Friday, November 23, 2012

But Not For Long

Before the yeast rises run, before the least of my
sizes runs a hole through with the sun,
before the halo in my gun plows holes in
my chest, before my best love rest another
above and inside a rabbit face breast.

Your fascist love some anti resevoir,
shackle me to your rib cage walls and
flay me with your thrice cursed horse hair
whip, cemetery tattoo shovel cunt criticize me me me me me
dig deep before I sober, before I over
over come some pillow on some bed some
straw that held my head my neck my shoulders and
every dead part under that

That which,
dumped a cat corpse before a beehive and
sighing resigned itself to forgiveness and
cigarette smoke and the glory of being
an alive being when there are these not
alive beings and in some concrete
admissions and in worms and in
sheepish dicking and in low low
grass and in drink and in deepthink and in
tearful jerkoff and in shaking hunger and in
spiral bliss and in the most cinematic suffering I
am alive I am
I am

Sunday, November 18, 2012

North America America Has Stomach Cancer

Slow decadent suicide is the inevitable end to any life of plenty lived without a deep and conscious connection to the greater forces of existence.

Modern secularism has failed to fill the hole in the human spirit that mass religious belief once did - why has environmentalism and some kind of profound, universal astrophysical science-religion (based in truth not mythology and dogma) not caught on?

Perhaps because "to survive healthily" is no longer the priority - we reached that, it's already achieved, and now "to constantly be stimulating our guts" is the evolved cultural M.O.

So I come back to slow decadent suicide...

Sunday, November 11, 2012

The North America America

... and we're all these
sort of
participants in such
collective lies
mantic fables

Monday, November 5, 2012


I couldn't come if all the whores in
Lebanon wrote all the
things I'm too afraid to say and
their lips were so full and

Who masturbates twice at
work today, dirty hands that
get handshook after, nine
to five nine to five nine
to five
to five
pussy juices
nine to five thick
bodily nine
to five her
factory body her
egg plant
body is a
sex plunder begging
for fuck and
fucking fuck and
some anti chastity backhand to
the face in some hot pent up
moment of
His gut fury and her sweat smells and
some shared golden ball that is the
center of the universe between the

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Time Approaches

I will be your modest doll I will
be your false priest I
will be
holy ghost I will
be your tender nestling
gloved forgiveness I
will be your New York City I
will be
Sally Mann child I
will be a blueberry I
will be a
tourniquet  I
will be every liquor I
will be
cadence I
will be total and
whole I will be
some desert packdog spotted

I will be everything
I will be

Tight Breath

 Deeply, profoundly struck with how incredibly unoriginal 99% of my experiences are. Anecdotally, perhaps not so, but thematically...

This fucking Earth.


Warpaint palms downturned to drop ash and
some bloody trickle to the
Earth in some form of a
prayer to
Her to
say a thank-you and a
we'll always love you and then
dance and dance and always the night
dance and
I held an elk bone and it
contained the
sum total of
my people's history in cal-
cium and marrow and
also a wood be-
cause we all have
wooden bones around here and
hush because we wouldn't want
wolves to know that or

* * *

Soon after the baby boy was
conceived beside some
ageless river

Friday, October 12, 2012


Woman found dead in
elevator, it's a
sad sad sad
Earth to be a bear in some
brawl to be a snail drunk on
some heart or some tune in the
back of His holy throat.
Who drinks His wine and
crosses three facets and who
eats fish on Sunday.
This Earth.
It's a hell of a thing.
My milk is too warm now I
can't take it, can't take a
baby girl in my arms as some
single father, she needed me, I
adopted her in some dream and
named her Francesca for
her dark young shadow who
beautifully left us too soon.
(I wasn't even born yet)

But who the fuck was she even?
One of too many to count. Another
Another pair of lungs, a
heart, a pair of hands, the same,
the same the same as
But different.

No matter how many
cans of beer I open, I
don't like us any more.
But there's always
more letters
to write.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Modern Age

My heart is firewood

Chest Pain

Pitter patter hyperpanic,
the sad Atlantic gushes,
more used Kleenex,
her makeup smears,
I have to get out of there,
she offers grapefruit,
I tell a story,
she begins to cry,
I turn into a cloud of smoke.

