Purse full of mouthwash,
I saw you strolling the avenues
last week.
Black fishnets
pulled up high in the front.
That electric blue wig
past steaming steel grates.
Leaning into cars
with that ass that could launch
a thousand ships.
Drive a man to tuck
his wedding band down into his sock.
War paint of a Carthaginian general.
Bobbing for apples
well into adulthood.
Skull-fucked into oblivion.
With that crass Bacardi mouth.
Say what you will, he enters
a room with presence, if not
aplomb, his faint smile all-knowing.
Rumor circulates like bad air in small
spaces, reaching all nostrils, perhaps
not at once, but inevitably.
All eyes thus flicker belt-wise and downward,
tight faded denim darkened where
the big boy, angled just so, reposes.
Johnny, how goes—your eyes,
that I do not know the color of
them tells me something.
Ask them all, Johnny, ask
all the people to name that
color and they would be as if blind.
Not blind to the bulge, brother.
The eyes do not flee from it or only
briefly do, magnetized, hypnotized.
Johnny, Johnny, are you fully
aware of how we simultaneously fear
and loathe and envy and respect it?
Yes, you are aware. Your persistent
winking lets everyone know what
you know and where you stand.
More absolute than money or status,
more mesmerizing than magic
or voodoo or quantum physics—
all the nodding and handshaking,
all the banal back and forth
and back-clapping, tiptoe around it.
But women, men and everyone else—
cannot ignore its ominous presence,
and cannot but imagine it aroused.
burning the candle at both ends again
those that don’t know me are worried
they don’t understand how the madness
the chaos, the apparent disorder is all
part of the plan
how the wax from the candle burns
the chest and that smell is called
desire
how the voices create a symphony
all i have to do is put the words
on the page
battling arthritis
depression
endless amounts of pain
a failing liver
and a liquor cabinet that doesn’t
pay for itself
i know this isn’t the lifestyle of
someone who wants to live forever
i never set my sights that far
week by week has been most
of my adult life
never had the money to think
about two or three years ahead
and trust me
scribbling down words at three
in the morning is proof that isn’t
going to change anytime soon
I shouldn’t have let you down the hole first;
Too late to do anything but watch this
sleek crocodilian love
turn purse
Rocks crudely sharpened,
placed to look like teeth
Only a few months into this island retreat and we’re arguing cannibalism as
New World Belief
Dragged to the fire
of a warmer,
wetter, sicker, world
all of it held in the bead
of blood pearled
at the base of my neck
(the spot you would always bite)
and it never not felt good like
being the wicker man always should
Pagan gods performing fist bumps
The smell of burning flesh
and wood
She says she’s leavin’ me ’cause I can’t be
bothered to live responsibly
Says I do things like stay home from work
to answer the call of any John
fucking Waters marathon.
I say, yeah but, what about my obsession
with turnin’ off the lights in succession
What about my flashlight heart?
You’ll miss my quirks and battery charge
and letting you
be in charge, well,
Counting up my flaws on your perfection log
Just go bitch, take your noisy lap dog
Don’t forget your tacky sense
of trendy bullshit. I won’t be bothered
to miss any of it. I am mothered
by the Moon; as always, I am comfortable
with the unknown and the uncomfortable,
the unravelling and the challenging-
I pack the lesson in my bag
lady, burnin’ the white flag
’cause a free spirit
never
surrenders.
In Downtown Los Angeles
I stayed in a cheap hotel.
The room was tiny and had
one small window with a
view of a brick wall. The
bed was hard and tap water
made me feel ill. At about 9
on my first night the phone
rang, I thought it must have
been the front desk compla-
ining about my visa credit
or something. “I need to see
you again Bruce,” a desperate
sounding voice said.
“He’s not here mate. I don’t
even know who he is.”
“Don’t play games darling. I
need to see you.”
“Who are you?”
“I am coming up. I am coming
up now.”
“You have the wrong number
mate.”
