Tuesday, November 15, 2011

11/15/11, 4:45 am; A Story.

I suppose it doesn't matter to reason
dirty and drinking from puddles
who is this 4 am saint
offering only love from a cracked hand
outstretched after such a journey.
Free of you at last,
we who spent the last week
rolling and fucking in this
painfully fresh glow
of cardboard burning and you singing
songs you never wrote
as if I am to believe you.

This is me!
I am fetally warped
and lying until you speak
with open door
and no more dying but to die!
This is excitement of life and love!

One boot in front of the other,
this is where it all goes wrong
so explain to me please
the look of mad joy
on my face!

and it will be your lesson,
not mine,
in the mean


Dancer's body
to drive me mad,
clean house to spit
down my prudent throat
and I will
like the virus
I know
No doubt,
I have played the weak card
far too fucking long.
My lungs are borrowed from dragons,
and I learned my lessons
in Hell.
Fuck you
fuck you
fuck you
I have plenty of hair to burn
and your stars
will mock you
and your worry
will smother you.
You never
should have
let me in!
Fall back on safe boys.
Safe boys, safe boys.
They don't know how to kiss
your legs.


A Bad Night for Horses

I'm leaking important fluids
Picking crumbled edges of pills
from among stacks of books
and tapes and letters.
My pen tugs impatiently
on my finger
wanting nothing more than to write you back
and I haven't the heart to tell it
that there is no letter
asking for a response
and me
and my pen
are alone and leaking.


Crickets with jackboots and whips dance the railings
and the night invents music.

The sound of shadows paints a prism on the ceiling
and I, stumbling pilgrim, accept the lot.


the concrete ditch gliding worms
across the field
where stupid stupid children
feed their brains
with their heads up their assholes


Tongue, tongue
darting little bitch
daring fishhooks and fingertips
let me nibble the end
just a taste of furtive fruit
like a spoonful of jelly
I want you down my throat
tongue, lips, teeth
I want you in my stomach
tease from a foul mouth
with bubblegum sex
barely resonating
little bells of spit


Darling damned little doe
Dancer of sidewalks and bedsheets
I want to strangle myself
rather than not have
your tender skin
against which
to judge
my own.


Smoke curls high to the ceiling
and carries with it my cock
to crow
early in the frugal morning
where I will laugh
like smoke curling to the ceiling
with an evil sparrow stare
and dance
to the golden night of dead leaves
when I will find lips and lips to fill me
with smoke curling to the ceiling
and my wings spread and tear lightly
to die
and die and die


We are cloud people
We appear as dinosaurs
and as locomotives
and as seashells


I hope it eats you from the inside-out
this mud you've turned from fucking in dust


Shivering six o'clock in a girl's house
looking with dim light for a blanket
opening closets filled with shoes
closing them almost blushing
as if I weren't to see them
until they were on her feet


Grim lessons
staring at a spent ceiling,
strange yet coming sleep
relieving a weekend's plasma,
a blood-letting flooding my eyes
with a flame colored red
and daring my breath
to whisper feathers
that dream me someone else
some Me you won't know
and will not like
as if this bothered me
in my grim lessons.



Numb hands dance with leeches
and rain washes broken glass
down the greasy streets.
An auxiliary of spent bottles
stands watch over my tired eyes
and cars dream lazily by
like cancer cells.
I am not undead, I am unbored.
Numb hands dance with cigarettes
and leaves,
always leaves,
always will.


when you really need pause
and clench your eyes
to ask yourself
"What the fuck
am I on


always dancers
know to rise to the sky
arching and aching
always dancing.


We do not know
each other
let's spend it together

Autumn Song.

Here is an autumn song, why sad stories hang in smokey air, the full moon being my baby my baby is mean is bad is no one's baby.

It's ok, momma, I'm burning candles and saying my prayers.

This bed is gonna swallow me, too many nights I've laid rough hands to my pillows and ghosts to twist some feathery little vapor out of the darkness, some gourd-faced golem to fill with secrets and lust. We don't lie while we're lusting; I don't, and I speak for the lizards and lightning but not for another dick-swinger.

I won't be home 'til I'm bleeding brains on some holy boulder, black as peat and sweet as honeycomb.

Samson is swinging wild controlled circles with the bleeding jawbone of a jackass, and his hirsute heroics are relegated thusly to a few scraps of paper to incite wars in some future where artists are dead and greed's teeth chew all.

I'll love anyway. There's not much else for us.