Adult Teenagers on DMT

Adult teenagers on DMT
are first dates where we fucked
fifteen minutes after speaking to the “entities,”
behind the gas station near the Olive Garden.
And later on we ate breadsticks with dilated eyes
like earth angels. In and out of both experiences, inhabiting the bone,
we were spaghetti jesters, crested like a crown. Then, after,
both of us pissed in an alcove near the subway
trying to get home, and we couldn’t be cool or carefree
but we could disassociate deliciously while
while the rolling tongues inside of our mouths
were bowling balls
like how teens used to actually bowl, like,
in the 1950s or something,
but you and I keep the bumpers down
so no matter what we’re always winners.

champagne and freedom

death hangs
in the air

clings to anything
like suicide lovers
stuck out in the sun
past their expiration
date

and no matter how
much your lips taste
like champagne and
freedom

we’ll never make it
out of this hell with
anything more than
bruised egos and
self-inflicted brain
damage

a wasted, broken
youth chasing
our greatest high

Mean Debbie

After Debbie Harry was mean to me
at her book signing
I drank some whiskey
and complained about her
to a guy I know in LA,
during our usual discussion
of black leather strap-ons,
wasted nights, and the hours
we should have spent fucking
instead of driving around in circles
the one time he ever visited
He was bewildered by all
the people walking
and crossing against lights
Not a drop of New York City
runs through his desert blood

From the beginning,
I’d been the more willing partner
Apparently, he’d possessed a set
of boundaries, a condition unknown
to me but not entirely unexpected
A few hours spent in a low rent
Queens hotel out by the airport
and we still write poems about it
a decade later; if we’d spent a week
we’d have a three-act play
or a Greek tragedy
Not sure which of us would die

When I finished talking
to the LA guy, there was nothing
left for me to do except
drink more whiskey
and get fucked in the ass
by a New York City guy
so entrenched in urban life that
he’d never even learned to drive
As soon as he left my apartment
what did I do but call the California
guy to tell him all about it
Mean Debbie, the New York guy,
the fucking, the whole thing
I only told two people how mean
Debbie was to me that day,
the guy who fucked me
and the guy who didn’t
My only comfort is that
I probably had a better night
than Mean Debbie.

She Only Loves Me When She’s Drunk

When we are the last two people
left at closing time

When she is flying down the street,
blowing stop signs,
and opening a wine bottle
with her teeth

“Fuck the police” she says
and passes the bottle to me

I don’t care for wine,
but i drink it anyway

she looks at me,
and with a kiss,
she tells me that she loves me

I take a long drag off my cigarette
and tell her that I love her too

The parkway is lit up like Christmas,
and we are lit up from drinking

I always look forward to those nights,
to hearing “I love you”

She only loves me when she’s drunk

The Pick-Ups

‘He would, I’m sorry, she would
bring guys back from the bars,
mostly, old and fucked-up
horny alcoholics:
he’s, I mean she’s 6ft and paints
his face and dresses as a woman,
short skirt, high heels, he looked
fucking scary I can tell you,
she’d pick up these guys and
bring them back here to fuck,
but when it dawned on them
what the scene was they’d
get angry, frightened and
want to get away:
‘You can fuck him!’ she’d
scream and point to me,
I’d panic and I’d call the
police, the pick-up would
fuck-off fast and my son
would pass-out on the
kitchen floor in his dress
and the police would
arrive and tell me I
was wasting their time’

Sharing

The first time I cut myself,
I hoped I was letting the demons out.
My demons. Fear, hate, insecurity.
I thought I’d be rid of them for good.
I thought I could stare into the mirror
And not want to punch the reflection,
I thought I could smile naturally,
Instead of pretending.
I thought I could be like everyone else,
As the blood spiraled down my wrist,
My arm becoming a macabre candy cane.
I thought it worked. I was euphoric.
Blame it on blood loss.
My do-it-yourself exorcism unsuccessful.
Night turned into day and day into weeks
And my demons remained.

I met Darla at the Laundromat of all places.
I know, how romantic.
Sudsy Malone’s was a combination Laundromat/Bar,
A place where live bands played most nights.
She asked if I had any fabric softener.
I thought she was nuts. I never used fabric softener.
It turns out we had a shared insanity.
Weeks later, she showed me her scars, her demons.
She educated me on many things, including
The writings of Poppy Z. Brite, the Zen of Kite-flying.
And the best ways to remove blood stains.
I introduced Darla to Thai cuisine
and the films of H.G. Lewis.

Now we bleed each other.

Paris by Night,
by Kevin Tosca
Holy&intoxicated Publications

$5:00 / £5:00 / €5:00

Sales and inquiries:
johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk

My Handyman

He opens the blinds
so the sun shines on my naked grin.
He says, “I’m going up to get coffee.
Why don’t you lie there a while
and bask in the glory
of getting your ass hammered.”
Love still drips, my eyes shut.
I thank the Universe
with all my might.
My heart is fixed.

right on a red light in NYC

they say
you shouldn’t turn right
on a red light in NYC
but i am not from NYC
and didn’t realize
that at 2am that rule
remained valid

she said
‘what if a cop saw you?’
i said
‘i guess i’d get a ticket
i’d never pay’

sitting on the couch
she asked permission
to suck my dick
and i smiled
‘why ask?’

it should have taken longer
but i’m impatient
in many different ways

we agreed to meet up
again
in three days

i found my car
and drove away
headed toward Connecticut
but not before
i turned right on a red light

one more time

Night Moves

at a strip club
in Theodore, Alabama
white trash redneck
ambiance
it’s dark
but neon lights illuminate
the toothless meth-heads
with tits

“coming to the stage,
charlotte”
says the dj

then it is seen

a half naked woman
in bra and thong
takes the stage

only one thing

she has one normal arm
and one little chicken wing arm

she tries her best to be sexy
prancing around the stage
then the pole work begins

she rests her little deformed arm
on the pole
and walks around it
normally girls would be
swinging and twirling

my friend pity tips her

I thought
this is fucked up
she should be waitressing
at least she has
one good arm
to hold the tray