Girls Like You

•May 26, 2017 • Leave a Comment

It’s always time for tea, and when I looked

at you, that one time in October, while I

felt discomfited, I thought about black tea

and strange girls, the only ones I have ever

known, trance-like faces and eyes, terrors

gripped inside woven fabrics, mixed mesh

melded into colors – unnatural – tattooed like

bikers, and foulmouthed like trash day, but their

beauty beatified, saints and sinners grow up,

and on my lap I waited for them to return,

for their eyes to discover how you move, how

you choose to live, we accepted it, we knew

it was what you knew, I suggested we part,

after all, it wasn’t right, your object filled,

new found sex, but tea was always on my

mind, girls like you liked tea, and I knew

at coffee in the morning, I would put the pot

on, to see you sip oddly, just like you were,

just like the peace you searched for, just like

the pain that you left behind, just like the

crying faces and eyes burnt by your memory,

lost by your choice, just like this tea, this day,

I raise to my lips, in your memory, in a cup

you gave to me, tight in my fingertips,

tight in my mind, spring free and live again,

let us all dance and sing and love, let us

accept this and remedy the pain, I will make

you tea, I will say I’m sorry, please return

to this place, free from suffering,  we’ll heal and

hold all of your love, dance lithe and try again

Blessed are the Lovers

•May 19, 2017 • 4 Comments

Whisper to me, I’m slowly dying,

your hushed tone comforts this

everlasting waste, this nitro fuel

laced drink, the matinee in place,

and I sleep inside of your heart,

a wisp of your blood – a soothing

blanket for my cold life,



forbidden, and I burnt the books,

and I took the looks and laughed

at splashing frogs, buttressed by

creaking logs, before you filled

them with beer and we watched

them as they burst


in a trope, like,

I have never painted, this trance,

fugue, passive, rancid, travesty


we are cupid, we are mermaids,

fueled by harsh waves and ready

doves, I swim inside your throat,


hug me like the last, like I am a

brute force-gale-wind, sick math,

I say, sick until the casket cloth

rots away, until my eye colors

drip from my wretched face, but

I always have you,


in the remains

of the world, when the electric

eels touch your breasts, I will be

the hand in the dark, guiding you

like braille, standing with you for

the moon drop blood clot Cadillac

knapsack, and we’ll press ourselves

to the window,


hoping for one last look at the body,

before the door swings brash, and

the little boys and girls dance wild

on top of the closed trap, once in



forever in death

Bind, Torture, Kill

•May 18, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Motionless and inept, like a dog stuck

inside of a tunnel, with helpless eyes

we watch, with feeble hearts we wait,

and when the sky isn’t falling, it seems

like it always is, but stay away from it,

confuse your senses, when I complete

this life, I can only hope that where I

go next, there will be no politicians or

media to ruin each day and pollute life

with slander and lies, and corruption

and scandal, while we die like stuck

swine, beaten by brown coats, who, at

once, hold us up and push us down, so

we can work harder and die younger,

for nothing ever, and ever, is nothing,

and then the end comes too soon; bushes

grown high, like a spider pedipalps,

reaching the sky’s blues and brushing it

free of pests; let my longing looks be

a death note in your cannon, because

when you wake up at last, your energy

will be released, and truth’s light will

guide you; like cummings, like trust, I

say, “I will not kiss your fucking flag,”

so in the grave I will lay with my back

to your world, smiling rich like a lich

Friday at the Fountain

•May 12, 2017 • 1 Comment

Men with long hair, curled locks faintly faded,

like pirates on a long pier, drunk on rum and

forward in thought, who carouse and unfurl

their thoughts upon each other, and on those

fairer and nearer, even if to no avail at all; cats

on the prowl, on the fence-dark-alley, tepid

smells, garbage cans-sitting-grayly, for ever

in continuum; sunken ballistics, each pheromone

a sick note for siren songs, opposite the bar

blast bagpipes, situated among locked doors

and brushed whores, bait lickers locked on,

for the night ritual bombasts and ages well,

the better moments in life is the onlookers joy.

Money; Dirty

•May 4, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Like a baby asleep in a bin, tufts of hair

swirling to the back, of the lightening

platitudes, sorrel soirees, angry urchins,

perched in the middle of the street, a

cup in their hand, they get more cheese

than I do, under swill wills and motives

under-swept, this dance is old and gray,

yet I still take its hand, grip it like we

are falling fast, to the deepest cairn, the

sepulcher pulchritude, then they watch

me make sounds, like a chimp, chuckle

at my words, throw firm advances, yet

leave the bananas at home, too good for

art, too good for work, too rapt up in

self-pity to pay, but here’s a dollar for

your street troubles, sir; here’s a quarter

for standing statue still, in the sun, warm,

with a plea; I missed the boat, so I’ll try:


Poet                Unemployed            Any

Amount           Will                   Help


From a Wobbly Drunk to a Dynamo

•April 25, 2017 • Leave a Comment

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 out of order, for kindred men


stuck in dikers — I smell them burning,

and I see them coughing, but the booze

is for us, it’s the wound we have

and a blinking light, I always reach

for it, even if it is too high, and I

will always take risks, for it’s the

same, whether you die in a foxhole,

or drown in brandy, home is home.

Foul-Mouthed and Flustered

•April 20, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Then, in the breeze, the sun bright

and her face lithe, flaxen hair sway,

moments bricking and setting up

the last, time after time, eventful

summer Sundays, wasting away in

delight, fires on the porch, her

mouth tastes like wine, breaches

no test, with reckless paramours

like us, shanking the ellipses, stun

and awe, but the fries burnt, and

it went too far, nothing sacred will

stay, and everything that rises

always converges, I trust her sage

wisdom on this, the spot on the sun

is where I die, and it dies with me,

like that time, and this one, and

that one, and you, and this; all of it.