insert/p(ill)-swal[low_battery]: +powersmile –hushcharge
assimilating our way into heaven would be murderous. how we persistently pursue it in current hell. every violence imaginable just to get in first, just to access some personal conception of god. listen to the quivering prayers and mumbled yearnings of a shameful of shams. the universe points and laughs, just as we do with our stubbornly deluded. an atmosphere has gassed us with life. still, we...
so I’m the asshole coz I’ll say it: most men just wanna piece you. frown, when I’m not most men. incapable of being most any thing in fact. credit me this crease of anus then. you’ve let me be your man.
Untitled Lament No. 28
words will not have you. dreams have you taken away. you are the one poem worth failing. so remain unfinished enough to forget we even quite met.
the scrawling on the walls of my skull. the black sun in an only right eye. the senile face of the moon up close. the daggers in your sharply cut smile. the inoperative mind’s divorced patient heart. the toiled ache in achieving so much of little. the headstone time cements for the past. the discontents of happiness by freuds. the oblivious...
two words: nose rides. sybians got nothing on Pinocchio. if you build ‘em, they will cum. we’ll make millions. your partner, Jiminy
The Bastille of Thought
I, petulant by doleful disposition, succumbing to catacombs of pity unto this serrated image of self, refusing to pardon or attest to this innate aberration of the mind malformed by relapse and grind, testify to the body as a boiled blood cauldron of malarial composites and feces, the body as a brattish burden cavity of involuntary and derisory feats, and revolt, alternating as servant or...
this is . . . a line . . . h u n g
The Stars of Insignificance
as real as your god of false divinity, I am here to think and swell. is this or death the great sublimity? surely, no man can tell. that sun, moon, this earth with its formula of fools, these days, these nights, time, and our irregular space, saturated with sickness and senseless swine. like a star, born to die, insignificance is you and I.
The Dream They Devised
running at the clock with the intensity you grudgefuck your ex with, late for the shit you wish you flushed yesterday. stop to breathe that monoxide you’ve missed. and oh! look at all the cars scarring the same road. scars! saving time to pardon a piss, can’t spare a second to shake, still upset the morning porn used you like a colleague, know that you’re not misery yet. no. not...
Be the Jaguar
when loneliness is too much to confront, expose your claws. there’s a time to catch prey and there’s a time to make kittens. carry yourself with the certainty you will subsist, with the confidence that the purr and the cuddle awaits those capable of proving their pulse and their heat. possess yourself truly with the mystical genius that composes the grand...
Bah, Bah, Black Sheep
I wanna be a hundred million people; to be something I see every day – success & ignorance. I need that. I’m an easy rape, a delicate tumor, a sweaty carcass, a black sheep with no legs. honourable, conquerable, unnecessary, undesirable, uncategorized, undone. I’m an erection for a nun. my diction’s unsung. just a black sheep with no legs. no herd. no shepherd. no desire to...
Son Ami Malveillant
talentfed, he had slurred lines from the blackout hat; remorseful morsels of the brainworm sperm. his day malnourished, unprayed of sunpiss & nightshit & rainspit & windrape. pledged to thrill-illness of spirit, he surrendered to carpet-bite. bottom-bombed, he reminisced of the concubine mimes; pre-relationshite cough-y-meet fuckflirts; clownfarces of cacks hooved & hidden...
an hour’s work offends my boss from the floor. sends me home for being drunk on the jobby. done smelling of cabbage and onion anyway. stop for spuds and pizza on the walk home. picnic on the sidewalk with a night’s rain. some gin and punch to ease off the worry. the surreal warmth of a last cigarette. carry myself to a blanket on a dry bed. it’s so good to sleep in dirty clothes.
the sulking vagina downloads a dick and refills her IV of liquid sunshine. emptiness breeds. bludgeon into being stark new lives with brainless optimism and chipper agenda. tabula rasa fooled. we got professors and pornstars and pushers and poets, hell, even priests. letting go of life. take mono no aware and sleep at least. no one really cares about the sad beast.
