Retribution

She backed up the car
excited
when she heard the thud of metal against his flesh.
She pulled the car forward 
nearly coming in her pants
when the car lurched over his prostrate body. 
Throwing the car in reverse
she flattened him again
giddy at the release of pent-up rage
simmering inside her like a smoldering volcano.
When the police came
she held out her arms to receive the cuffs
glowing for the gathering crowd.
And when photographers eagerly asked her to hold that pose
she beamed like a young bride on her wedding day.

unrequited love 

it was love 
at first sight; 
i tasted you 
on my lips 
and felt 
intoxicated. 
you had sting 
and bite 
but felt 
so right. 
the yrs. 
rambled on 
and i consumed 
you 
excessively. 
you made me 
sick, 
depressed, 
and broke. 
you made me 
forget 
who i was 
at times. 
but i drowned 
in you 
lustfully. 
addicted to 
your intoxication. 
you stole time 
and health. 
almost 
my life! 
i had to 
divorce you! 
now i love 
myself 
instead of 
being cheated 
by you, 
hooch!

Troll

The off-his-trolley troll posted on my feed: ‘I’m lonely.’

But it came out as: ‘You’re a poncey wog-loving fuckwit who deserves to have his spastic face bitten off by a rabid Rottweiler on cocaine.’

Then the off-his-trolley troll posted: ‘I just need someone’s attention.’

But it came out as: ‘I hope your sister gets raped by a monkey.’

Then the off-his-trolley troll posted: ‘All I want is to be loved.’

But it came out as: ‘You’re a fat and ugly cunt. Why don’t you do us all a favour and kill yourself?’

So, I finally posted back: ‘I love you’,

And he posted back: ‘Poofter.’

Enrique

I like you better with longer hair
When it falls past your ears,

How you occasionally blow it out of your face.
For me it’s those button dimples when you smile.

Yeah, I love you most when you’re drunk
And stumbling in a stall behind me

Where the streams of our piss
Pops in a pool of toilet water.

I remember our kiss
When you were kind enough to say,

No, I don’t want to lead you on.

Reno, Tahoe, Vegas

Reno, Tahoe, Vegas
Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus
from the streets to the sheets
on my heels in my wheels
Reno, Tahoe, Vegas
black sheep to London, New York, and Paris

I went looking for America
but alas, she didn’t want me
no drugs in my jeans for her, you see
she was an opioid whore
gone to seed
sluttony, gluttony and selfish greed

Scarsdale to Scottsdale
Austin to Boston
give me your tired
give me your poor
so I can throw them in prison
that’ll teach them for sure

Come on little son
turn on little girl
pull out your cracked harmonica
let’s go discover America

America cares
like a bandage at a beheading
the lizard eternally shedding
itself from the rest of the world
like a spoiled teenage girl

How can you call this
the land of the free
get me some drunks to spell “liberty”
line my jails with hobos and whores
white people lynching
round the Christmas tree

Never cared much for that city life
didn’t buy into that country hype
All the valleys and the alleys
gaudy sports cars
crashing into gaudier sports bars
kids hawking outdated Maps To The Stars

Come on little son
turn on little girl
pull out your cracked harmonica
let’s go discover America

Didn’t really care for Route 66
all it ever did was dump me off
in the sticks
Fifties diners mobbed by drunken Shriners

This world spin and spun
like carnival art
until it looks like something
that makes you want to throw darts

Come on little son
turn on little girl
pull out your cracked harmonica
let’s go discover America

Aka Disc Over America

God of Desire

earrings in my mouth
air thick with incense
my room is a brothel
and sacred grotto
beneath the tapestry
of Giordorno Bruno
burning with his dream
in constant paradise
your legs on my shoulders
are my wings
my hands are your necklace
wear it, priestess
Babalon, scarlet woman
incarnation
ornament of heaven
feather of Eros
labrodite idol
obsidian flame
on your knees in 
supplication
receive my blessing
my curse
my little death
your profession is
longing
and my God is
Desire

