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