It could all be from the drugs
but I think we found innocence
tonight in the parking lot
in front of your house
watching the Antares rocket
from your phone become
a shooting star across the Jersey sky
we waived goodbye to the spaceship
becoming alien in the cassiopeia
of those haunted autumn lights.
I think of my youth, chasing daylight
along the beaches of the Bayshore
your smile reminds me of then
and I think maybe home
isn’t a place but a series of moments
when we feel less alone
my girlfriend is taking a nap
i pull up a porn site,
search :
tiniest, blind, retarded, mental patient, quad amputee, [redacted]
but nothing’s doing it for me lately…
except
i pull up the deep dark web video again, a guy jerking off alone in a dark room, giving a gun a blowjob, and as he’s climaxing he pulls the trigger
i donno y this turns me on so much, i’m 100% straight
anyways, i rain cum on myself
then forget about cleaning it up
i spend a while in the forums of a pro suicide website, just doin some research for my novel
check to see if she’s awake
nope
i buy a bunch of stuff with her credit card
i notice the cum has dried on my chest and stomach
it’s crusty
i pick it out of the hairs
and put it on my desk
crush it up with her credit card
it looks like cheap cocaine
oh shit, she’s awake,
watching me
she says wUt the fUck r u doing
what can i say…
i got us some cocaine, baby
she grabs a hundred dollar bill from her purse
rolls it up
and snorts a line
then gives me the bill
i snort a line
omg, i am so high, she says,
this is good shit
me too, i say,
i am so depressed
Stand in front of the window.
That’s it. Right in front of your bed.
I know the curtains are open.
Yes, I know they can see in.
Don’t worry. You’re beautiful.
It’s only the fat-uglies and old
no one wants to see.
Take off your t-shirt.
I want to smell it.
It’s better than all of nature,
and you’ve been sleeping.
No, don’t turn around.
Keep facing that way.
Play to your public.
Spread your legs apart,
that’s it, shoulder-width,
just like you’re lifting weights.
Push your crotch forward,
arch your back.
Can you feel me close to you?
Can you feel my breath?
Bow your head, I’m about to fuck.
You’re cool and clean, ready.
That’s it, push that ass out.
Don’t move your hands.
People are staring, yes.
They will probably be shocked.
Something to whisper at work.
Something to dream at night.
In San Francisco
at any given moment
there is a girl
on Grant St.
in North Beach
wearing a long
and fashionable coat
raven black hair
tumbling down
upon her shoulders
a cup of wine
in one hand
maybe a cigarette
in the other
looking
like something
from an old
French film
swaying
on the sidewalk
to music from a bar
or a man playing
guitar on a corner
maybe she knows
you’re watching
maybe she doesn’t
but the thing is
the simple fact of her
makes all the rest of it
worth suffering
through.
If you wanna get real, honey;
escape the whip of the circus
but still do some tricks,
send a limo
If you wanna cosplay;
be the motherfucking burger king
with a well-done honey
and have it your way, well,
I’ll run up and grab me some fries
and maybe your crown then, later babe,
send a limo
If you wanna trace my backbone
with your tongue and remember
the 80’s chills
you got when you were young
watching your new favorite horror flick,
send a limo
If you wanna know what it’s like
to have a switchblade on your throat
and be so in love
with the pulse
of walking the line, well, babe,
send a limo
Her body breathes me in —
shivers trace her spine
they drape over me like a fleshy canopy
her shadowy form obscuring a still half-moon
we follow beads of sweat
from her forehead
down to her navel
songs pour from our tongues
her body breathes me in.
When I enter I start with
her mouth
lips brush, indelible
I taste her nipples, stroke her ready cunt
with my fingers,
anticipate nothing unfamiliar.
Her skin is intimate as clockwork
and twice as complex
to me
her voicelessness drums along like dialogue
skin murmuring softly.
I love her, it’s dangerous.
Night-veiled
she pours herself over my ticking cock
we listen to the way our bodies converse.
Before swallowing the dark’s
envy
she kisses the air goodnight.
Her body breathes me in —
We fuck like
pure poetry.
A thought
Not new
(What is?)
