some things can never be put back together

Some things can never
be put back together
after they’ve been
taken apart

No matter how much
willpower is involved

One of those things,
she now knew for sure,
was a marriage

Like the one
she was presently fleeing,
flying down the highway
like a fiend or a bat out of hell

Another such thing
could be her right hand
resting severed on the seat
there beside her

Though she wasn’t so
sure about the hand
Maybe if she made it
to the hospital in time?

Maybe

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Blowbang Pythia

She kneels in deck shoes and nothing else
unless you count her tattoos.
The acolytes from off-camera appear.
Surround her, as she sets to work
maintaining all six erect.
She deepthroats one after the other,
after the other, after again the one,
after another other, and so on,
in accelerating succession.
Till the choir takes the wheel,
soloing together –
backflipped beetle,
six legs pumping,
while she fingers herself till the boys climax,
and goo clots with a horror of ecstasy
her skull.
The lingams withdraw, spent,
while she gallops nowhere in a hell
of a hurry, yet on the knees,
riding barelip her fingertip steed,
blind with stud pollen, licking dollops,
camera dollying in to worship
each grinning, bitter gulp.

Sunday

Sunday afternoon.
Sun shining. Cloudless blue sky.
Just me, our dogs, and our dogs are surprisingly quiet.
Perfect. No wife. She has her own priorities.
Time at home alone is like discovering Bigfoot feces
And that Bigfoot shits turds of gold.
No lawn mowers, no leaf blowers, and
No neighbors or their Goddamn squawking kindred.
No other signs of life,
Just birds chirping and squirrels chasing squirrels.
Quiet with a capital Keep-it-that-way.
I’m at one with Nature.
Pornburst on the phone and enough bourbon
To see me through till dinner.
I did say no wife right?
Yeah, I did.
Just have to make sure
She doesn’t read this poem.

Succubus

Succubus sugar bus ride me
ride me paraglide me
The ghost is a hustler she crawls like a reptile
Sextile percentile her cunt wraps around me
in darkness she found me
I feel her heart beat like a Super 8 film
project’d on a beat brick wall
I was bedridden there was dead rhythm
Is this a bedtime story a Grimm fairy tale
I’m a ghost now you’re a ghost
You’re mine she said
Bit my neck like a vampire
Bit my head like a mantis
By the stroke of dawn
there were two ghosts
not one

Porn Sheik

I miss the old days.
Slumped in a gloomy theater
smelling of old men and semen.
Up on the screen:
Abigail, Annette, Leslie – daisychaining to
beat the band. Sloppy tongues triggering trembles
along nyloned thigh, calf, ankle, toe, scarlet nail.
I’d for hours, taking in the double-bill, gawk.
Pick teeth; swallow now and then dry spit. Reel
after reel, guys, remarkable for their poles,
one by one the starlets take.
Smorgasbord of orgasms faked.
Take, in the end, the bus – breathing innercity funk –
back to my hovel, redolent of mildew, roaches,
mice, poetry read to the walls. Collapse
across the mattress.
Let the pictures behind the eyelids roll,
lapsing into thought trapped in the lap.
Till the nap, delirious as the blank page,
quick death chases.

No Reason

We had been drinking for three days,
we’d hardly slept or eaten: we had
just opened a bottle of wine and he
came at me, I don’t know why:
the punch to my face came from
nowhere and I sprung back in
shock and then fired three
punches to his face and head and he
hit the floor and through his cut
lips he began laughing: I sat
down beside him, poured two
glasses, blood seeping from my
nose, discolouring the wine
as the sun began her descent,
as we embraced and waited
for something else to happen.

Frozen Milk

I never understood the term
colder than a witch’s tit
I’ve known a few witches
in my day and all of their
breasts were a perfectly
normal and pleasant
ninety-eight degrees
give or take
just don’t ask me how
I know the temperature
of a well-digger’s ass

Pussy Whipped

“If she’d given him a shit sandwich,
he’d have asked her
for a chaser of piss,”
Claudette McCoy sighed,
taking a deep drag from her Pall Mall.
The smoke dribbled from her nostrils
as from a pair of hookah hoses.

She sat across the kitchen table
from her husband, Ron,
lamenting her teenage son’s broken heart.
He’d just been dumped
by a girl who considered herself
too good for him.
Amber had moved on
to a more ambitious boy.

Claudette tried not to feel contempt
for her son, having pegged Amber
a climber the moment she met her.

“I felt the same way about you,”
Ron commented, “when we started dating.”
It made Claudette smile.
Her husband always knew
the right thing to say.

attrition

four in the morning
listening to tori amos

remembering all those
years ago, when forever
seemed possible

and then you remember
that those bright days
were reserved for
someone better
than you

you wasted your talents
so, you have to survive
on scraps

enjoy the taste of shit
and failure and debt

embrace a future that
has no rewards

no romantic lead in
some movie that you
always wanted to write

chase down the needle

the train

the last bus to ever
leave this hell

attrition is the slowest
death you could ever
imagine