Apr 30, 2009


what good is a man hooked up to tubes?

i've become insensitive.
the scent of hospitals does not bother me.

i wonder...if maybe i should have gone to see her body.
but he...isn't that cold yet.

these...machines...keeping him alive...make me wonder if that is all we really are...machines...

and if so...when will yours, mine...break?

Apr 17, 2009


she smells like what forever smells like

absolution and obediency

innocence that is non-conductive

smells sharp like cheap wine in expensive glasses

like trucks that keep in the cold

lidocaine and latex

she smells like charlie mansons cental nervous system

and the soil surrounding ted bundys basement

she drinks napalm for breakfast and shits out shrapnel

pouring champagne down her back as though she were an altar to normality and self discovery....she does not grow well in direct sunlight

she eats the fat but gets told shes "too thin"...is there such a thing these days?

i feel happiness for the first time in a long time, and thin, subconsciously i'll die in a heinous freak accident because that will really put me in my place

shame on me for being one of the fortunate ones

i want to filter your blood with my great grandmothers nylon stockings and make a soup fit for kings

i am a thing of conquest

its like finishing a puzzle and then realizing how ugly the picture is

Apr 10, 2009


i stared at the nape of your neck and wondered how it would feel in my hand as we fucked

i looked into your eyes and was washed over with a sense of complete hopeless romanticism

i wanted to trade shoes with you, and hoped you'd be man enough to walk a mile in mine

my attention diverted to your smile as i though of all of the hearts you've painted with it

and how when you walk into a room...it feels like when the sun comes out while it's still raining

your attrition is what fascinated me the most...how it seemed your every breath begged forgiveness for something you aren't even sure you're guilty of

staring at the nape of your neck, then down to your shoes...you had my forgiveness


i came for the poetry.
but, now, i come for the poets.

she came for a man 21 years her senior.

if he loves her, he should let her go.

"but she's a grown woman," he says.

she's no more a grown woman than my little brother.

oh, but those titties!
and that mint condition cunt.

i don't like to think of him, a "fellow poet," shooting his poetry across her tits like a strand of freshwater freudian pearls.

i don't want to see her end up with a broken heart...
eventually just coming here for the poetry.

Apr 8, 2009

quite contrary

marilyn, marilyn
how does my garden grow

with frostbitten nipple kisses
and pretty boys lined up
all in a row

with velveteen beards
and cigarette smoke

half swallowing my guilt
and bending to touch my toes

on slapstick jokes
and moss covered stones

my garden moves slow