science intellectual terrorism

watch out what you say in a free society

epistemologies are numerological evidence,
a numerical network from a broad base of data
and are a work of cumulative evidence

i cant stop thinking about the way i think        
      
you need gesticular fortitude to free yourself from the tribe

i'm afraid to tell anyone how i really feel  

so many victims of politically correct grotesques
are collective Munchausen pathos

i'm my own victim but it's fault                                                    your
                                                                ­                          
in the Oppression Olympics of radical egalitarianism i'm a star

i'm so agreeable i hate me, thats why i'm better than you                            

Fascism is a
fanatical need for order, and or else

mass graves and chimpanzee politics

when your frustrated, its your obligation as a citizen to transform your feelings into an articulated argument

i hate you

militant lesbians attack male virtue while they dress like guys
                                                      
i'm sorry about the testosterone, bad ****!

we extract the logos from chaos
and hold it above into habitable order and an ideal

i have my Porsche, where's yours and no i'm not looking at
your ****, your ****, your ****                        

my truth is grounded in your frustration

she had to admit
playing dead with
scummed ****
and a mouth full
that also glued her eyelids shut
brought her to ******

a good slap across the mouth made her **** wet

maybe her strewn flogged body
and *** filled with
tampons, butter knives, and mushed chocolate bunnies
would be discovered
by some gawking men
who would of course be horrified
yet feel some inexplicable romantic impulse
towards her

a study in male humiliation

dressed in a nightmarish logic
and broken heels
her eyes glared askance
with a mouth like smudged ketchup
and a note

hello, I'm dead, you can **** me now, no ones looking

common little man
timorous mouse
with a dead end job
your belligerence
belies your self self pity

she wore sunglasses to cover the bruises he inflicted

*****, noose, twine for a proper strangle
and ghastly potions
to inspire the tears and vomiting
in nurturing waves
that always helped the snuffling up
for a sicko *** massacre
with an all you could **** buffet beating
that made her long hair
fly around like a legendary Bollywood dancer

she spit in his face

they just shared a strange shadowy phantasmagoria
with her bare naked
on her knees
*** upturned and swollen
like a piqued daisy
while her hips moved
from side to side
as if weaving a samba
where at his whim she died repeatedly
a humming *** slave
straddled on a the heavy bladed guillotine
while getting backdoored
in a way
that
they both just couldn't live without

plum plunk-ums
no placid Eden
yet as delicate as cigarette paper
always beautiful
but not without a touch of disaster
like a fetching girl with a milky eye
and a cross around her neck
a wearable god
a tiny, tarnished truth trinket
religion's armor
as ancestral glooming lights judgment
hammers guilt
and implores prayers to be saved
in dystopian lore
for priests' sake in temple prostobulaes
of hanging dark shapes wicked trace
drooping black
bat-like
caped and heaped upon each other
like runged downward chandeliers
of stalactite falling knives
in caves of primal fear

i've been reflecting on the topsy side
of feeling strong and healthy
and the turvy side of feeling
a sickly white morbidity
evoking a phantasmal contoured toilet shaped bed pan
and the scent of syringes
bathing in alcohol

when feeling better
i sleep less
feel more alert
eat lotus and drink bone broth
becoming more active
and ambitious
but with it
more demanding  
impatient  
raw with anxiety
agitated and vitriolic
like a buzzing electrical box
in a flood
with crisscrossing wires
shorting
and tainting the air  

when feeling poorly
i turn in on myself  
as if walking on my knees
wanting to avoid  interaction
feeling more and more
like a square peg in a round hole
i become docile
my insides a wandering ghost
in ethers of the unimaginable
a hanging mouth
hung on a face
like falling sand
  
i ask myself is illness
a drug
used to bow out
think about dead people
avoid hurt and stress
to let go 
as if floating through
some intestinal filaments
like an undigested spot of cheese
and a fish head
drawing closer to the shadows  
feeling the numbing of desire
and all the blah blah blah
so i'm not such an *******
cartwheeling terrors of hot air
with the language of vainglory

just a weight around the neck
of someone i love

i embrace the monsters of imagination
even the barbed wire of tortured images
through blizzards and blackouts
imprisoned in the skin 
stuck in a time space package
where all poems of truth 
are a heresy to a culture of gimmicks
-
descended 
into the inferno of matter
honeycombs of hell
where ignorance is the most dominant religion
unable to recover the pearl of immortality
we look into a mirror of our mind
staring back faceless
a portrait with no eyes 
i'm a cat that barks
pukes on  his mouse
and licks the blood in the cream
like a midnight movie in hell
where we die in installments
mortality being merely 
a vertical management administration
in a graveyard **** town replete 
with broken whiskey bottles 
and stained weathered paper cups
where the drunk sleep on newspapers
like a roof of bones over the dead
-