Friday, September 28, 2012


Princess with a face like a lion backlit banjo
holding everyone in the dark in
some held breath an-
ticipation and I
clutch the
program and I go back
six years to the few nights I
snuck into your crawlspace in
that barnstructure in
driveway and you gave me
Suzanne for the first time and I
was fucking
in those hour long seconds and
finally innocent to something for

Guilt Stomach

I am a dark fuck, I
awoke in a bed, noir
sharp light through blade
slits on the bed room and
I woke next to a form of
lies and tanglement of ma-
nipulations of her
trust of
fragile nature, like a delicate or
brittle twig near dead and dry
no olive leaf, no
happy ending for her
or me or

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Needing To Die, So Bad

I found you passed out
in a pile of dry roasted mixed nuts
and I was embarrassed for you because
you were not yet awake enough to be
embarrassed appropriately and when you
finally had some sort of
dry, rocky sort of vomiting and you
could contemplate the gravity of your
foolishness and you felt really,
pathetic is
when I pulled a handgun from my
pants and
shot you
in the face

You ended then and the story didn't really
change much.

Exhale Exhale Politic I'm Trying To Get It?

White noise, a crisp air, a sodden face and
many faces more rigid,
pervert glasses,
contemporary unease, some wringing of
politic tender neck
sleeze detector,
argon prostitute lecture rhetoric,
dick dick underwire liberation diseases of
angry fist angry mouth angry stomach angry
pelican so
many balled up socks so many locks on

Man Gun

Romanticize some sort of
Man Gun holy union whose
ends in the
ejaculation of
bullets and thus
death and
what do we really
have or learn but
that Men
their fucking
too much and

It's some poem that
doesn't mean

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Universe, God

The sexuality to which we are born, arbitrarily chained.

Saturday, September 22, 2012


Who will wait a
cloud aggregated a limited
inflate a bower a fate a vining skinny
ceremony words of breast targeted poems of
words of words of words of droning masturbate

Corrupt a childing swingset mate a drinking
hollow safe sound bottle top of some world some
peak some risk of some tattoo some

Some superficial tattoo,
some waffle,
some claxon sound some temporary teenage
barfing some pint of passing love some
desire to choke a self

done, bye bye

Monday, September 17, 2012


Pose opposable throws total unknowable bros whose
foes are flows of hydro potable prose

Ten toes ten centric third eye crows whose
Knows are greater than the square of no's
whose fingers close upon the hose of hoes whose
blows bestow atomic O's

Wednesday, September 12, 2012


The devil's advocate still
laughs at appearances

Sunday, September 9, 2012

To An Anonymous Friend

Thanks Jack, it's been a while...

Friday, September 7, 2012


Some graveyard full of life and
some kiss full of so many nothings,
clasping irons, clasping laws baby
caught in my will to
hold a giant landscape and
a language of life and
bring me to life,
to something other than alcohol,
gasp gasp gasp gasp gasp longing sighing
lover baby exhalation air
there's a blue moon over this letter,
love me still,
love a fruit tree that was planted we took we
take we carved our names in every inch and
for the sake of

But for the overwhelm of living.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

072912 2:09am

Don't be picky,
let things happen,
you'll come in your pants when you
see that girl with the
smeared all over her and
you'll breathe a different kind of
air for the first time in a year or three years and
some page will be turned.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

A Prayer Before Sleep

I must remember that I am an instrument of art -
art is not an instrument of vanity.


The American Dream. Is a big. Fucking. Dream.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

R. Cairns Female Every Maybe

Excellent silk, page turner breast skin
let me in to sheets of everything
You cling to my ribs like a
honey bee sings my sizes be-
cause he knows me he
knows every

And I love you, through
all this hateful intimacy,
my blind hunger and your
rampant mistrust of
thing every

Friday, May 18, 2012

Church Curses

Like I'm some queer with
my breadbasket arms open legs
spread bleeding from a gash I
dreamed in derealized
how many minutes
I dreamed myself a
man not a man
I was a woman
tearing at herself, trying
to amputate the eucharist
she was force fed as a
Pubic hair
a tail fallen off
some ewer that lusts after
full milky tits in violent
jealousy loathing its self
safe boring existence as
a vessel for dumb tropes

What congregation is this

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Because fuck you.

