The air in the room reeked

the air in the room reeked of stale tobacco and cheap gin.
only the absolute necessities in it: a double bed with a metallic skeleton and
a thin mattress, two nightstands whereon boxes brimful with condoms stood,
a small refrigerator in the corner, and next to it a small cabinet.
two shelves contained bedsheets and towels, 
the third a lovely collection of booze.
“how about some music?” Yvonne asked, and took out her iPhone.
“God, I love this song,” she said as she swayed to Jimmy Hendrix’s Voodoo Child.
“yeah. so, this is where you live? or where you just work?”
“both,” she replied, her voice coming off somber despite her dancing.
“uh-hum. so, a drink?”
“of course. I’ll have a gin on the rocks.”
I mixed two; the moment we sat on the mattress,
it creaked and budged under our weight.
“I’ve often meant to get a new bed. but this one’s sturdy, and does its job.”
we clinked glasses and drank. “I imagine you need a sturdy bed, right?”
“part of the job requirements. does it bother you? what I do for a living?”
“why should it? does it bother you I’m a broke drunkard writer?”
“nope.”
we drank some more, then our bodies amalgamated
into a single bouncing body making the mattress squeak
and the bed drag against the floor. didn’t even think
of the number of men that’d been in my position;
I did have a dirty past, too, I just never got paid for my troubles.
once the deed was done, and she cleaned herself up with some tissues,
we lay in bed, taking pulls of gin out of the bottle.
“you better leave. I have to take a shower and get dressed.
in about an hour, we open for business.”
“okay, fine. see you in two days?”
“maybe, I’ll come by the bar tomorrow.”
we didn’t kiss goodbye. I left the small two-story house with
the seven bedrooms and shambled down to the bar by the port.
“the usual?” the bartender asked, I nodded.
large draft beer and triple Jim Beam on the rocks arrived on the dirty wooden counter.
“hey, George,” Jeanette greeted me with a long peck on the cheek.
“how about buying a tequila for a girl enjoying her day off?”
“sure.”
she hunkered down on the neighboring stool.
she bought the next round; I bought the one after. and so on.
until the bar had to close and we went to the apartment she shared
with three other young women selling their bodies to make ends meet.

The Writer is a Pornographer

The writer owns an original Goya painting.
The writer enjoys eating red pears.
The writer is wanted in four states.
The writer is current on his debt obligations.
The writer cooks with tarragon. 
The writer is endowed.
The writer is not endowed.
The writer is a wombat.
The writer has fangs.
The writer is his alter-ego.
The writer is a mud-fish.
The writer is writing.
The writer is not writing.
The writer leaps from oblivion to oblivion.
The writer writes.

Butts in the air

Mom said she liked my new poem
the link posted on Facebook
she scanned the room
then her smile disappeared

I need to talk to you

said in a pained whisper
her head nods toward the empty kitchen
away from the rest of the family

She pulls in close and whispers
almost a cry

   I scrolled down and clicked on something

   Did you know?

a dramatic pause
she’s searching for the bravery
to say the vile word

   P    O    R   N!!!!!!!!!!!!

just saying it weakens her knees
I can’t help it     I laugh

This was the wrong reaction
Her: (In her best whisper-yell)

   I’m serious!

Me:

   I don’t know you must’ve clicked

   on something you shouldn’t have

I think of the poem she’s talking about
a little slice of life moment
published on a respectable site
not like the trash I’ve published at HST

my nonchalance has her concerned

   You don’t understand

   I saw their vaginas

   their butts were in the air!

I don’t how she expects me to react
with anything other than knee buckling laughter

   What if your kids saw it?!

my youngest being 16
I have to assume
they’ve seen some porn by now

as my mom storms off
huffing as she goes
I ask

   So, where exactly were their butts?

If Our Mothers Could See Us Now

Once, you bought some rope
and tied a 22 year old beauty 
from Bulgaria to your bed—
butt naked and flushed 
and showed her perversions 
she will never shake off 
or find somewhere else

now, your red eyes 
search the ceiling 
for a place to hook 
that same rope
and tie it around
your scrawny neck

now, midday, drunk and desperate 
you visit an AA meeting at a church 
and everybody looks so clean 
and content and absolved 
and they’re so nice to you
it almost embarrasses you
in its unfamiliarity 

some in suits even—
so well shaved and pure faced—
there’s an envious relief in their faces
as they tell stories of old
painfully familiar to your present

decades of sobriety 
in display

if my mother could see me now
you think to yourself 

with a broken right hand 
and a bruised up face 
and a toe broken too
from when you kicked
a barstool at someone’s face
as if it was a soccer ball

