she has the eyes
of some exotic
goddess that
shouldn’t be
talking to
someone like
me
and when she
said i was the
man of her
dreams
i laughed
either she’s
fucking blind
or it’s just
another scam
artist that
thinks a poet
has money
imagine that
it felt nice seeing old
friends happily
disappearing into a beautifully
constructed nightmare
meanwhile back in your place
for the fifth time this month
i fell asleep
laughing hysterically while
the room was on fire
it all happened so fast
you slipped my hand
under your dress
and i gave you access
to my netflix account
you were fucking beautiful
until you weren’t
you’d always say
there’s no love
when we drink too much
when we dream
too little
when all we seem to do is fuck
in public
bathrooms
and text each other pink
heart emojis
I’VE GOT ONE HEAD IN THE FRIDGE
ONE GENIUS HEAD
ONE MASTERPIECE HEAD
I TOOK A PHOTO OF IT
INSIDE THE FRIDGE
WITH MY PHONE
BETWEEN BROCCOLI AND MUSTARD
I THINK I’M GONNA POST IT ONLINE
BETWEEN THE LINK I SHARED YESTERDAY
AND SOMETHING ELSE I WILL POST TONIGHT
hard fingers where the pale meets the pink
dirty mouth hunger dripping drink
savor sweet sanguine soaking hole
suck me honey i wont tell a soul
hammer hard pavement meets the dirt
tell me why the boys they always hurt
bare scars of love
and past encounters left astray.
these small breasts
swell and wane depending on
the season,
these small breasts weren’t so
small when I was nine
naïve and boyish,
not at all co-que-ttish
these small breasts
were unaware
that young boys glancing meant
nothing more than curiosity
these small breasts
fast forward decades and
cheap romances,
I cut off tension
and pierced diagonal
restraints from pleasure,
lateral encounters
these small breasts
of tongues and teeth gone numb
on purpose,
until they grew
these small breasts
only not literally
just with excitement of the release
of fastened uprising and
centered frailty
at first lick
these small breasts
of pleased redemption.
a woman asked me
the other day why
i write poetry
i told her because
it is the only thing
that ever excited
me
other than the
possibility of
murder for
a living
she laughed like
i was joking
when i informed
her that at eighteen
i realized it was
either scribbling
in a notebook
or serial killer,
she started to
realize this was
a can of worms
that never should
have been opened
It whispers, burn the fucking house down,
They don’t really love you;
No one ever will. You are entirely insufferable.
Burn the fucking house down, you can make it look like an accident,
They will never know.
He returns from plummeting depths,
A deranged acolyte, skull filled with dead leaves and purgatory,
Love is piercing agony, thoughts of being alone, but
pleading to snip off their toes with wire cutters,
Simultaneously begging for release, redemption and symbiosis,
Just burn the fucking house down
you are already
trapped
inside.
“Anything can be art” she said as she
packed her shit, I looked at her and
said “garbage isn’t art” we argued
“Well he makes me happy,” I took a drag
of my cigarette and told her “everyone
deserves happiness,” she gave me a dumbfounded
look as she packed up the panties she never wore for me, she probably pranced around that cocksuckers “studio” in them, and they probably fucked on a canvas getting paint everywhere like a shitty 80’s movie, I said “I’ve never seen those” and she said “I just grabbed them from the sale rack”, bullshit, I thought as I popped open a beer and brought it to my lips, she looked at me and said “I’m leaving you because you drink too much and you are an asshole, you never gave a fuck about me” I looked at her and responded “this beer doesn’t take phone calls all hours of the night, this beer doesn’t say we are friends, I drink it and it satisfies me, something you have never done”
she yelled “fuck you” and left
She left me for an artist.
Point. Look at him, isn’t he pathetic?
Grin. Laugh in his general direction.
He seems to lack any self awareness.
Some people shouldn’t even exist.
“But they’re there to maintain parity.”
No, he’s making me uncomfortable.
Slander. Poor posture, dead eyes.
There’s something very wrong with us.
Doesn’t it make you sick? I’m sick.
Quick. He’s hurting himself, let’s watch.
Grab the popcorn, no, the lubricant.
You. Point and shoot. You, say cheese.
“what happened last night” she said
as we lay hungoverin my bed;
“what do you mean what happened,
you don’t remember?” I asked;
“no, I actually don’t” she said laughing;
“what the fuck? you don’t remember
us getting home, taking off our clothes
and me fucking you on the couch?”;
she laughed again and said: “no, I don’t,
I was wasted, I’m sorry”;
“well, I fucked the shit out of you” I said,
“it was the best sex you’ve ever had”;
“oh ok, that’s good then” she replied.
I rolled over, and tried going back to sleep.
Horror Sleaze Trash 