The Grave We Are Lain

•December 11, 2020 • Leave a Comment

It spits, shoots,
shakes out (loud)
of the bottle’s top,
a fevered, sweat,
upon the fifth night
our duplicity cowers
over the rim, putty
in the fetid hands
of the reaper’s grip,

Jim Harrison.
Bukowski.
Parker.
McCullers.
Lowry…

sots and prophets,
made life stink away,
cast out castigates,
sway in amber pours,
drown in dark malt,
furrow brows over
Chandler’s lights,
and Cheever’s run
through the hoods’
green pastures, uke
a cantos, iamb the
plumbing, and in
the sour, filthy, swill,
our hearts pump
ethanol, cigarette
ash a sandbox,
and the cull… the
rip? The ripening
of it all? The living
is the same as death,
so to the dying a
drownt light, surrey
contraption of pest
and pestilence noise,
to breathe, to live,
to lie alone, to wander
the hills, bleary-eyes
fixed upon the glowing,
shit sky so bright and
magical, and each path
darker still, too dark,
too wretched a sight,
but about then, the page
turns, and pour pimples
and dimples into a
tumbler’s crystal, and a
question to solitude
no longer drivel to
the natural leaders,
but a swan song to
the meaning of even
the simplest existence,
we live but to die,
and every path is a
dead end, be it life
eternal, or worms as
friends, suffer life to
live and pass the bottle,
for greatness is but
a disease, and the cure
to death, is but to live
life purely and in truth

Psychopomps

•October 23, 2020 • Leave a Comment

Muckbang, muck-luck, transition

into Dadaisms, ARP in tranced,

pisschrist worshiping dirty toes

of goddesses, while print scans

swap yellow toner jokes, burst

onto the scene with digital arts

cum tropes cum magenta-bullys

cum sallow seafarers cum rum

drink cannibals static wizards

hung dry slope caustic witless

cantrips cum suffering kittens

whose fur is dripping wet in a

bubble wrap fantasy cum free-

basing pantywaisting supple

supplicants saffron tasting safe

harbor bellowing piebald pipes

whirring smoke cum death on

top of a roan horse dressed for

the wrong century, ~14th has

moved on, Black Plague now

a trope, you fool, not even an

ee cummings poem could lock

you down, not even a dream in

a fugue state could animate u,

could stifle u, could trfle u, cld

educte u, cld led u t me, cd c u..

…………………………………………………………

…………………………………………………….

……………………………………..

…………………….

……..

.

Hopkiss

•October 14, 2020 • Leave a Comment

And you even made the label,

designed and formed, a poem

included therein, the “gall, the

heartburn,” all fits into glass,

the care and touch, the bleary

undertaking limited, attached

to graciousness and harmony,

your touch flattery for pagans,

though Popes still know you,

belittled still sunken, roughly

hewn there in glory, morale

the highest it ever was, a hot

August day, dinette tan, green,

the gavel flew from the judge,

the face magical fiber, for my

hand you so did take, along

each path we carry on, ramble

with me for as long as eternity

lasts, typical results standing

ever so still, another one in

each of our hands, thousands

of years to ride among a long

dream together, whether fair

skies call or storms split black,

it’s the finite gestures concrete

in essence, I never forget them,

I will endeavor always keeping

them here, pockets of posies,

and our ashes relax entwined

Bastards Betraying Youth

•August 8, 2020 • Leave a Comment

Around the time I truly became “middle-aged,” I wrote this. I’ve shared it before on or near my birthday, so why not again?

fuck middle age,
wrinkles conspicuous,
faces like used leather,
gray beards, hair, faces,
balls,

forgotten youth,
trampled by
up-and-coming

assholes, fervent
pickled cocksure
men, waggling
their flaccid penises

but we,

pouty, pursed lips,
singing ballads from
decades old radio
shows,
masturbate each
other in front
of loving women,
who hold us tight
at night when we
smile and pretend
not to cry,

ringing in my ears,
I hang up the phone,

fuck your parties.

