stuck in traffic at 530am on my way to work

traffic’s bad today
well, at least, worse than usual
i don’t like using the word worse in a poem
but this time
it fits

the usual traffic is a soul sucker
read in Time Magazine
your lifespan decreases a minute
for every minute you sit in traffic

locked in a metal box
all us lemmings queued up
inch by miserable fucking inch
we go

every day i almost die in traffic
the lunatic fringe surrounds me
maniacs race for every foot forward
brake lights flicker like sparklers on the Fourth of July
Death Race 2000 on speed

this morning
i pulled next to a young entrepreneur
in a new BMW
leaving 100-foot gaps between cars
i scream my profanities
but he just smiles languidly

his co-pilot performs fellatio at 530am
his head bobbing, up and down
i can’t imagine performing fellatio
at 530am in the morning
stuck in traffic

i’m not opposed to fellatio in a car
in traffic on a freeway
but at 530am i am pretty much
opposed
to everything

It’s Happening

It’s happening tonight in the local estate
It’s happening in the council houses
As people wobble home in an inebriated state
Fall asleep as they drop their trousers

The fog is licking at the windows
It’s sniffing at the doors
It’s sneaking through the keyholes
Bringing something not seen before

Escaped from hidden army base
Only a few miles out of town
Clean-up crew, to the scene they race
They’ve got to shut this fucker down.

In the estate, some people stir
Upon hearing an eerie growling
They see their loved ones covered in fur
Enjoying their disembowelling

Only a few houses could have been infected
At least, they hope that’s it
The inhabitants must be inspected
And dealt with as is seen fit

In the morning, the fog will be recovered
Several citizens  “removed ”
When their disappearance is discovered
The neighbours will simply be told, they moved.

Break

We take a break,
or more so,
you take a break
from me.
And I pretend
to be more patient
then I actually
will be.

We’re on a break,
and I feel pretty
broken up
about it.

Separate rooms,
separate minds,
and separate paths.

If I could date my twin,
I would,
but I wouldn’t really.
I’m an awful selfish thing,
and I’d need
a whole lot more
than she could give.

Give you back
all the pedestals
you’re always falling off of.
If only I’d have known better,
I could have helped
you down.

We’re on a break,
and my crown of thorns
is breaking.
I was certain
I was meant
to be a martyr,
and then you went
and died for
my sins.

Restart, begin.
Rewind the time
I once fucked/
was fucked
by him.

My headrush,
my head spins.
Ran out of papers,
outran my old skins.

Explosions of Molten Rock and Teenage Flesh

Beer-soaked dreams
of topless girls
And dormant mountain tops
suddenly awakened

Ash drifted down
upon the old town streets
As we walked arm in arm
a newfound love
amidst impending cataclysm

But I take what I can get
In this doomed life

Restless Thoughts, Lustful Somnambulism

Oh, to taste a thousand deaths upon bended knee,
Eyes wide; drowning within temptation’s sea,
Head lowered; bound by this devilry,
Tasting the bittersweet honey of debauchery,
Butterfly kisses; lash of the belt,
Euphoric tears; heavenly welts,
Rising and falling; a tide between spread legs,
Whispered pleas; for blissful sensation beg,
As the stage is set; the curtain drawn,
Flesh, the canvas, carnal desire is bestowed upon,
A shudder, a whimper; spent and sighing,
A little death; a ritual, purifying.

Blue Room

Nights
are hardest to bear,
alone,
atop these unwashed sheets
that smell of you and me,
still,
crinkled and heavy
with ghosts
of you and me—
our sweat and loving juices.
I am tethered
to flashes of smiles and kisses
that linger
beneath the sweetness
of heated exhales.
To smell your breath,
again,
and taste you
on the back of my tongue.
To pull you into me
by the small of your back
and sink
into the warmth of white musk–
a tangle of tongues, fingers, and limbs.
To have you—
know you—
again,
inside
and out
is all I want.
Need.
Laying here,
drowning
in us,
my legs brush against the cold
rustle of sheets
you left behind,
cutting the airlessness
of this room.
Rolling over,
I close my eyes
and sink my face into the depths
of your pillow,
escaping the void
that even silence’s ring has forgotten,
and take you
in,
drowning
in us,
this lover’s kaddish.
The scent of your hair—
blue fig and oranges—
and spit
are but pebbles on the gravestone.

 

(Originally published at Former People Journal)

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