Lust Straddles the Grave

a nude dream

in an enclosed space humping dirt dripping over human priapism pre-rot rigor a dusty ooze front-seat fuck young mouth wide voiceless back and open brown white sugar decay hard but won’t cum see yourself bob over his pulled down shorts blondegrey peach fuzz and post-pubescent genital musk sick-sweet suck sounds of the last creamless cockhead pull-pushpush-pull off to exhale warm hands grappled for a strange empty press into breasts amber piss after the pleasure soaking seat and down into sock and sneaker someone else will until and sniff and wince and maybe understand

a free hand into oily hair a red fist the sunset finds his chest and burns a hole where I’ve kissed.

Natal Chart of the Scammer

…our poisoned mothers touched dicks and you oozed out. An antibirth of piss-froth like a sick green worm. Wow, here you are again and look, I’m sitting in your mother’s open tongueless rotted swallow-pit while she fester-bleeds from the eyes and let’s me slice-fuck her fast with a razor in her slack pussy, rubberized and morbid from disease. Her corpse is my candy and you’re a halfwit bastard from a blind whore-hole. God disdains your filthy shit brown blood, your life is a wasted harvest. Endless yawning trash packed with maggots and convex with flies. Bloated and useless as a gangrened gash. Wet with the pus of unending infection.

Fucking your dumb trick mouth, my rabid cock fills your neck. My jism polishes the worthless wax-packed drooping hairy insides of your ears, exploding like a hundred boils gravid with hot blister-bile. Splashing the walls of your spit-dung hut, you and your mother, wretched on all fours. Naked sightless bitch hounds clawing at fetid fecal- dirt with bleeding cracked black nail beds, the rust of your choked speech like howling vomit, you’ll never forget how…

Silence is Golden

He no longer goes to bars.
Happy hours are to be avoided.
Too much talk about sports, politics, 
Religion or relationships.
Those problems endure regardless 
Of what the patrons drink.
 
Depression, best consumed shot by shot,
In the shadows, by yourself.
It goes down much smoother,
With ice or not. 
Certainly without conversation.
 
His preferred glass, Evan Williams and Pepsi,
Or just bourbon and more bourbon.
The calories, not a concern. 
No judgment.
He knows the bartender, after all.
The soundtrack of his demise, his future,
Probably both. Various podcasts, music, 
The sometimes TV shows,
Or his damn arguing neighbors.
Sound travels in his subdivision.
He delights to the sound of barking dogs,
As long as it’s not his dogs.
Never a fan of leaf-blower symphonies
Or fucking lawn mowers.
He prefers the occasional gunshots. 
More final.
 
He drinks in darkness, in sunshine
Today, a sky full of dark and threatening skies. 
The Sun, a tomorrow away.
It could be Heaven. It could be Hell.
He never waits long for the next glass.

Small Talk

I think you misunderstood
I ordered an oat milk latte
This is clearly a cow’s milk latte

Let me make it clear
I don’t want milk from the bosom
of an animal
of a mammal
Oats suit me just fine
crush them,
pulverise them
mmm make it violent
Yum, yum

I don’t ask for blood transfusions
I want my blood
in my veins
dripping wet gold
on my chains

I think you misunderstood me
Just the coffee beans with oat milk
Thanks
That’s enough to wake me
from the dread of existence
Take the sleep
from my eyes
Take a hit
that dark blend
ahhh
and hope that I awake to
motivate myself to
run to work sweating
sit at my desk and say thanks
and yes

I ask my former self
the sperm
why did you swim
so fast
are you punishing me for pain

Sorry mister!
Barista!
I zoned out, haha
sorry, yes, no, thank you

Yeah, I just prefer oat milk in my lattes
Have a great day

We Are All Made Here

The year is 2021
I switch to drinking coffee
exclusively
and relish in the fact
that lockdown has provided
the opportunity to indulge
in the reclusive life
of a hermit

I always envied J.D Salinger
not only for his literary brilliance but his madness too

Jealous that people said J.D
drank his own urine
Maybe this is what my psychic meant
when she said
“all your dreams will come true”
I’ve never had ordinary dreams
I wonder what they feel like
and do they have a taste

I wonder what it feels like
not to obsess over
long uninterrupted stretches of solitude
and the availability of them
to be enchanted
by every person I meet

