traumabonding dumpster clown love song II 

I think you grew up hungry. 
Corners sliced off a stick of gum precise as cocaine.
each fragment savored 
as your concave stomach growled
I think you grew up watchful.
rolling weight toe-through-heel on creaky floorboards 
diving for cover when the door unlatched
praying to no god- 
let me be gloriously lethal
and poison-frog bright
let me bask chuckling in a knife’s cold kiss 
my saunter a warning 
my smile a threat
you flinched and shivered. scrambled to obey. 
dreamed of ripping throats out with your first baby teeth. 
I think that’s why you laugh when someone lunges 
fists outstretched. 
you’ve reeled them in 
invisible strings sticky as a handprint on a child’s slapped cheek
even a clean hit whispers:
skin on skin

Show Time

the parking lot lights
cut pale skin and
black jeans
outside hotels waiting
for a fix, a cure, a remedy
to that disease called regret
please stranger just fuck me
with no eyes, no love, no hope
it doesn’t matter
it means nothing
I’ve got a death wish
a sex drive
a self injury
so when your hands
are around my throat
your grip is never too tight
if I am still breathing

December

Sitting naked
I am smoking on my couch
Holding pen

Journal out and open
Counting syllables
Holly on the mantel

My muse, my love
My cockslut postal patron
Cuckoldress
December

Drifter

We talked on the edge 
of a cliff—somewhere 
you & I had lived for 
a long, long time.

Your eye held a knowing,
& although I wish I knew
what it was you said,
that look was the same as always.

Then you left the ledge.
I watched you seep into 
a black shallow creek bed,
beneath lay the reflection
of the moon—fragmented
from all the small & large rocks.

You came into my life 
at the perfect time & then 
we kept each other for a while.

Thirteen times around now.
Thirteen rotations watching 
each other grow & yet, 
saw what never changed.

I have to go – I have to go
retrieve your body from
the bottom of the cliff.
I have to make a sled
out of sticks & drag you 
somewhere I can dig—

& I’ll dig, through rock & root, 
multiple lifetimes of sediment,
under deep for a safe spot to 
finally put down your bones. 

Trigger Warning

Warning,
this poem
may contain
language
and images
which may be
disturbing
to some
readers.
The words
featured
are performed
with the writing
of professionals
and should
not be attempted
at home
without adult
supervision.
Reader discretion
is advised. 

Stay Up With Me

all the stores are closed
but we have enough smokes
to fill the ash trays with butts
to pace grooves into the wooden
floors, to peak out from
behind every shard of broken blinds
to dance sinister, our genitalia
angry and corrupted with every thrust
to rail crank until the end of the week
sitting idle and naked, the breeze
from the broken window alien
on our marble haunted bones

I know we haven’t eaten in
like three days & I know you’re
getting tired of the moonlight
& I know the director has
been beating on the door
for the last twelve hours
he must be mistaken, I guess
he thinks the party is finally over

but I don’t know how to stop
& you don’t leave the bed now
without it and our skeletons
only know how to sway in
chemical patterns; we have
forgotten how to greet
the sun-shined world
with anything that isn’t disdain

XHampsterwheel

tentacles appear
to enter a girl’s pussy
and come out her mouth

mommy wants to show
you her new boyfriend + teach
you how to please him

amateur women
uploading videos of
them masturbating

yr bully agrees
to stop if he can fuck yr
mom + make you watch

fifteen minutes of
women humiliating
themselves for pleasure

on a crowded bus
a japanese woman is
groped for an hour

a bratty legal-
aged teen gets punished by her
stepmom + likes it

the search term ‘gentle’
is only used w/the term
jack off instruction

a dominatrix
puts a man’s wife in a cage
+ fucks his ‘bitch ass’

a woman jerks off
w/a strapon that shoots ropes
of cum on her face

sex w/tentacles
does not seem to count as
bestiality

a circle of eight
young women masturbating
while filmed from above

jewish mom cracks jokes
anally masturbating
watching her own screen

office lesbians—
boss makes her secretary
sniff her nylonned feet

only french women
in french pornos smile during
sex even anal

russian woman plays
three characters at same time
all showing upskirt

training video
for bimboification
might cause seizures

Back to the Barroom 

There’s an uncertain essence of a spun out drunken night 
We play game show at the bar w/ the choosing
of the most fitting cocktail on the rocks 
Another chance to exploit our unearthed issues
in a gin-drowned diatribe 
The punk band mocks the animal audience 
sausage packed into polyester irony 
Spun out on a blissful Saturday 
For the 4 hour ritual 
Throwing darts at the head of my despair 
Emboldening the half breed acts  
Imagining the heuristic notions will explode
my dying sexuality 
Halcyon flesh, witness the sun’s incest 
Blinding lights of autumn’s fading spire 
washed up mentions, half past noon 
Dancing to the bird’s migration croon

The European Tour

“She was the type of woman who would
have brought tears to the eyes of John Ruskin”

Maurice Dekobra

Her idea for a gap year was
to save all the tips she made
working as a cocktail waitress in 
an upscale pub and from some soft
core hooking on the side. Soft core
hooking, to her, meant causal tricking 
without a pimp, casual hints dropped,
beverage napkin dates, cell phone
numbers exchanged. “I like the older
guys.  They have more money, 
are more than likely married, 
and don’t ask questions and, man,
they expect the same. I don’t do 
perverted. Not for money anyway.”
Was planning on doing the European
tour, on her back, first hand, in depth
research for a Baedeker’s Guide
to Getting Laid, she was going to 
call, Do it on the Rails: Getting 
the Most from Your Euro Pass
and Have Fun Doing It. Something
like that, anyway. If that didn’t work
out, her back up plan was a Sociological
study on the sexual habits of the horny
European Male: You Don’t Need
a Translator to Have Good Sex.
Sociology wasn’t her major, and she
couldn’t write worth shit, but that
was something she’d worry about after
the research was finished, and recorded
in a diary she’d lose somewhere between
Buda and Pest. Thought protection during 
intercourse was “for wimps, was like playing 
Russian Roulette with an empty gun,” 
when it was more like playing with one 
chamber empty, high stakes stud poker 
with someone else’s money, drawing a card 
for an inside straight.

French Fry Etiquette 

She left me sitting alone in McDonalds
Didn’t take a bite of her Big Mac 
Or touch a single one of her  French Fries    
She grabbed her Coke then walked away 
And never even looked back
I thought about eating the fries 
Although I had lost my appetite 
It wasn’t because I was hurt by the drama 
She spreads ketchup on top of all of them
Instead of dipping each fry
I’m sure you know the type 
When it comes to eating French fries 
Her method doesn’t follow proper etiquette
Even though it bothered me I never said a word 
Because she gets pissed off so quickly 
And becomes belligerent 
I didn’t understand what just happened 
It left me totally confused 
Why did she Super Size her order
If she wasn’t going to eat the food
We had a date to go for dinner 
I couldn’t figure out why she got upset 
I told her she looked gorgeous 
But maybe a little overdressed 
She looked surprised when we arrived 
And said McDonalds you’ve got to be kidding 
How insensitive of me to take her to McDonalds for dinner 
Knowing her favorite hamburger joint is Burger King