Styro plate
empty stomach
itchy nipple hate
hate hate
irate lunch date
conflates bowel sounds with
mouth flapping dirty teeth a
brief but inexcusable
belch squelched any
penny-for-a-thought mas-
turbation the product of
colloquial conversation
regarding the heart of art the
cringing virgin tart her
private parts her
tasteless darting in some
play reviewed by an
asshole who you slept with
just to get the street cred to
pop your collar and pretend
you have girlfriends who
suck you because they love to
Jesus, you're a wrecked beach and
a mess of a bible and a drug I've
never tasted and a mother to
someone and
book with mold a beat a barren
fish a
spider a
mild hiding wider version of a
schoolgirl thick and thick of
ass and tits and staring fits and
fist wringing fits and gasping
fits oh asthma shit I
breathe through lists of
names of women who
have come or came
my name
birthing bed glory
xx warrior
pain in
migraine im-
agination lights who are
totally aliens but also
angels who hold
cryptic menus for
the last IHOP in hell in
bell-ringing exaltation
wringing fell fingers winningly
swimmingly thinking
HEY! Swell, God! Keep it up!

Because fuck you.
It's too cold in this jacket.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Father Questions

And I had communion with him, and
we both were speaking English but
I don't know his words as words
The only path to understanding him
is just to

Friday, May 11, 2012


Because the night, I
shot the moon in the
fucking eye.
Human magic animal
science joke epic.

Love did what?
Folly - we don't
understand love.

But I shot
the moon in its
fucking eye.
Now I have to
deal with that.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

What Love Does

Don't fuss little cat, ride
questions fuck answer inhaling
dandelion breath staining your
fingers in the
process kiss me
I'll hurry when I'm dead, for now I
crawl glacially at your hem and you
shoe me with a scarred baseball bat but
you love me fondly; dirt is all part of
this stepping game
you want me in churchwhite with
black lips jam on my palms a book in
my hands you want me still for
your camera which is your cock and
your compass and your caved-in heart and
your fields of tomatoes with all the little
bugs in them and the smell of tobacco and
bathwater and your camera and our daughter
and a little lamb and water and a lot of hungry
grass and some sympathetic soil your camera is your
childless cunt and your evil womb but you are
still my daughter's mother
so I'll drink some water to that but
little else

Saturday, April 28, 2012


New dark temper steel patriot
Harriet temper feel forget blood orange
singing seal surrender silent hinder feeling
toes and toes and quarrelsome fields of
grape vine virginity tender poetry blushing
vine blushing bride blushing pining
teenage hymen seal lock vault chest
tomb tender buried Fort Knox
colloquial cock savage trap tilted
plane tilted raining heaven seven
seconds of
come into my insides trust
God's loving voice
a pea a
sweet potato skin
a stone soup trust
trust a crystal light
till he
swears above pain and
under pain and
I lay smile bright
post life stiff smelling
four o nine white carbon
bated breath waiting freedom
light and paycheck drink night
party quiet inner anticipation quite
possibly the most prayed about
moment before
chemical tiny death

I mean, losing yourself to liquor

Piss yourself

Pig Skull

When are you going to boil his head Chris?
When will you stomach it?

Friday, April 27, 2012

Trailer Park

Can't spell merde without mer... Conclusion? 
Something something something, sea of shit....

Playboy Magazine

To detect erection formal
forget informal dress per-
fection sept he leapt seven
stories I crept seven syllables in
to your chest I took your
best and left ash and moldy
books a test of fortitude a nude
Odyssian quest a blessed fall
a pious ball hells hall hail his
voodoo doll hail awful silence hail
eroticism hail the Tree of Life hail
him, his heart, his wife,
hail Mary,
full of space, she's a cave and a
trope for untrash, unabashed
virtue didn't you know...

Lick your lips
Tuck in your shirt

Maybe Also Not Zen

Be thankful for what you have,
unless that happens to be
Then want more.

Not Zen

Everything everything
all the time all the time!

I better sleep now,
before blindness steals this yes
from me, I must learn to
moderate this blood this
salivating boar

Monday, April 16, 2012

Sex, Water

Hold your water, skirt
cancer, pray hard about
those, hope you
have behaved
I stopped touching myself
because I
am a good
Christian boy
at least so the
book says, me, I just
get thirsty and
cover my bases

If left, I would
four F myself into
some sort of

Some cunt that's six feet deep

Fist Fighting

Deprivation sounds like a sucking absence it
sounds like masturbation peak caught stuck in
held bliss for days of derealized vignettes that
boxed later and forgotten and so hold
little relevance then but hold such
skin now

Hold skin,
that's the key,
to dominate it, or
occupy or to have
its attention skin
Lucky organ, the
shell some beauty
queen gate

Or an asshole or


Fortune favor some sleeping bird,
the universe will reveal itself to a
deaf mute, Gabriel
didn't have a pen on
him, or a sword,
he made
everything up then