ya, ya, a thousand pardons. please, beg, beg some more. how may I help you? and a heap of city thank yous. I steam fresher logs than the air in this shitty. I smoke better than I sleep. I can’t tolerate to massacre one more bloody mood. the day‘s glossed with new cars and fancy teeth. I challenge one some won mister miss some body to make a reflection that doesn’t glare...
pool tables are slutty. coz they’re green with gonorrhea. coz they’re happy to get balled.
staring contest with the cat. my eyes falter, his follow like a lazy fire. we are cozy mammals on the third floor. his white mittens. my naked bear paws. we doze like overdosed muppets.
daily antiroutine. these lies go vagabond. this rejection thrills the gods. one riff meant to shatter heaven. tell me I’m dying, doc’s been trying. cigarette in mouth, I’ve been smiling. words fuel this midnight express. call me a kennedy, call me a fuck sore. there’s no chore for much less. I can’t settle with proper, it’s not proper. I depend on your optimism to bring me down. reality’s...
The Jester's Tears
I pen this on the same page as a joke. life isn’t so funny when you see an old drug addict cry. when the chicken crossed the road, it didn’t. vigil.
down-tuned the fat E, started to tap my foot, leaned in on my slouch, tossed away the pick, jived a manic thumb, depressed the fingers, let slip a special girl, let go a bad year, even let in some day, for a change, anyway. three sound tunes later, and finally me again, momentarily unmad in this melody, unmistaken like moonlight, I am...
Get the Hobo
end of last winter. the sun finally joked. this bum snoozed hard and terrific on a concrete bench. think he was smiling. think it just turned spring. think it was a benz. rich kids with snowballs. they sped off roaring. he got up wiping. saw it in his grimace: another dream lost. karma must have car crash experience. I like to wonder.
honest cafe, cruel coffee. withdrawn routine afternoon. choice novel, Hemingway’s Jake mouthing off lines. old codger’s headache. the alcoholic’s cravings. abused lyrics on the radio. tail-wags dandying around. can’t get this nightmare of the smug masses outta me. can hardly read, let alone think without distraction. but when enough’s enough, a triumph’s not...
The Drunken Sisyphus
those unproteined Monday mornings, ungraceful in my step on the shitty city side walk. have the fourth beer I said I wouldn’t trail the first. deplete myself of energy for the white light dungeon. walk to work in a gutter, shaken, licked up. street urchins nod at me through hoods & bags of chips. unknown whys and last week’s memory mugged into a haze. puns roll around the dodgy...
as if the world stares. as if you’re the one excuse. I do what I’ve done, key-stroked in blues. I do what I haven’t, bottles capped in dust. make me say what I wanna hear. attempt to say what you won’t bother to. swallow the bullet before I trigger-pull it? if I found god I’d kill him, too. there’s easy. then there’s knowing your place. there’s one...
A Shitty Poem
in my spare time I like to grow beards and drink tea and pretend I give a shit. it just beats sitting at home and not giving two shits. then I realize for the most part I do give a shit. so I write bad shit about bad shit to prepare for the really bad shit. it’s pretty shit.
when you are a passing of time, a fragility of mine, a weakness I fall for; my alliteration, allusion & annoyance; I fail, like the rest of mankind, to your ass. coz drama makes a fuck fuckable.
to let this matter canker into cancer. to let this hope ripen only to rot. sanctity was imposed. purpose is promised. love’s in delirium. hope’s just a war. shall we perfect the present to purchase a future? the sad things we do when we’ve given up. it’s an untidy ambivalence, this work-in-progress. we eat to energize to shit. we claim our owes but offer shit. we work to...
taintmufflers, arsehole known as hipsters; (wince-worthy subjects) calculating posers; (while posers are wannabes, and wannabes are try-hards) or ironicholics; (when irony’s a sexually exhausted gunt: [dare notice] can’t thumb it right proper, silly in the grip of an unaroused wank. [try harder] tickle-be-stink. don’t make fun of my ...
make your judgments. in this privacy you’re oh so permitted. let’s break a few free promises and share that degree of an angle but only in the converse. we’ll rise from six feet under and find sanctuary in the torment of truth and reason, however illogical we regret it seems. by that time we’ll be hand-in-hand, star dust to star dust, praying for a hernia or giving birth to oblivion,...
gone to the moon. forgot to pack pharmaceuticals. now I’ll know why I left.