I’ve been told it’s ok to grieve
Our relationship, and everything your absence has cleaved; your fingers
pulling at my hair as I drove us
back and forth
from yours to the city
from yours to a reality
not quite there
I was lax
I thought you’d settle
and continue drinking as hard as me
Lost even as I was led through slick
red halls
The grunting Minotaur
Jangling jester with his fucking hat
How do you not get the joke yet?
(I think this is the first I’ve seen the sun in three months)
Herd mentality
Sipping at the edge of the lake
of mortality and mistaken identity
Notice me
I say staring at my reflection
while someone drowns three feet away
I am dressed as a beast and I am dressed as a hungry animal
and I am in a room full of prey. There are girls here that look like deer
boys that look like rabbits, everybody smells like food.
I howl at the moon looming in the window and a few eyebrows raise
because they think I’m just dressed as a beast I’m not
actually a beast, I’m perfectly safe even though I am
a little strange.
Because I am so strange, it doesn’t take long for one of the deer girls
to come over and offer a tiny smile of acknowledgement
shy prey drops eyes after initial contact. Blood pours into
dormant arteries. Stomach growls. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
It sounds like a joke, she brings me a tray of crackers and little sandwiches.
There was a time when it would be more shocking for me to dance with a woman
than to gut and kill the same woman in the alley out back. I remember those times.
I remember the newspaper headlines. It makes planning an evening out
so much more difficult, knowing that we can just leave this night
at a dance, and no one would say a thing.
too many birds in
relationships biding time.
it truly offends and hurts
me when they go on dates
with me. those poor bastards.
those lads at home twiddling
their thumbs while she’s
soaked in lust sucking
my thumb. test the
plumbing. oh, I’m scum.
degenerate, spit grab
twist slap choke;
manoeuvre, manhandle.
vary the strokes. soft
then sodomy, just a
sick fuck soft touch baby,
nameless provides free reign.
I give them what goes begging
at home with Gary, Harry,
Barry and fucking Flynn.
I fancy myself an artist.
I eat her out and then
puff my inhaler, I can’t
help but laugh. I’m
grinning at the gash.
I love winter. All the bugs die. The trees get naked, so you can hug ‘em better. Kids skid down hills, bash their Fiats into phone poles. Wise guys stay home with an old Penthouse, looking up from the vaseline to surf the web for porn.
January brings the spiders. Wolves who crouch under the couch. Wait for a misapplied finger. Or a nightmare with the narrowest of openings. Who Contradict any fool brags ALL the bugs die.
Procyon lotor – little dog that washes – waddles up to the garbage. High up above the domino mask, the Davy Crockett tail, the freaky screams in a fight to the death… high up above the hemlock, wheel the Dogs, yapping starlight at the Big Guy, the Mighty Hunter, searching endless winters for the identity some cop digital copied and stole.
The Little Dog, Procyon, pauses to pee in the garbage; the coons, erect on hindlegs, snarling their treasure to repossess.
I love winter, seated in my ancient Oldsmobile – jacked-up, stripped of wheels; possums, roly-polies, black widows existing in the trunk. I throw kisses to the Big Dog, in full knowledge no finance company in the sky would repo my ride – the oil-burning brain, the bad-timing heart, no stomach for the road, no thymus for anything but the blackberries in the pants and the snow on the head.
I light a universal joint. Join the memory in song.
Orion comes down to earth, because the planet sounds safe and sane. Camps in the park. But after a month of the good life, the cops bust Orion for climbing trees after squirrels, running down lap dogs to spit-roast over an open fire, various other violations.
Orion gets hauled in. Flatfeet relieve the drifter of sword, belt, shoelaces, string tie. Ogle the no ID of a long-ago ego.
I love winter. All the thoughts of dreams put on ice. Till the spring flows through the rusty pipes on the heels of Saint Paddy’s.
I love the way the dead of winter lies there, bitter in its own frozen zen.
I love winter.
Winter abides the failure of the success that dreams us in the first place. Time has run, full circle, outta gas. It is now – tomorrow’s sun low-slung in the Archer – up to you to thumb back to town; fetch what is needed to reboot the resole of your sole pair of Florsheims; I’ll hold your brew, just don’t expect it to be there when you get your ass back. Following Monday, consider maybe the drawbacks of stepping outside to hunt for work.
Who is it argues love makes any sense?
Horror Sleaze Trash 