ashamed
with my groaning corpus
but can you smell odor of purple
swimming though the devil's skull
her painted body like a bamboo cage
incensed heart
my fluttering nightingale
with hot eyes
beguiling in a bucolic skirt
toe dancing in cross word puzzles
of enshrined desire's red stain
in a succession of ethers
deliriously famished for life
yet somewhere between
the unborn and the undead
nature's filthy discord
like Icarus reaching the sun
a lewd vampire smeared in crimson droplets and ash
under a funerary cross, shadow-less
and moaning for love
licking a blood axe

Eating the chocolate bunny
staring at her own bare wiggly rainbow toes
she sat on the toilet with a red cherry lipstick mouth
humming television jingles about nothing
but ketchup-logged White Castle bacon cheese burgers
and amino acids as she called in imaginary air strikes
on toy cycloptic pigmies who  lived in an aqua blue rubber tub on the bathroom floor by her feet  filled with toilet paper rolls, Vaseline, face cream a folded rubber enema bag and a half empty bottle of Luxardo Cherry so she could take a swig when ever the stars moved her.

She swung her hips, like a ****** as if in the substrate of disco hell
wearing a cheap red party dress only to be forced down on her knees to take it hard and walloped until cross-eyed, frothy mouthed,  and grinning
at brawly tattooed men that stank of whiskey
terrorizing her with titillating thrills
as if her body were their fun house and amusement park
of loopty loops and Ferris wheels

All make believe of course
in that little damp cubby hole fantasy of sweet curves and wet holes marked Venus-dreamscape-come-****-me-land

"if its *****
*****
naughty
or just plain wrong
i want it"

What I don't like about poetry is how the poet often hides like a starved bleeding child under the skirt of civility.

blood on a sugar cube

Too often a kind of Zen of saying something without saying something. Do you think that's subtlety?
Anyway let's face it we are all rather ****** up and some of us try to hide it and a few, very few, of us own it, and some of us have the audacity to celebrate it.  If you're that brave you may be a Satanist.

pants off dance off

We'd write our guts out. Force our readers to gobble up our penned intestines and rub their genitals in them and if they didn't we wouldn't give a flying ****.

a woman who writes feels to much

We might study the art of the spell and the curse. We might **** our sisters girlfriends, as many as we could, or our mothers, or our fathers unless you were given to ****** and then know what it is to be a sick **** and laugh our butts off about it, knowing thats how god actually made you in his divine infallibility.

a man who writes knows to much

We might know our own shadows and bring that dark harvest to light so it doesn't trip us up when we think we've persuaded the so-called good people with those among us who are  good too in an exchange of lies.

flowers from hell

To acknowledge the shadow doesn't at all mean we are devoid of decency, kindness and love, but may I suggest that those virtues are so much more potent when they are part of an integrated whole.

Just sayin, if you died tomorrow I would eat your corpse but why wait?

a shape of language
for the secrets of the body
for the secrets of the mind
in the flow of matter
physical and etheric
cyber chronicles of ambulated hunger
the cult of the body

spontaneous kinetic orality
to ****
to lick
to consume
to give comfort
to luxuriate  
collapsing into the other
the scent and circus
of heat and breath
we slip away
each other a sanctuary

rhythm as vertical   
deep in the ****
the *** of the *** shape shifting
into a wet mouth with vermillion lips
and long tubular slick throat
till the gag and the gag and the bulging
bloodshot fire red gag

the body a moldable matter
the spirit a flame
in a palpable momentum
the cult of transmutation  
the cult of perceptual alteration.
The pornified vision  
a restoration of the physical
the demise of ritual
in a pathological dimension

the sanctuary of ****
**** and mouth
gods mouth is her mouth
gods *** is her ***
gods **** is her ****
and gods **** ***** all
when we are bent low in prayer

leaning through the braille
of your scattered whispers
i make a house to worship in
a house of blood and flesh

Is poetry mimicking the ruling culture class or does it touch the chaotic genius only the subconscious can render like anti-themic slanting word music?

Is poetry novel or intimate like a small boy in a fluttering dress or seen through the lens of social justice, of documentary, of collective resistance, or perhaps the propaganda of public iconography, and imperialism in it's lock step with the prevailing dogma trend lines?

Is the poetic form collapsing like a screaming mouth in a mildewed universe of prison-like isolation, Pandora stripped of her consecrated darkness and without her box?  