I’m not coming.

not to rub our elbows,
and talk about old fart
shit, pretend our
faces are dragging
in sand, fat, dripping
cancerous truths,

“Is this gluten free?”

fuck you…
this art sucks,
painted by children,
pretending to hurt,

next is 50, I’ll
take it and run,
burn down the
house, dancing cripple

it’s got to be better than
this death,

pour me a beer,
it’s getting late

no title

•August 4, 2020 • Leave a Comment

this magc moment, if Lou
Reed would have kept the
i out, he would have been
put into his own Tropic of
Cancer, where staunchly,
drunkenly, stately, white
men can use you like poly-
propylene, like we are in
the end, because this magc
moment, less the i of dec-
iet, keeps us separate from
dogs, from cats, bats, rats,
no magc in death, because
there’s no i. no i in me, and
no i in you, it’s filling, used
deep, bothersome, applaud,
laugh, forgo the pleasures,
the neurasthenia happens,
i did it, when i was five old,
no magic there, because i
was in it, and prescient n’
prepubescent, and a pustule
on the ass of my parents’,
who thought i was worthy
of their hatred to each one,
beat in, beat out, i was left
egol-ess and crying, belly
full of worms, shattered
in my room, shaken and
blustering, i, small, i, alone,
i, hate, and it still fills my i
with tears, not even the final
version helped. I transform?

Columns of the Caliphate

•July 24, 2020 • Leave a Comment

We wait, to call home,
to die behind curtains,
all alone

a sickness pervasively,
stalking instinctively,

chattering in the cold,

lines eat insatiably,

yet we journey along,
insipid,
stepping a farce,

he hated those words,
he called me alarmed,

“I’m smarter than you,”
it’s as if he pled,

but I struggled from him,
his hug detritus, long ago –
dead,

in two, in two, I’ll
spit you in
two,

and the scheme was then
fucked, so I relent and I
hung up,

changing to more of a
narrative by then, and less
of poesy, un-poetic proclamation,

then spellcheck relined
my words, another seer
of truth, I thought,

purposless thot, ugli
unrelnting bigott,

suffusing an sufficing until
the end, and then, suddenly,
it at last happened,

end.. end… it all will end,

each line begins, until it ends

Merely Guests

•June 12, 2020 • Leave a Comment

This sweet, unfounded connection,

In which I look for in the blue,

It stares bleakly into my heart,

The stole cold and fur hacked,

It cares not for me or my hand,

Willing to sacrifice me to soil,

But I still pour one out for her;

Warm now, cold as winter’s sky,

Let her dance her callow steps;

As my body rots and feeds her,

Unwilling we all are here atop,

Horses without riders, our brain,

A mane cut and swept for the bin,

And the warmth signals nothing,

Bones for ages – desiccated sons,

Ossified we are – songs’ corruption

Wait, Moloch!

•June 9, 2020 • Leave a Comment

From a Wobbly Drunk to a Dynamo

•April 24, 2020 • Leave a Comment

April 2017

eclecticismgunfight

And it was told, in secret,

once upon a time in the trenches,

so many like us, bled and died

and bleached and lived and wished

for beer, and wished for sex,

but only got shelled, until

the next men came, and died

in the pits, lost and covered in mud;

on that stage, once, in the night’s smear,

I took myself home without blinking,

I read out, cried out, and the girls

still thought I was skinny,

but I learned to tread water, like

my greatest relatives, sunken

and covered in shit, I took a drink

in the closet, and shattered a mirror;

I remembered then, when it was red wine,

and when it only took two, but I

always wished for more, even

after I’d fight with her, and cry

for her, nothing is reflexive about

being drunk, but it’s a ticket to

discovery, and an arrangement

taken…

View original post 68 more words

In Madness, Lilies Appear Brighter

•April 24, 2020 • 3 Comments

April 2017

eclecticismgunfight

She felt the goosebumps grow,

“It could have been more,” she

thought, not now, though, not

in a tin can bus, fused together

electrodes, tempered and fast –

like her father, baring the brunt

of quick wit and burnt tents,

trapped together, her buddies

blaring needles and pins, cat’s

at home in the dump, her train

ticket bled onto her hands, it

was years, no, decades since

she saw him; there in the sun,

that day in May, grasslit hill,

like a movie, no, like a poem she

heard in the eighth grade, an

image of queens in France, she

was the court jester, no, she was

wrong, but his smile swept her

inside the atomic dustbin, and

the glory of the music she heard

since then brought her here, at

home in the streets, gripped

by skeletons and painted trolls,

she bummed a cigarette from

a boy who was…

View original post 19 more words