I am a triple
fire baby
with nothing to even me out
I will blame it on that

For a sense of community
let’s just say
we are all mad here
all made here

Anyway,
about the coffee

flows like water

i had a friend tell me 
years ago, if i was serious
about suicide i should write 
the note in blood
 
this is what happens when 
the gin flows like water
 
old girlfriends have nothing 
but evil dripping out of
their eyes
 
dead grandparents start 
telling stories from the 
great depression
 
the old poets will make 
you understand what 
heartbreak really is
 
and your lady of the night
 
her lips will taste like
what hope used to be
 
you feign choking on
your own brilliance
 
an old trick learned
back when your ego 
was still unbreakable
 
now that fucker is riddled
with so many bullets the 
alcohol never stays in
 
put up a good fight
and never forget 
 
you always have an irish 
goodbye tucked in your 
back pocket

Syphilis Street

After the supermarket
we left the edge of the park
and headed up the hill

Our bags were full
and heavy
polythene stretching with the weight
of cartons,
courgettes, wine, blue cheese
beers, beans, bread, 
and raw hams

at the end of the boulevard
we turned left
not right

not knowing

we found things
when we turned left
wet things

scaling the hill
a slow but steady flow
of tissues and condoms
littered the broken concrete

our sandal clad toes 
treaded carefully between 
old stains and busted latex

at first
it was funny
maybe a ‘Napoletani’ dogging spot

but
fifteen minutes later
the sporadic splutter of spunk wreckage
became a spate
of sewage

we played hopscotch
in the human slop

then the cars appeared

three of them
the first silver 
and inconspicuous enough

as we passed
we saw sheets shut in the window
like a kids’ den curtains

the second was black
smaller
and slightly rocking

“look at it rocking!” we exclaimed
and the rocking slowed

we didn’t feel bad though
about putting them off their stroke
after all
it was 5:30 in the afternoon
on a hot summer’s day
and we just wanted a bus stop
to rest our legs and luggage

***

From: Sunshine Junkie, Between Shadows Press

The Bicycle Ride

I woke up this morning
And washed my face
Then I stepped outside
Willing to embrace…

Another day
Shining bright and clear
With beautiful memories
That I hold so dear

The day was too lovely
To stay inside
So I decided to go
For a bicycle ride

I felt so happy and so complete
As I peddled my bicycle
Down the street

And the warmth of the sun
Made me feel so free
With blessings of hope
And endless glee

And the feeling inside
Was ever so bright
As the coming of dawn
Had taken over the night

And I knew there was something
From which I had gone astray
Something I missed
Because I had looked away

But I found it again
And words couldn’t explain
How the rays of light
Had shown through the rain

Because I already knew
All the answers I sought
So I cast off the burden
Of my repetitive thought

And there was no longer a need
For me to look to the skies
Because it was only the light
Reflecting off of my eyes

And I no longer question
The absolute presence
Of the formless truth
Behind eternal essence

And I remember the past
Because I can finally see
That I took many roads
On my way to destiny

And as the light and the love
Kept growing inside
I began to realize
That I can no longer hide

For what we all have
And the reasons we care
Points to our main purpose
Which is to selflessly share

And when inner-love
Is outwardly projected
We know the truth
That we are all connected

And then I began
To be honest with Wes
And I had an Epiphany
That words can’t express

A realization
To which I’d been blind
Always known by my heart
Never known by my mind

And when I knew the truth
I felt free as a bird
But I didn’t realize
I had ran into a curb

I flew off my bike
And smashed into a wall
Only scraped one of my knees…
But punctured both of my BALLS!

It’s Come True

I was in the delivery room for the birth,
couldn’t tell there was anything wrong-
the baby just a gooey, crying mess. Later, 
after they cleaned it up, the nurse turned
her head when she handed him to me.
When I pulled back the little blue blanket
to see my son’s face for the first time,
I was ready to coo and make silly faces,
but instead all I said was, Oh, shit, walked
quickly over to the bed and shoved him 
at my wife. Goddamnit, I said. It’s come true.

It was a Friday night about nine months ago,
we were both worn out by the work week.
We were feeling silly, watching a Tarzan movie
on TCM, and drinking way too fucking much
of my homemade banana wine. We started
horsing around on the couch as we watched
Cheetah laughing and dancing around clapping
when the always near- naked Tarzan and Jane 
disappeared into their tree house love nest.
We, too, then shut off the tv, grabbed the rest
of the yellow nectar, and bounded into the bedroom. 
I helped her pulled off her jeans in a hurry, and 
she got on top of me with my pants still around 
my ankles. Oh, my God, she said when we were 
finished with each other and sharing a cigarette.
Your banana wine is going to make a monkey out of me.

The Sapphire Room 

On Friday afternoon, after  
crossing the Queensboro Bridge  
into Manhattan, 

I’m too distracted by 
Britney Spears’s super mega hit 
“…Baby one more time.” 

Looking down from the Queensboro Bridge, 
I feel a little sinful riding an Uber 
as I imagine half-naked women hitting it— 

Next door to the 
Primal Cut Steakhouse  
is the Sapphire Room. 

Steak, ass & tits a-plenty  
each Saturday night  
by the East River— 

Can you imagine  
seeing these girls 
bump, grind & shake? 

I am somewhat curious  
about these women 
born in the ‘90s 

strutting with their God-given gifts 
(later in silicone) to “It’s Britney, bitch!” 
when they were little children. 

Now they give all the Johnnies hard-ons 
before they can dig in 
for some hot, red meat. 

How easy is it 
to captivate  
their attention? 

Even ordinary girls 
need some action 
& a tender touch— 

Leave Britney alone. 
She’s a grown woman  
with a lotta shit to do. 

We can dance 
to the steamy beat 
with our own moves—