A List of Things I Have Stolen from, or Just Never Returned to, Ex-Lovers

Mostly I’m thinking of the two things I half-stole
from Paolo. The book and the knife. I didn’t really
steal them. I mean the book, he let me borrow it,
and when I broke things off he didn’t ask for it
back, so I figured it was mine to keep. The knife
is another story. Let me start by saying: I don’t
know why I was with him. Our whatever-it-was
lasted less than a month and that was a month
too long. Let me start by saying: it was a time
in my life when I flung myself at anyone
and everyone who’d have me, hoping something
would stick, to distract myself from the feelings
I had for this guy I was in love with, like, angel
chorus, slam pit, no amount of whiskey in the
world could get me past this, I want to have
10,000 of his babies, oh God I think he’s The One,
in love with, because I was too scared to tell
him or even admit the truth of it to myself. Enough
excuses. Back to Paolo. He was a jealous
macho jerk wrapped in the body of a scrawny,
swoopy-banged emo kid. He was an asshole,
and also a total dumbass. One example:
soon after our first date, he tried to impress
me by saying he ‘used to be in Yellowcard,
before they got famous.’ Which was a.
a total lie, I checked, and b. dude, if you’re gonna
lie and say you were in a band to try and
impress me, at least pick a band I like. He
could’ve said he was in Black Flag and I
might’ve half-believed him—everyone was in
Black Flag. Another example: the time I
went to the Kwik Mart across the street
from my apartment to buy a 40 oz.
of Icehouse. I was gone all of ten minutes
and in that ten minutes Paolo called me fifteen
times and when I returned his call and
told him where I’d been he accused me
of fucking the Kwik Mart clerk. (You’re right,
dude, I totally fucked him! And when I left,
he said: “Thank you! Cum again!”) Two
weeks in and I already wanted to cut
and run, I mean we’d only been on a few
dates and had only fucked like twice; we
hadn’t labeled our relationship and I was
still seeing several other people, and speaking
of cutting, we’re getting to the knife now—
One night Paolo was lying on my bed, holding
his knife. Not a true switchblade, but it had
a release button which you’d press down
then flick your wrist and snap! The silver
blade—half-serrated, half-not—would pop
out from the shiny black sheath-handle.
Then you’d push it down and click it back
in again. So he’s lying there, idly playing with
his knife, and, flick! “You know,” he said.
Snap! “If you ever cheat on me?” Click. “I’ll
kill the person you cheat with,” flick. “Then,”
snap! “I’ll kill myself.” Click. Flick, snap!
He traced the blade across the veins of
his skinny little wrist, lightly, not drawing
blood, but. What the shit, dude? For me to
cheat on you we’d have to be exclusive,
which we are not, and if you think we are,
you gotta get out of my bed and my life, like,
yesterday. Is what I should have said. Or:
“Oh, you wanna slit your wrists? Be sure to go
down the road, not across the street.
Make it count!” But I didn’t because, look,
I was drunk and yeah, he was scraggy
and pathetic and I could beat him
at arm wrestling but it’s kinda scary when
someone threatens you with murder-
suicide. So I just made some noncommittal
hmmm sound and pretended I hadn’t really
heard him. Did I mention his dick game
was weak as hell? And he was a fucking
whiner. Constantly woe is me I can’t find
a job I’m always broke you’d rather spend time
with your friends than me I’m so lonely the
world is out to get me, blah blah blah, poor
lil’ hipster whiteboy, meanwhile if I said
anything about something shitty in my life
he’d brush it off as so much nothing compared
to what he was going through. About a week
after he’d made those threats he lost
his knife, and that became his newest proof
that the world had it out for him. Yeah.
Paolo was a veritable god damn carnival
of red flags. I finally broke things off about
a week later—because he’d read my
fucking diary and had the nerve to get angry
with me over what he’d read there. Less
than a month after that when I was packing
up my shit, getting ready to leave that
apartment and hit the road, I found his knife
under my bed. And I still had that book
he’d let me borrow. I guess I could’ve called
him but I had less than zero desire to ever
see him again so the book and the knife
went on the road with me. The knife became
my traveling companion; my reward for
having to tolerate that shitface, Paolo.
The book, which was Rocky Horror related
though I can’t remember how exactly, I sold
to a bookstore for store credit, which I spent
on a stack of postcards and an anthology
of stories about Pittsburgh.

the silver-tongued casanovas sticking their lying cocks into slippery cunts 

she was late, 2 minutes, 
to the date — 7.02pm 
and she apologised. 
I appreciated her 
candour. later 
back at hers after 
some foreplay 
she told me she 
was a virgin and 
I thought of breaking 
it off then. her first 
some sick fuck like 
me who wasn’t 
planning on sticking 
around. she was a great 
girl mind but she didn’t 
fit my type. she was 
a church girl for 
chrissakes. a different 
kind of Sunday service. 
she never 
said a word when  
I took the lord’s name in 
vain. she was hooked on 
the idea of a future. 
she wanted the lies, 
she’d believe them. 
a relationship, all the 
familiar tropes. the silver 
tongued casanovas 
sticking their lying cocks 
into slippery cunts. and 
here I was, a hypocrite 
doing the same thing. 
I was filling a need, a 
consumer in a consumer 
culture; I was becoming 
a marketing machine. 
and I knew it wouldn’t 
last so I grabbed her 
phat ass with both hands 
and stuck my wet tongue in 
deep. I never fucked her 
though. did us both a 
favour.

Down at Turk and Taylor

You can still go to the Tenderloin 
on a Saturday night and lose yourself

in the noise and the terror 
of the dirty shining streets

the life and the death 

swirling about in the lights 
and the rain

you can evaporate into the cries 
and the laughter of the broken 
and the lost

buy a poet’s heart
down at Turk & Taylor
no more damaged than the next  

stop for a drink  
in some little place

hip hop on the jukebox
pretty girls playing pool 

try and get a few lines down
before they’re gone 

try and give a voice to this

to glean some kind of truth
from the lonely men at the bar

imagining the right word 
the right line 
will open a window 
into something necessary

and trick another moment from the world 
that has already forgotten your name.