Straight Roll Me Some Bangkok Sevens

Debbie did Dallas an’ you can’t go ask Alice
what’s down the black rabbit hole
unless she’s strappin’ liquid gold
inside her suicidal cunt
the last I saw her tho, she was token
on a triple X ‘tasy blunt
with the Ron’s and the Jeremy’s
cock’s more massive than my inner savage
ravagin’ me, and my thoughts have no manners
‘specially when you’re sittin’ there eyein’ my distress
arms folded against your chest … and your biceps
got my soiled lips gyratin’ in between my hips
yeah, Baby, love, I can feel the heat off your heat
masturbatin’ behind your juicy boy jeans
I can bet my life you fuck like a machine
more ruthless than those dildos strapped 
to steel poles where bitches open wide
as those barbaric men slip those rubber dicks inside
depressin’ those hard buttons, whippin’ that zombie pussy
into nothin’ but the wrath coagulatin’ n’ constrictin’
behind somethin’ you couldn’t grasp
not even by the dominance of your shaft ’cause I’m blinded
with such a fury I’m liable to choke rather
than to provoke you into a penile cardiac stroke; 
but hold still to the will of my violence settlin’ in
’cause I don’t want to please ya, in honesty
I don’t really need ya but damn you got me burnin’ hot
and those witchy tubes strapped to my bitchy lubes
need a good lynchin’ like an asphyxiation
the need to feel your strangulation six feet below with
tool’s hummin’ and a strummin’ ‘neath a lyrical undertow
but as Susie weeps with her band of fans & banshees
let it be known it’s all about me
so fuck all this carnal despair
will you be a good gentleman and take me there
to the Devil’s casino, I want to cast its dice  
and straight roll me some Bangkok sevens
tonight I want to see your Hells repent with my orgasmic Heavens 

Blood Honey

Pulled 
into breath,
lingering 
and damp
under nostrils’ slow 
b   u   r   n,
wet tips of tongues
melt,
dart,
and slide
into syrupy tangles,
furious 
with hot spit and
exhales, sweet as
red pomegranate.
Your little gasps
(my little deaths)
fire 
cutting teeth
and hungry lips,
drawing us 
in,
spitting us
out—
blood honey in a syringe—
into the heavenly hell 
of this hypodermic love—the sugar 
in my veins.

***

Originally published at Fugitives & Futurists

always have some liquor nearby

it’s a cold moon 
in a hollow autumn
sky

loud sounds in 
the distance

the freaks like to 
scare each other 
at this time of 
night

a few miles to 
home, car broken 
down again

the old injury you 
never had checked
aching the foot 
once again

an old friend told 
you to always have
some liquor nearby 
because you never 
know

you forgot the 
brown paper 
bag

no one drinks 
this shit anymore 
anyways

My Inopportune Boner

He is a disgraced politician
serving a citizenry of clandestine animals.
He ruins everything
he touches. He comes
into contact with unremarkable strangers and surreptitiously records them
on obsolete technology. On summer evenings,
he often lounges in his leather chair, thumbing a bottle of J&B, adorned
with comically large headphones and uses his venal lips to re-create
the sound of hip bones breaking and reforming.

The Killer Who Never Was

Childhood
was a golden time
of grabbing flies
out of the air
with my tiny hand,
squeezing them unto death,
then pulling off their wings,
tossing away the body,
but saving those appendages
in a jar.

Adulthood was a disappointment.
Annoying creatures buzzed all around –
too big for me to handle,
too complex for me to desecrate.

Thankfully, 
old age is also a golden time.
My bones are weak.
My reactions are slow.
But flies mob my rotting body.
Every swoop of hand
grasps at least one.

The wing jar is full
but it could have been
so much fuller.