I'm in search of a sacred space where language serves the psyche without artifice, and pothole parentheticals that make plain the difference between the conservative public conversation and true innerness so that we see through each other like thin water stained cigarette paper and big doll eyes.

i write my poems with a torn tongue
of Freudian slips
in dark rooms of naughty language
that stick like fly paper on trespassing filigree wings of contagion  
where i remember the whole history of poetry
like a pageant of painted bride runway models
which i have culled
from the of blood of recognition

                                    blackout

a ghost from the underworld
i awaken to life in ecstatic perception
below shimmering celestial equators in a world of endless war
booming noise and scenic fruited braids of blurring tears
as enemies try to fill each others bodies
with spores and yardage of bladed body parts
in riddles of flesh
towards eternity as obsession becomes horror in an empire of rage

                                your gonna get such a slap

where justice and power forever suffocate each other
in a phantasmatic struggle both born to intermittent death and renewal in some contra parallel juncture of back and forth
where burning floors
thresholds of disaster
sprinkle embered words from hinterlands of excrement
giving birth to sagging hearts
and broken brains vignette on skeletons of wire and shining eyes
staring    staring    staring
through muffled pinhole pupils
staring black

                                eyeballs whistle

thank God i'm ****** again
and driving the white car in a crescendo of halos
slinged back fantasizing mythological ***** dreamgirls
and the food they cook in their wet *****
of melodious love and bedroom splits

                             Venus gone mad

and then i turn to puff smoke poem jazz
singing with opiated mouths
grinning red Beetle teeth
while driving through immortal clouds
of wish bone shaped pole dancers
with burning button hole eyes
spinning in horizontal love and death
blue pineapple aspic rhapsodies


                                *i'm your ******* daddy

It's a terrible thing,
I know a beautiful young woman who harms herself with a razor.
Butter and toast.
It's a terrible thing.
We kiss a lot as she bleeds.
And yes, oh yes,
It's a terrible thing.
Blood flows down her breast onto the soft curves of her ivory torso
To mix with my sweat and raw kisses.
It's a terrible thing.
The white marble goddess arches towards my mouth
Stone wheels sharpen the blade.
Her lips - red stains.
It's a terrible thing.
Blood in spiderwebbed rivulets fall.
She burns a smile like talons into my skull.
I'm bought and sold in the house of a tortured Venus.
Alley of torment and ecstasy.
Dracula licks her jewel box glitter and drinks her till whiskey blind.
A ******* mad hatter.
It's a terrible thing.
Please stop, I say heavy with longing.
Which drives her on as one wound begets another.
In this laboratory of sanguine obsession.
My voice - musical bones like xylophone tones.
And oh My God.
This filler that cleaves to emptiness.
This finger of the void - black angels.
Her grin upon me like the Ta in ******.
A merchant of desire whom I love darkly.
This ponderous monk black night of red children falling from mother.
To be savored.
I dive into her red.
My mouth wild cherries and rushing fire.
I am dragon's teeth and tongue lapping.
All cleavers and kisses.
She smiles spreading in a bed of red gauze.
We are good people.
And oh yes, my sweet.
It's a terrible thing.

I've been watching you
apes head with up-do crochet braids
troglodyte  
noxious slurry of galactic form
terminus *****
fitting into a girdle
into a straight jacket
into a girdle
showing off your chastity belt with thumb screws
that hangs down to the knees
like after birth
and strangles by an ironclad umbilicus contract
yet never pure enough
like peroxide teeth  
a screaming lady without the hot sauce
canary class in a bush of flies

happy happy happy is your dreary halo nausea

slip and slide in the Pidgeon put
already bought your ticket to forget
a diabetes queen dreaming fountains of blood
licking the sugar off a powdered donut
with your flatulent tongue
stretched and hung out like gutted shoes
rolling arctic brown
a breathing hull
cold like a Christians crotch

happy happy happy is your dreary halo nausea

she looks for a penny oracle
in jelly bean *******
with a ponderous faith
of paper house souls hugging abstracts
blinking pig iron eyeballs like snarling dogs
and privates
shaped muscle waisted
that beats itself black and blue
shrieking you touch it you bought it
hook line and sinker
with a sign
marked commitment and of no use  
fire exit only
but dont use the stairs

you're a mental case because you know
if I loved like you
I'd **** myself

happy happy happy is your dreary halo nausea

the lost troglodytes
and their cockeyed deliberations
a case of mistaken identity
and a rattled recalcitrance

radio ears and tv eyes
in a fever of nonsense
which i filed under who gives a *****