The Surgery of Will
a practical incision. remember, the sky’s the eye. salvation’s in a current. creeping through stark highways. drained, the yawns fail to fool. artifacts of neglected prophecy – clotted memories, lesion-worry, flaccid synergies, an internal cemetery. a figure, coiled within shadows of worms hissing silently, bloated and greyed. shivering in the gelatins, it is Clarity; the nude...
Space Is a Dead Sea
you rain resentment from my eyes. then I feel the space between us. lonely is this cabin in the city. lonely is this forest in the building. loneliness like Atlantis in the Cosmos.
impersons will try. when the guiltmakers & shitstalkers & takeburners & warnearners & herdlearners corner you into their nay-say, stand firm in letting go. knuckles relaxed, mind in arson, look a weak ideology straight in the eye, then head jab it. hard. there’s a mirthful laughter in coughing up blood. I’m all bad decisions. we’re all gonna choke on our very own spit. I’m all sad...
Adults Make Logic Sick
twilight’s armpit: serial killers spend the night cuffed to my head. snoring in the moonlight, let me catch that opportunity at breath. an alarm clock pulsates until my eyes beep. I was only trying to bring dead grandpas back to life. balding sun: piss shine leaks through stale curtains. this apartment’s sweating spores and tar jizz. daddy, what is incongruence? a new morn! misery sucking...
Specters of a Poet-Apocalypse
exhausting the urge outta my system with AK-47 versefire: diction loaded for the first time; shotgun ready to punctuate. vendetta of the vagrant: the bloodshed of I. crude vultures linger above, impatient, as I will not fester, only creep from the skin. exposed of selves and tried on by the earth, axed into reason by this other Self, wounded to exist for This other self, bled to become this...
Delusions for an Ice Queen
do you hold the moon hostage and steal its shine in the meantime? in your spare time I bet you bring dead flowers back to life. in dreams Shakespeare demands I forge his sonnets just for you, and Camus avec une cigarette comes by to ask for your name: mademoiselle?… how lovely, I must chat with her again. in a past life, I learned you were to marry J. Merrick, but he said: I’d rather...
my eyes are snakeskin in friction with the sun. smoke clouds the purity of my vision as I exhale. perfection is nothing, yet hand to my charm. thoughtful debris illiterates the mind; I admit to excess and confess to malady. but what of this passion I wish I could ration? if it’s not general malaise, it’s overwhelming unrest. usually it’s just all of it – inhumanely, all of it. and as stagnancy...
dull the encounter of being, tire the senses to a standstill, maybe we can breathe. dispose of the intellect, trade imagination for currency, maybe we can sleep. oh, it is a terrible sun to evolve with, shoes staggering achingly into years. ah, it is some telling of the paper, maimed honest to have filled its page. and of what else, but to find recovery in inspiration, as to arm precision down to...
Repose in Vain
and I’ll kiss this whole day away dreaming of her in a time and place that belongs to the 25th hour, alien calendar, libertine dimension or forgotten parallel. I’ll smoke out a morning to signal to the sun: I’m done. I’m done. my blood is too forceful, ache too strong, tears too knively, too sharp for the snares of the mind. I’ll scour out something raw, build scaffolds of rage, sick poetry upon...
just beat the day into a draw. soup’s been had, or creamed ice. solitude for a ball-scratch, possibly of the pen. and to spill twenty-six years of laughter into the ‘welcome home, asshole’ of humble bedsheets, or face-to-fuzz floor, as Maron mics the podcast with his heady what-the-fucks, it’s likely how I’ll drift than with some convenience of cock-pull. coz snatching a few sleepy smiles...