“You fucker! I am coming up!
he screamed into the phone
and hung up. It was my first
night in Los Angeles and I
didn’t know what to expect,
but surely this was some sort
of scam. I decided I’d be ready
though. I stood next to the door
waiting for it to be kicked in
and I’d pounce on whoever
it was. The phone rang a few
more times but I just ignored
it. I stood by the door for nearly
an hour then suddenly realized
the real problem: he wasn’t
trying to scam me—he was
just lonely, which I understood
perfectly. The phone rang again
and I picked it up, put it on the
bedside table and laid down on
the bed. I could hear his voice
coming through the receiver, it
sounded like a whisper from
where I was. Over the next few
hours I listened to every tender
word he said, pretending like
him that I wasn’t alone.
we were together for two weeks; she abandoned
her boyfriend of three years and came to
live with me, for they
shared an apartment and she couldn’t be
around him. we sat on the couch all day
and night long, guzzling
wine, listening to music, smoking (cigarettes and pot), inhaling
junk, and fucking. for two weeks,
this was our
schedule, our delightfully insane
routine. we couldn’t sleep, we just
passed out. exhaustion, lunacy,
madness. I wrote while she
snored on
the couch, used up by the blow, the hash, and the
fortified wine. she’d clamber up, have a fix, and
we’d fuck. one day, she glared at me, a gaze
full of somberness and solemnity.
“you know,” she murmured, “I think I’ll
go back to him.” “alright,” I shrugged from
my desk chair, my glance glued to
the dancing lines. “don’t you
wanna know why?”
“sure, okay. why?” “it was great, being
here with you, we had fun, it was awesome seeing
this side of life. I can’t do this any longer. I miss
him, and miss having a home.”
“okay, I understand,” I said before chugging
some wine. “do you?” she arched
an eyebrow. “yes,” I spun around to
offer her a faint smile. “I’m really sorry,
you know. I truly am.” “don’t be,
“there’s no reason.” “I still am.”
“okay.”
she wrapped her arms around my shoulders, blew
kisses on my neck. our lips touched, our
tongues danced, our bodies
became one. she got
dressed right
after a quick shower, tears welling
down her refulgent hazel eyes.
she left the apartment, probably
returned to her old boyfriend, to her
old familial ways. I’m still
in the same apartment, still haven’t found a
place to call home. I drink, snort blow,
smoke some hash. I’m deep inside
the fog and, sometimes, it does
feel like home.
I’m a witchfinder general
you’re my witch
then we switch it up
and you burn me at the stake
we’re modern lovers
nihilism
and heartbreak,
you’re an It Girl
a Chloë Sevigny
cherry red Doc Martens
and auteur anarchy
a queen of the night
a deb of the year
a door girl at the Mudd Club
who once cut Warhol’s hair,
we’re modern lovers
demonology
and Baudelaire,
you’re hotrod
softblow
laudanum
scuzz
and when you
traded your spiked dog collar
for a French bulldog
the devil swept us away
and accused us of heresy.
The monitor-pulse of street lights
A rhythmic beat dragging us forwards
Intensive care for the chorus-less streets
Before they flatline into night
The old couple two seats in front
Faces like deflated carrier bags
Like adverts for oblivion
‘We should go away for a few days.’
I could go away for a lifetime, it wouldn’t be enough
A solitary drunk misses a stop he never had
He’ll keep going round forever
Same as the rest of us
From the window of the night bus
I see only myself
A pale, ghost-like image
The deteriorating signal of memory
was her tribal name tribal nickname,
The Tribe being an aging biker gang
out of San Berdoo loosely affiliated
with the Hell’s Angels. It was the name
she adopted, or had bestowed on her,
after a stretch on a locked-in ward,
necessitated by a week’s long orgy
of bad acid, peyote buttons and
a skag overdose that left her a mental
cripple for months until the flashbacks
abated, weighed down by so many
psychotropic drugs she could barely move.
“My festival name, before the bad stuff
came down, was Zephyr Breeze Free Love
Smoke of Many Dreams.
Ever see the Woodstock movie?
I’m the naked blonde wearing a necklace
of flowers covered in mud, tripping
her tits off to Santana.”
“What happened to her?”
“Like I said, bad stuff happened.”
Bad stuff like and extra fifty pounds
of sagging flesh, formerly deep blue
eyes washed out to eggshell powder
blue, a dozen teeth dropping out
along with her cognitive abilities.
Now she’s a novelty act: buy her
a couple of drinks and see what happens.
Nice they got out of jail, guys swore
she’s the best ten bucks they ever spent.
Horror Sleaze Trash 