Sunday, April 28, 2013

The postcoital cock is a limp corpse draped in seaweed, a mariner found bloated still upon splashed rocks, sea foam in his beard.

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Sometimes it sounds better from the outside, listening to that distorted hum bounce upon damp walls, the same I'm braced against with hand and forehead, pissing and thinking in a saturated corner, imagining the improvements on my character if I were to be turned inside-out, all jeweled and steaming, but as it is from the outside, I've doomed my damned self offering my eardrums as Communion hosts to the greedy harmonics that frame my night with its dancing drizzle and thicklunged smoke, boys and girls graceful without grace, sharp of lip yet with yawnful eyes, letting the ripples wake upon the liquortongued bank, easy with liquorfingers and liquorhips, everyone in a passive fuck spinning around the room, or maybe in a back alley I dance alone in a rain, in clouds, listening to the ricochet of metal, seeing sex in cold corrugation, marveling that I am not inside-out as feared but swathed in nightlove and warm monkey skin dusted with cold spring, and how good it sometimes sounds from the outside.