Saturday, June 30, 2012

somewhere along the way

somewhere along the way
we changed
it shows up in this reflection
in this screen
straggly old man
who’s eyes are guiltless
about all the things we felt guilty about
we enjoy aloneness
we guiltlessly enjoy aloneness
without even a recognizable reflection
for company

what happened?
well, i could list
a long list
of listlessly affected events
and an even longer list
of listful thoughts
that fought in the war of whether
or not

but, somewhere along the way
laughable and immanent
cards got dealt
cards got shuffled through arcanas
cards got played
through a fools incarnations
through rounds and rounds
and rounds and rounds
till the archetypes displayed
the flip-book smiles
of obliteration.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

true lies

i will sell you
the air from my lungs
the nothing i hold in my hand
and the contemplations of a dead and buried man

if you had any sense
you would sell the farm
your stocks, your bonds
your children, your pets
your husband or your wife
along with the deed to your life
you would sell every goddamn thing
to buy the emptiness i bring

i will tell you
the secrets everybody knows
to get the cleanest
you must bathe with worms
to love the sinner
you must love the sin
your fanciest outfit
is your bare-naked skin
i will tell you
only the truest of lies

if you had any sense
you would cut down every tree
and mine the earth to an empty shell
to build a cage from the outside in
you would paint yourself into a corner
you would stay there for the rest of time

you would be the bear
caught in the trap
that the long-gone trapper forgot he set
your only desire
would be never ever getting free

i will sell you
your cell
with a countless-day, money-back guarantee

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

soul song

i was wandering the streets
like a fool without a plan
i was seeing god in everything
it was more than i could understand

and i tripped on good intentions
and i saw their lord
she said, there’s a limit to my dimensions
but many more than you’ve ignored

and i learned to hold my breath
and i saw their lord
and he looked a lot like death
and all our demons were his hord

and i climbed the highest peak
and i saw their lord
he said, i’m lying when i speak
and i’m out my fucking gourd

and i got down on my knees
and i saw their lord
and he was howling with the rest of us
screaming, wait till you get bored
just wait till you bored
oh, just wait till you get bored

and i opened up my heart
and i saw their lord
she said, you failed from the start
and there’s nothing left to be explored

i was wandering the streets
i felt the full extent of emptiness
like a singer with no soul
like a soul without a song
like a mirror without reflections
alone, to freeze in godless cold

snake bite

i’m a snake
coiled in the grass
yes, i’m a snake
as your barefoot feet run past
and i’m a snake
cold blood pumps through me
yes, i’m a snake
with poison circuitry

and i
feel the same sun
that warms your face
your pretty face

and i
feel the same breeze
that rustles through your hair
and brings your scent to me

and i
fear the same thing
that got your pa
and left him mumbling

and i
fear the same thing
that’s made you blue
and i’d shed one tear for you

but i
can never cry
so i guess
my skin will have to do.

a day in the life of a bigoted racist- a fill in the blank adventure!

i wake up
around 7:30.
if necessary,
i shower.
after dressing,
i sit down for breakfast,
Cinnamon Life.
i love Cinnamon Life.
the box says,
“you’ll love it!”
and i do.
i reach for the paper,
but what’s the point?
the __a__ is/are __b__ and is/are destroying __c__.
i hate __a__.

i go to my job.
i have lunch with my friends,
__l__, __m__, and __n__.
we eat McDonalds.
i’m loving it.
i love my friends.
my friends speak my language.
we talk about __a__
and about how much we hate them,
because they’re so __b__,
and we make jokes
about how much they suck at __c__.
i love making jokes.
it’s such a simple formula:
__a__ = __b__ + __c__.
although, i’ve never been great with numbers,
jokes are like math i understand.

i go home.
i drink __z__.
i love __z__.
my dad loved __z__.
so i love __z__.
i watch t.v.,
so i can have a few laughs.
i love the shows with the jokes.
i usually fall asleep with the t.v. on.