now, at the cigarette break
of the AA meeting 
you wonder off outside 
and far from the group 
feeling like you’re going to
burst into a weeping fit 
because of the kindness 
of these once broken souls
offering you coffee and cookies
with a soft tone to their voice 
as if talking to a mad man—
voices like the Indian flutes 
calming down the cobras—
offering you a chair amongst 
the circle of them 

now, if my mother could see me now
with my busted wing
and my plastered up face
nourishing scars that will remain
for the rest of my life

but it’s always about that higher power
that’s helped them 
which makes you feel lonely 
because you don’t believe in God—
you don’t believe in people either 

you are tethered by nothing 
to nothing 

you can barely wait 
for the meeting to end 
so that you can limp away
from them, chasing that drink 

the imposter, the liar
the bad son, the bad brother 
the bad friend and the even 
worse lover 

now, you drink at the pub 
betting your rent money 
at a football match—
watching the game at a screen
as it all goes downhill 

as your loss is as impending 
as a liver failure 

sitting now at a barstool
waiting for that next beer 
a fella next to you
looking at you 
waiting for the same thing 

You look like you been to war
he says to you

some battles 
you respond 
but the war is still ongoing 

he laughs 

You don’t happen
to have any jobs for me
do you
you ask

he glances at your casted hand—
I was about to ask you 
the same thing 
he says 
and we both laugh 

a hollow laugh.
Nobody’s really laughing here,
we’re just waiting for the add-on
to the pause, we’re just waiting on 
the reprieve 

from the mounting bills 
the grief of spouses
the increasing silent desperation 

so quiet in our need of help 
too cowardly to give love
a third chance 

I decline romantic offers—
last one took me by the hand
like a child
and led me to a ketamine hole
and a well of alcohol 

swimming from one addiction 
to the next 
and truly wondering 
how come you don’t 
drown yet

a steep decline
steepening by the day
to a free fall

some people have to hit 
rock bottom to bounce back
and others
and most
expire there in that lonesome darkness

all eyes glued to the screen
gamblers with downwards faces 
in a dour looking dive bar 

Lord almighty 
and all the angels above 
you think
standing up to leave 

if only our mothers
could see us now.

Dipping Sauce is a Terrible Name for a Porn Star

The first day of Fall always makes me think of John Milton 
baking cupcakes in Baphomet stilettos, real cockroach killers
from the school of entomology.  Black lace like naughty place settings
poisoning the well with a contortionist’s deceptive haste.  Dipping Sauce
is a terrible name for a porn star, don’t you think?  Even if such appellations
are anatomically correct.  And the Live, Laugh, Love crowd is a dunk tank full of piss
and piranhas.  I watch them get torn apart in reverse collage while the 
giant Ikea clock on the wall fakes another end times orgasm with pumpkin 
spice napalm over everything.  Amish house skeletons growing erect 
in fields along the highway.  Tailgaters and sodomites rushing up from behind.
Looking to pass on the double line with power steering and unsavoury gestures.
I throw on my indicator to intimate a great turning to nowhere.  Robert Johnson’s
cigarette breath while the devil plays all his records backwards looking 
for command-and-control centers with “missiles like sausages.”  
A straight carnivore in vegetarian times, as the swipe right Clantons 
get cleaned out faster than a bank vault full of expired hand sanitizer.

Infinite Wisdom

God looking down on Earth,
Seeing what He had created,
Cried, “What have I done?”
Best start over from scratch.
But do what with what He
Had already made, all the
Little beings running amuck
Screwing things up on a
Perpetual basis.  And oh so
Many of them shouting His
Name in their shenanigans.
Satan said, “Kill them all
And let God sort them out.”
And God said, “Now that’s
An idea as original as dirt.
Dumbass.  That just puts it
All back on Me.”  Finally,
God, in His infinite wisdom,
Lit up a doobie and said,
“I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
And I say, “Thanks a heap,
God.  That doesn’t fix shit.”
And God saith, “Chill, Dan.”