Warm milk, stale barn air,
vacuum stall then, I whicker as
a horse, pass me, bridle hand meadow
skin as white like moon,
cradle us, cradle your grapes
until wine flows your veins love

Eat then,
sleeps the dirt


Vesuvius scarlet tear rip
tear jag downspiral under
hair the colour of entheogen
leaves upon tongue held tight
we hold ourselves against a
boulder and a hellhound and I
speak a glamour that
makes her drunk I
sneeze some sort of everything
and throw away the universe in
balled up
climb trees down
to hell and
speak nothing of
it to anyone
no one would ever
take me for true I'd
cry I'd cry
cry I'd
weep upon my
self for
every orc soul and

every burnt body
there isn't
enough room so
they just leave some
piled by the door

Sunday, April 15, 2012


What beginning to start from,
what birth is my beginning, when and how
find me here and now gaping at
infinity puffy eyed but erect sickly
Am clouds am stomach excited
atoms hyperbole arousal amphetamine
urgency collapsing into star dense

And I'm losing my language
Infinity overwhelm
Every word I know attempting to
push through my mouthchest
at once

All colours make black
All words make paralysis
Escape orgasm escape dream

Enfant Terrible

You cannot spell
Medusa without
In a dream I doused your
flowering cunt in
gasoline, I did a great
many man things,
my favourite was
fist fighting and
the bruises were
hot as hell

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Diet Cola

Pull on your face, pull everything towards honesty pull to
wards some height of orgasm Rebecca pull to a shadow that speaks pull
to a dog barking or some dog that speaks pull
I'm the weakest baby of four or
am I I'm weakest or
weeks apart from miracle saviour Christ okay and
millennia but it's metaphor anyway -

Chastise a ghost - sure, but
leave me in peace and
I freeze in honest paralysis of
my own vision I

I burn I
brightly burn a
candle for only
me be
cause a loving live is
a selfest living prayer and on
some diet of honey and milk and
some nourishing faith and some
terrible fish or shells and some rancid
ground I
lived I lived I slept I lived and lived and
live sleeping
chooses to
face in the
filth of humanity?

Terror Hunger

Forgetting Brian Jones is for
getting bones to break in a dream of
a hunger babe animal, an instinct corpus
massive everything....


Shitbird, I'm
too fat, I'm too thin, I'm
nothing that shoud be breathing in
this suit of tea spoons and birthday cards and
I'm some sort of lace curtain in some bloody
and I'm a boiling pot of
womb fluids that soup that
makes a baby
blue body fragile baby egg love
him precious little gift I loved him but
Chinese food laundry dog meat paper
cardboard dripping garbage lost baby lost
where lost then I
losing my

breathing then and stalling in mid clench I had some
fist and some skypunch in half completion then I
couldn't I could not complete in some
paralysis crux I
tensed into
excruciating leg pains and I
mind-racing hammered out some
plea bargain to some kind of
predatory saviour who would
sell us upstream for blowjobs and
handjobs and who would pull my hair and
pull my skin and who would
drink such a thick juice and love
that syrupy sort of finish and it
chokes and sort of chokes my
baby girls it

Saturday, March 10, 2012


Gentle way of the lynch mob,
cursive apologies, loopy handwritten
tearful goodbye, cross the Atlantic and
settle into your newpurchased skin,
you molted so beautifully,
I don't sleep now,
you sleep with men and
women in your teeth,
does anyone else feel
how much time there is?

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


There are worse things than dying,
namely the sedation some require
in order to remain alive.

Sunday, March 4, 2012


Woman, you're more skull than hair,
the thin limp hangings ruin something
in me
And it's your doing, your trying so
hard, it only
makes things worse
Some day, guaranteed,
you'll leave us such a
withered body.


Okay Capricorn, devour
At this point
there is little else to do


Do you think
your love is aware of you?

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Manhattan In Television And Books

So the city itself cracked
that golden prince like an
egg and every slut laughed
like some throaty lizard,
smog billowed from his pockets
every day then, and his wife was never
seen or heard from again
His hair blackened deeper and
deeper after that.

All The Time

I was not was meant for this place.
These letters are a dialogue.