We live in a cyborg democracy  
Social media manipulates the weak minded to structure ignorance using weaponized algorithms of deception.

i sometimes drift into
memories of love

          illegible conciousness

oh Venus
my sweet *****
you're never easy
always mutilating
those archives of the heart
with their inky Rorschach's
and blood drop tears
that needle eyes
like burning hell
bare and bent
in a dazzling labor
of marshy dahlia lips

       cleaver teeth to tear

the world spins
synoptic nightmares
beyond critiques paradox
in quarries of
****** sacrifice
dead goats
and karmas black militant columns
baring a thousand scourges
in condemnation
of Mayas colossal shadows

       i depend on her

docile bodies
rise from immortal beds
covered in drapes
over slattern harams   
in hallucinatory temples
that make me pause
jinxed
and fall from myself
into your moist
timeless root
of dreams

       dust through my fingers

odalisques move
in binding layers
****** and shuddering
concubines in mills of lust
that smear
chiaroscuros-laden shades

      a blood stained door marked no exit

i speak
unspeakable tenderness
to the sacred Goddess
displacing the steep lead pit of sighs
and saturating gravity
towards crystal fountain showers
heavenward
in the religion of no religion

      Gods your daddy

i move
trigger - coiled
past retinas intake
from the sacral
through the crown

      om shanti om

am i not
this spume-brained monkey
both primal and sacred
vibrating arcane chants
in windowed clouds Samadhi
and clinging breathless breath

      what ever you think the opposite is true

am i not this atheist
drinking from her
slippery cup
where miracles leap
plump and smiling
as she holds my head
into her weeping ache

       i am red  with love

are we not all
the ineffable one
among the multitudes

      one hand clapping

what use is obedience
to lore and dogma
or whether the
God that burns in you
believes in God at all

      people who believe in God have no faith

There are no current job openings.

The Foundation
is an equal opportunity employer
and employs personnel
without regards to race
to include but not limited to
spics ****** chinks white trash, jews, ginnies,
whateva the ****
red, black, white, yellow, brown
children or old *****,
prego's
uneducated mongrels
dead beats
god pimping religious fanatic's
bad breath bloviators
**** gob nymphos
cross dressing ***** bag *****
death addicts
frauds
**** suckers,
posers
***** lickers
annul *****
big ****** *******
alcoholics
gore ******
shallow ******
gender bending militant lesbians
drug addicts
stuck up snobs
grave yard enthusiasts
toilet slaves
homophobes
bad rhythm racist
serial killers
rakes
broken hearted ***** willows
twinks , girl boy, boy girl

its complicated
you ******* potatoes

national origin,
veteran status,
Absent Without Leave
proud *****
polygamists'  
*** criminals
sociopaths
***** fetish stoners
educated past your intelligence
tax evaders
amputees
Satanists
cannibals
dumb *****
dopers
eroto-asphyxiators
***** toys
vampire's
necro **** sniffers
bible belting ******* quacks
lazy mother *******
dweebs
horror ******
satanic trans upside down banana splits
and those who pray
in the temples of normalcy

or any other bases
protected by law.

I'm trying to give order to things
perpetually a competition
between desire and necessity

necessity always wins
and desire grovels
like a renga
of grunts and incantations

a blur  
only born to be pulverized
and bleached
found in an archeological dig
in a lineage of bones
and smeared ash
martyrdoms
stained totems
of brittle ancestors
and jeweled coffers
under this necropolis of stars

we run head first
northward bound
where neuro grids
are instant evolution
for algorithms
of techno rationality
and hold close
south bound hearts of sentimentality
in a history of contingencies
interchangeable plot lines
like old sitcoms
with built in
canned laugh tracks
that **** us off
in the theater of atrocities

i am my
fathers fathers father
and the children of my children
weeping in labyrinths thunder
and swirling ethers
held down on the crucifix
of this spinning marble
that floats in ice black fires

blood fat armies
of knuckle dragging
infinitesimal bodies
fill tombs of pharaohs
and queens
extracted sarcophagi
from the Valley of the Kings
who ruled arcades
of brazen and terrified
praying chimpanzees
scattering and pierced
on hooks and flames
through their soft bodies
in a humanistic cinema
of tyrannies
and myth fiction horror

a history of suspicion
submits to
commodities of fetish phantasmagoria  
and festivals of atonement

at our end
Gods will
the big un-bang
a spectacular inhumanity
bashes us hard with   
Punchinellos bat
striking wounds and age
for the theater
fallen life
in voids and mountain peaks
till deaths wake
in the noisy silence
of forever