THE DIARRHEA OF WAR WILL BE THE END

Theologians, philosophers, charlatans, tricksters and liars
Since the History of Humanity have told us:
-A better world is impossible.
The Diarrhea of War will be the end
And from its defecation a new life will spring forth
Like the cheeses that are cured among manure
That is how we procreate among asses full of shit
Like donkeys well mounted on she donkeys and asses.
Each faith or each of our gods
Also come mounted on their donkeys.
They come to battle. ¡What a feast of deaths they will have¡
Giant armies unhinging the mountains, the hills
The buildings, the schools, the hospitals
Hoping that no puppet remains with a head
And if they are women and children, honey of death on flakes!
-The combat has to be the bloodiest
The Chief of War orders
Touching his balls that make the earth tremble
And the sky trembles thundering bombs
Stunning the displaced
Who go through the fields, the paths, the roads, fleeing
Some stumbling, others slipping
Touching with their heads
The mass graves that await them.
But, always, there are some who, in courage, exceed them all
And they fornicate because they cannot resist
Since the desire to screw is not respected even by the dead
Even if they see themselves thrown into the only hell that is this Earth.
War of religions? Not a damn thing!
War of vested interests, of ambitions,
Of theft, of looting, of rape.
No trace of faith, nor relics remain in any of them.
Everything is owed to the Diarrhea of War
Those who lie on the ground or in the decomposed rubble scream.
And to whom is it all owed?
To the mss killers who shit where and when it suits them
Mother Fuckers and of everything that moves
First-class criminal bastard pigs
As the Annals of History indicate us.

Psychedelic Vampire

And she was falling down in fire,
him leaning over her as
rainbow glitter winked along the edges of 
his two sets of
collars

Inlaid with mushroom heads
inset with snakes
inset with snapping jewel hives
that clove and rendered her baby mind

Opening up a voyage to Arcturus
making Aurelia vulnerable once more and
opening up her head to that
soft, fine, particulate matter

Like sand in an hourglass
like the smile of nitrous oxide tipped over
within the fine fibers of carpet
within the knots of duelling fractal spacetimes
within molecular kingdoms
sucked down, rooted through

In the age-old familial vampire dynastic way 

At the moment of her mushroomorgasmic death
re-experiencing the sugar ransom
of her life held
prisoner from
birth within the
incest hiive.

Her spirits flapped and flailed. He
sunk his lysergic teeth deep within once
more, and the ticket to the swirling cinema of her
youthful escapades was not so easy won. Brutality

Hammered down on her head like Maxwell’s silver fists, 
her father and brother tag-teaming her through
her adolescent dreadful rites, her squirming like a
bug as pleasurable pain gripped her bones.

But sundering came as soft release like
soft spring rain the

Clouds tipped over their dancing buckets and
she crossed the meadow barefoot, nude her

Full breasts swaying, as the fae swirled 
around her rotating hips

The music swelling, credits crawling as the
notes of skittering dub swan-dove her vertebrae

Undead undead undead
undead undead undead

Undead.

Sex in Hell

Flame geysers shoot up your crack,
and tether –
hydrophobic to your colon.
You lay on your leather coat atop a rubbished stone.
Dirty Dick, bf, rubs clotted dirt over your pecs.
He licks his furnishings off you
in round and round the garden like a teddy bear circles.
He adjusts, fidgets, scuffles.
He sodomises you 1) with a roadsign and 2) with a rainbow trout.
He whips you with a flannel he bathed in fire.
He inserts olive-oil-lubricated dirt into your trachea
with a whole fist
and then goes to do the same in your colon.
He sojourns his white cock in your ass.
The white of Hell,
the white whale he is,
floating over you one-eyed, pentagonal, askew.
You shit out fire-dirt-geyser-oil onto his cock.
Your stench of fecundity overwhelms his disgust
and he cannot whiten further.
He laps at your black-haired aestheticism,
saying he’s never seen someone with so few wrinkles.
He grips your meaty handlebars –
you were razor-thin but you drank from sewers and fattened.
He puts his ass onto your face.
You feign non-reciprocity,
you push him off so that he falls into the seas of Hell,
that lap at where you lay
on your biker jacket,
diseased,
post-modern
fine art
punk
who looks like a sordid shrivelled field mouse.
You turn away from him
as he emerges charred and bloated.
You drink absinthe,
you gush to him, still turned away, in Flemish
about how you think his cock is a stinging nettle
up your shitty shitty shitty pulsing colon;
and how you adore it,
how you don’t get butterflies but whole murders of crows
and how a part of you is chomping at the bit.
But not tonight,
not for the hundredth time tonight.

The YouTube gurus tell me to live in the moment

but how do you do that when there are so many catastrophes to ruminate on?

the ones I built up ahead of time
that I constructed brick by brick
scene by scene
until I could clearly see that anvil swaying above
on a thinning slither of rope

the ones which I lived in that moment 

the sharp edge of the anvil descending 
compressing the air above my head 
the skin slowly pressing itself into my skull
the tiny crack as bone enters flesh

right now here I am sat watching a YouTuber tell me
how I should live in the moment

running my hand down the rough upturned base
of the anvil

a dark reflective shadow 
its circumference pushing itself out across the floor

the warm gore gathered around
my naked toes