Friday, March 2, 2012

The Beach

I'd rather her breast in my hand than
his breath to remind me of soil and
some decayed seagull that you found
at the beach that Sunday with so
much wind around you ruining
your hair and carrying sand elsewhere
and into my throat so I couldn't
scream happily like some stupid
dog or,
Pillowy mountain chest sweet heaving
teenager I'm so sorry my white noise
and your moaning and our endless
smoking made your asthma so
difficult but we're born with
the ghost of some infinitely
death wish and in sleep we
tongue at it like a loose
tooth or
exploring masturbation and it's
terrifying but somehow it's
better than that boring
tit in your hand isn't it?
We're not supposed to drink milk
after babies and I keep thinking about
what happens after you
get everything you could possibly want

Asshole Wolf Then

Do not sleep with those you do business with.
But, everyone is business.
So, what the fuck [God]...

Tides Are Forever

In some incredibly brief two-years,
or some fleeting eternity or
abrupt infinity, or some
forever that was
over before I knew any thing like
watching grass grow in a
tortured slow fast-forward
in rapturous depression whose
introspection is maniacally
essential to everything and
and everything or else
what is anything good for
god damnit?

Book of

Shut your mouth when you're day dreaming woman and
cross your legs and take your hand from your wetness
and wash it and wash Him away and put your
cross back up on the wall before the flowers wilt
and don't ever confess to what's happened here
now and be lost in forgetting this accident and
maybe catch some liquored train to pounding sleep
thick like some suffocating black cloud
or kiss or silk scarf or holy tar or
some Christ parable that wraps you in
filthy love or some abstinence that
will never be sincerity or
eat a bar of soap child or fondle some photograph
laughing until your head falls off your shoulders or
share with anyone how incredibly
uncomfortable you are with your
chemistry and meat or do nothing at all until
you wrinkle and
rust into
beautiful peanut to be planted
in the ground to make
a sad sort of a bush that
rasps at small children and tells
fantastic litany in coal miner
voices and
it never ends
it never ever ends

Seven And Thirty Seven Years

And wake up as dry as a book, I
am a hat on the hook beside
and above the bedpost not far
to reach and never forgotten
for long unless you're breathing
through someone else blanketing
them with your leather and your
meat, hands fighting like dogs in
some forever confused battling
waltz whose music is gasping
intercourse and whose conductor is
an animal in your skin who let a
book seduce who let knuckles
cow you who let fingernails
mark you who let spit
scour you who let some
gull feather elevate you to
the most incredibly fleeting
nowhere until you were back
somewhere and with me
under a hat
breathing heavily

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Love Is a Nine Letter Word

Entertain self doubt, pity fools or
pity geniuses, what is the difference
Drink deep, peacefully hold your
tongue up and out for her
I embodied something more whole
Now I embody vacuum, eyes
hungrily speed talking an
anxious blood-sugar
Whose chapel is a
dreaming sexual violence,
His blood is my own weeping
manhood, His flesh
preserved under my fingernails my
flesh in truth,
Whose confession sounds as though
a recipe for soup, bathing bones my
liquid fat my self-loathing shudder ex-
halation fleeting prize
Glory be to balled up tissue and
some substitution for bawling, how-
ever momentary
Self orbiting Sun and Earth, twin
torment mirror spit running stain
Pale eyes virginity collect sweat
under his massive cancer

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Do Not Trust Anything You Think You Trust That You Can Think

It's the fucking eighties again, and
everybody's a haircut
and a sociopath and
the biggest asshole.

Twenty Nine Hours

There's an asshole sort of sunlight that
intrudes through the cheap blinds
that attempt to cover my bed
room window, and it's
six minutes to eight a.m outside
and it's constantly a discordant
heartbeat inside, and I did not
sleep all night nor do I want to
sleep now, and I'm considering
staying awake for another full
day but I'm always nervous about my

Heartbeat of The 21st Century

When did I stop being able
to hear silence?

Sunday, February 19, 2012


I feel sick
not tired

Tuesday, February 14, 2012


calibration of a
sex and a food stamp
kind of loving god who
is an ugly jesus who
cleft lipped and
too smart for
his own good and
probably a
his own
ideas and
his own poor money and
his family wanted some
doctor but he ran
he ran and you're
some kind of white
girl who
took him in and you
embraced his

What does it matter?

