some days got claws.
Some days suck you dry
like a real mean bitch.
Some days fall through.
Sundays, mostly.
Some days take a couple
teeth, and a pretty good
piece of your liver.
You’re not really supposed to
drink on antidepressants anyway.
I would meet you in the sports aisle
Or it might be the mystery
Either way it will change quickly
Into new intricate romance
When I wrap my arms around you
Clenching you tightly from behind
Whispering haikus in your ear
Your beauty being the highlight
Along with radiant core
You gasp as my lips touch your neck
Meekly telling me your boyfriend
Is not too far away from us
I smile You should call him over
Bring an army and take some notes
This is how I treat a woman
Who is packed with hours of delight
Who deals in dopamine coinage
Your heartbeat speeds up as you clench
My arms which still cling to your waist
I am not going to let you go
A duplicate does not exist
You close your eyes with a deep breath
One-by-one books burst into flame
Plump of breast, firm of thigh
the butcher’s beautiful daughter
caught my marbled eye
beef hearts cow brains livers kidneys and tripe
a most exceptional maid
slaughtered me quicker than a butcher’s blade
Deep crimson hair
dripping down her shoulders
like thick drops of blood
steaks and chops and wings
tore into them with relish
epicurean desires an irresistible fetish
She looks fetching and sweetly pleasant
as her father slitted open a butchered pheasant
blood red lips blood red hair
hanging on the hook of her
blood red nails
tearing through all the cuts served rare
She picked up the hamster and pointed in between its legs
“He’s got such big, big balls, but he’s hiding them now,” she said.
I felt disgusted. I had caught her twisting my dog’s tits earlier.
Now this.
“He just eats, and then sits on his big hamster balls.”
“And then what?” I asked.
“And then he falls asleep.”
I had read about situations like this in poems and stories,
but I didn’t think people like that were real.
“I can’t do this,” I thought. “Am I a work of fiction?”
I was reading Notre-Dame at the time, and neither Esmeralda nor Gringoire
ever mused over nor played with Djali’s tits.
“It’s curfew. I can’t tell her to go,” I thought. “The cops could get her.”
“Why’d she bring that fucking thing here anyway?”
I saw her reach for the creature’s genitals again.
“Stop it,” I said. “Leave him be. He’ll maybe drop ’em later.”
“Yeah,” she said. “You’ll see. He’s got these biiiiiiiiig balls.”
“Alright,” I said. “Let’s get something to eat.”
tights ass
in white jeans
the way you sway
down an aisle
kills poetry
and makes slaves
tight ass
in white jeans
what does it feel like
to own the living world of men?
tight ass
in white jeans
wars should’ve been fought over you
christ should’ve died for this instead
nations conquered
wild beasts tamed
tight ass
in white jeans
you have laid claim to my art
the goddamned mona lisa
bows before you
and the moon looms hollow
in your presence
On the newsstand
a familiar face
attached to a body
that looks like John Kennedy’s
HITLER DIES OF HEART ATTACK
screams the headline.
On the same day
Francis Bacon keeled over
on another continent.
Bacon’s easel
set up by St. Peter
days before in preparation
waits for his first figure.
Hitler jogs, out of breath
up the lit path
catches up with Bacon’s back
and the two of them
amble through the gates together.
Bacon, in gratitude,
begins to sketch
(starts of course
with the forelock
and mustache)
Hitler, failed, beams
scans the horizon
for suitable architecture
wonders if Bacon
will let Hitler
paint his portrait
What you are is what you are.
And me? That’s yet another thing.
I will change several times
before the week has run,
and shall not know which me is me,
or what I’ll be tomorrow.
Don’t think of me as a ride
that can carry you to your destination.
The roads I follow are rough and turning,
threading through forest and mountains
and deep under ground.
I will be here but I will not be here.
I will always be traveling
even as I sit alone,
staring at what you can not see,
trying hard to see it myself,
understand it, and make it presentable
to a blind and deaf world.
she once said to me, “I hate charles bukowski.”
i said, “why?”
she said, “because he uses women, then throws them away.”
i said, “but isn’t that what you do, with men?”
and she threw me out of her car.
later on, the next day, i apologized.
as always.
Even the moon is hiding tonight
Thieves are unscrewing, detaching everything
The walls are coming down,
Secrets are dancing in the street
In the few streetlights still blooming pallid flowers of light
There is thunder in the sky
There is sobbing and crying somewhere, everywhere
All directions the human is suffering
Why did we lose our souls
No one believes in immortal things
Everything is cheap and made of tin
Not even a good echo for a dropped coin
And a man’s word is as hollow as a cave
We are all enslaved to our seven vices and hundred devices
Bombing the city with ingenuity
How tricked we are looking for our own images in mirrors
We have become vampires and screech like Covid infected bats
Our eyes are cold with either fear or indifference
Our minds want to blow up the world
Hallelujah nuclear suicide
There will be an empire ruled by death
Not a thing will move
Cockroaches will glow until they slow and
Turn on their backs, useless legs twitching
Itching in agony as the darkness brightens, lightens
With radioactive rain
upon arriving in Hollywood
Dylan Thomas stated
his two main objectives
were touching the titties
of a blonde starlet
and meeting Charlie Chaplin.
by the end of the evening,
Shelley Winters obliged him
the first objective
at which point
Dylan Thomas excused himself
saying he was off
to find Charlie Chaplin.
it says alot about the
poets of yesteryear
as opposed to the
dabblers of today.
I can list a chapbook’s
worth of blonde starlets.
I can’t think of one poet
worthy of their titties.
Horror Sleaze Trash 