DOWN BOY

Burn the witch and all that jazz, eh?
Sit down boy, for a quick lesson today?
This one doesn’t involve any spanking
Sorry to disappoint; you lack ranking.
Do you dare dismiss the poetess?
Fuck up her mind with your toxic kiss?
Do you dare hide the razors and knives
to bore her with your shallow dives?
Do you dare dream of a grand vacation
fucking your side chick at the Days Inn?
Do you dare ask to have your glass refilled
after ordering the hit for her spirit killed?
Do you dare daydream of a life so fair
while making hers a waking nightmare?
Do you dare not answer, darling?
Do you not hear Karma calling?

***

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Deborah Does Dallas

Don’t phone Freud-admit it: When Debbie sheds 
her cheerleading outfit in the opening scene,

pubic hair like some barn animal, 
tan lines stenciled like where Gary’s Oakleys go, 

she is our mother, young again, 
using it while she had it;

every gripe, 
every revelation, 

every dream out of reach
once assigned full parenting duties.

Frankie, question: Are we to believe 
she fucked a whole city?

Slut-shamers! So what if she did? 
We were miracles, Frankie, maculately conceived. 

So why so afraid of what a mother did?

We aren’t the storyboarders of every bedroom,
not romance novelists, not the fuck police,

certainly no angels ourselves; According to our records 
we jerked off 26,142 times since adolescence, 

chalked up one and a half today. 

We presume Deborah never prioritized pleasure,
never went searching for the G spot,

rarely enjoyed Gary flopping on top like 
the smallmouth bass at the bottom of his Jon boat.

We know she elegantly or inelegantly
evaded hundreds, if not thousands 

of men’s advances, several assaults,
and still she kept the Victoria’s Secret Catalog 

in the bathroom, scrubbed the toilet seat, 
hauled baskets of crumpled socks and yellow-stained briefs

to the laundry. Load upon load upon load.
She dutifully waited by the door, Frankie, 

while we used up her fancy hand cream,
the only luxury she ever allowed herself.

How I Met Your Mother

My friend Roger invited me to a pheromone party.
Not a spur-of-the-moment decision.
You had to sleep in the same T-shirt three nights running,
put the shirt in a plastic bag,
bring it to the bash.

It was at the apartment of a woman named Kim,
a friend of Roger’s,
about twenty of us, ten males, ten females.

We all walked around the dining table
where the bagged shirts lay, as if at a laundry, 
casually sniffing the odors. 

A few of the people gagged and left,
apologizing to Kim as if they’d committed some serious faux pas.
Others simply didn’t see the point,
smelled, wrinkled their noses, raised eyebrows,
frowned or laughed, poured themselves a drink.
Some even danced.

But Lori and I found the scent of each other’s sweat
alluring, galvanic.
We separated from the others
like shirts from skin in an air-conditioned room,
talked all night, touched.

Several days later I called her.
The rest is history.
Roger was my best man. Who else?
“We met at a party,” we always say,
whenever anybody asks.

Couldn’t do it

(for Dillinger)

“fire your art director” she ordered
“I can get you places”
“You need me”
“I’m in marketing, sex sells, your covers are unappealing”
25 years old
she had the manuals
the finished product
existence complete
life-hacked
“fire your art director”
we smoked some pot
she drank
I had been booze free
26 days
now narc dazed
“Almost 26 and a professional…fire your art director.”
she sucked me off
tried to stay only to hear her talk and demand
“We’ll be unbeatable, go places you could never go. Fire your art director.”
I got up
put my clothes back on
gathered my grinder, 
my vape
my edibles
wallet and keys
(didn’t want this to be the most expensive blowjob ever)

And Who Among Us

We sing our broken songs

all of us here abandoned 
in the trash heap 
of the 21^st century

adrift in the algorithms

god’s lonely fire
in our veins

caught like flies 

between the last playoff game
and the next celebrity death

the cardboard reality 
of each tired afternoon

a secret we’re too 
afraid to tell

we toss the days aside 
like unwelcome gifts 

imagining we are hungry 

for something other 
than what we’ve known

and what is left alive
in this city but the ghosts?

what music 
what poetry?

what unnamed things
to call our own?

what blood
is left in the sun

and who among us  
remembers how to burn?