Am Many Things

Am a block of ice, am
a pear,
am a cold palm,
am coal, am
hate, am your
cousin naked under some
hot shower that makes you
stiff and sick,
am slick hair, am fruit
Am a motor vehicle
in the nineteen thirties I
am a stiff grey suit and
hard man
am jaws
so much
so much spite I am

so many things a
pardon me then

Some Fever

Whose caution was a lamb, whose eyelids swam with
blurred star paths until the entire night was
just a field of two five five
Whose mother had a mother,
whose bones rot now,
whose eyes fill but never re-
lease their weight
Whose story is a
Whose bible is a black
Who lived for a question hope-
lessly unanswerable called
Whose filthy skin is a guilty
landscape, whose sex is a sin
and another sin
Whose fingers work the devil's
deeds whose needs are needs and
needing, a hunger until teeth
break or fall or until a
tender female
shudders her teenage
fragility and some moment of
trance is shattered and sick
reality resumes like a
car crash until
a black glass of coffee is
You're lying awake in bed or
sitting quietly in your
doctor's office or at a red light or
in bed or you're somewhere deep
in your chest or
you're falling thousands of feet
per second in some
conscious horror or
are in some line
at some carnival in
some summertime
the south and
some pathetic
cliche is breathing too loud and
you're rocking and
wrenching your hands and
you're sweating
sweating so
you have
where you are or
how you
be there.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Sleeping Spells

When I want to hold your
hand and bury an ax
between your
breasts all in the
same breath.
And as I inhale
and you
there is this
sound like
scotch tape tearing
from its roll but there's
no sound and there's
no breathing
And then I flow
into some
other layer where
there's only pressure
on my skin and
womb sounds and
to you,
at the kitchen table, I
piss myself
but I'm
not there.

Balled Up Fists

Just so you know
I'm prone to
spontaneous bouts of
being unable to cry
for five years.

Which Is Really Just Surrender

Is this floating away a
natural symptom of my age?
A phase?
Or is this state more
I worry that
certainty comes only
after compromise.

This Way

One day you
wake up and your hands are
there is no noble savage here, never was,
no I became this way.

Monday, January 30, 2012


My heart my
my heart

Friday, January 27, 2012

E.P and Femme

Ezra lived during possibly the
most powerful(?) span of time and
he saw from (A)>(B) what was possibly
greatest of
changes in our modern age and he
wrote your name and he wrote your
poem in stone and somehow
tattooed it
on me and on
me and that you are his
Portrait and not mine and
that I shall never
own a thing and
that I shall own only a shadow of
shadow of a
wolf with
horrifying teeth that I
really actually love,

now am I lost in
every facet of

Art and the Universe

The volume within the vessel can never BE the vessel.


A large part of your life is
figuring out
how to sleep at night

Thursday, January 19, 2012


Felix fell icy fall
so ironically unlucky then and
unhappily do I and he pray some
kind of muted stain prayer
god sweet christ cry love and
tear everything from himself that
he thought was dear
burn the stranger at the table
burn every foreign impulse and
sleep with the arranged
teenagers who arrive at
your his hotel room and just
surrender to the two
thousands because
this is how it works and
this is every
in your decaying body and
if you sting
if you feel somewhat nauseous you
will be relieved of your
so cold post you
will be relieved from the wall you
will be relieved of the black you
will be relieved of oath you
will be relieved of some sort of brother-
hood and even then don't fret because
you tried he tried we tried they tried he
tried he tried he tried he

set fire

do it

go away from this place while
it's still your idea


Explosions of centralized heart gestures
which is to say I'm coming a gallon of
tearful frontbrain expression which
is to say I'm punching myself incredibly
hard in the back of the neck
and lips and lips and parted little lips
girl baby
touch this vein
feel it caving in? feel it gushing some sort
of mortal sin?





breathe unthinkingly

liquored extremely
dulled and yet rocketed to some
height of fuck

with teeth would
tear your
throat from your

I'd love it

I just came

Wednesday, January 18, 2012


Handshake fuck, coordinate love with hate and
tongue in teeth lockdown spitting fast curses to
caress a body of fleshy writhing dishonesty and
manipulation which is a kind of a sex but also a
kind of a destroying or disintegration of his self and
every self and it's a hateful act and she herself is
some manifestation of a hateful sort of love and
her carbon is and was and will be in some way
imprinted with His stamp of holy disapproval which
is a big deal and speaks volumes for her
place in heaven and pity her and pity her oh
curses curse
skeleton fuck and a
bone structure tight-skinned face an
aesthete goddess a beauty queen corpse a
rib cage a pair of sticks for legs a
set of tits like tiny little pyramids that are
barely pyramids but speak to some
of which I care very little but I
entertain just to
placate Her
women with their
wetness and
truly those who possess
the actual beauty because
men are more of some kind of
package and men
are somehow more boring or
less surprising of a creation or a
discovery in this universe of
spaces and things
But the women are this gift
this stumbled upon mystery or...

My mouth is open

I shall close it before I say too much

Because no one is paying me for this