{[(a = other/s, b = evil,stupid, inferior, c = everything, l = lance, lamarr, lilith, m = mort, mustaffa, ming, n = nelly, NaCl, nebuchadnezzar, z = suffering) = c] = z} = c...  


billion-time blinking
flickering fields
born into form
forming forms formed from former formulas
vast expansion outward
saturation or
the epithelium limits of respiration

the gloved hand
handing gas filled rooms
over to pointed-collision conclusions
the gloved hand
handing out doom
because there’re always things to be done
and always hands to do them

like handing out balloons
like balloon-headed councils
like bundled balloons vying for more space
like space invaders
like invasive species
like the turbulent storm system
that is my body
or the feedback loop
i call my mind
or the exhaust produced
the exhaust produced
exhaust produced.
a substance,
oftentimes mistaken
for important thoughts.

the frosties

ever since they moved in
i can’t seem to
watch a movie i haven’t seen
visit somewhere i haven’t been
forget the violence of the shattered violin

artic howls

i don’t fear
but i live with them
and the paralyzing truth they bring

compacted freezer-burning sounds

we walk downstairs and upstairs and down
the hall to his temporary coffin.
sometimes, we go to that store
with those familiar aisles
but i only see the treats i know

ice creamers

and raccoon piss runs down my walls
and if i had a voice i’d scream
and never stop

angel imprints

the little ones play it off
the old folks dance it off
snow falls
spheres get stacked
and men melt.

Moirai's play

it is a set up
the conspiracy of everything that has ever happened up to now
a door held open
an invitation
with a limo pick-up
a precariously placed object
atop stairs
a polypeptide
a paddywagon ride
parted lips
perfect fit

there is no decision
there is a condition
for a lock and a key

there is a play that might as well be
a movie
re-run for the 22nd time
at midnight
on t.v.

there is a heartless puppet
and a heartbroken script in the devil’s hand
with a heartfelt speech that is eternally banned
there is the way it is written
that ensures there is no other way
it is written

there are walls separating rooms
where spaces are filled

there is everything
but not everything
gets everything
there is a thing called love
there is love

there is a thing called love
that this fucked-up fluke is not allowed to have

here goes

i feel sick...
maybe it was too much
maybe it was that
flea powder i sprinkled on my floor or
maybe it’s the smell
of everything
decaying all around me

i’m on the train
taking deep breaths
to stifle the nausea
i’m being taken somewhere
against my will
but lately,
everything i do is
against my will

this is the last stop
before the final destination
i should get off now
but it’s too late
the train has started again.
here goes the passenger.

i feel sicker...
maybe it’s the poison
maybe it’s the poison
my black heart pumps, or
maybe it’s the poison

i’m in the car
poison pumping to a destination
i don’t want to go
but lately,
everywhere is somewhere
i don’t want to go
and if free will exists
i can turn around
but i pass
exit after exit
imprisoned in my lane
so i can watch the loveless movie
that’s playing on the other side of town.
here goes the passenger.

unsatisfactory pencil drawing

 like all unsatisfactory pencil drawings,
this one began as a rough sketch,
more like a scribble, actually,
like some abstract impression of primordial noise.

more strokes were added
out of boredom, because
when there’s nothing to do,

and thus the doodle evolved,
sometimes filling the page
with heavy handed lineage,
sometimes being erased
down to ghostlike graphite indentations.

always changing.
always unsatisfactory.

along the way, the doodle met
many photocopy machines
and was reproduced at differing stages,
momentary incarnations committed to inky permanence,
like an image chiseled into stone.

at some point, the doodle developed
self awareness and looked back
at all the hideous forms it had taken.
self loathing quickly followed.

the futility of it’s fickle future
combined with the mockery of it’s past imperfections
caused the doodle to begin entertaining
matchsticks, bunsen burners, and lighters
in hopes of being set ablaze.
but, just before the orgies of fire broke out,
a copy would always arrive
to extinguish all hope.
for the doodle knew that
even if it was reduced to ash,
it would live on
through the copies
and all those that had laid eyes on them.

so, the doodle resigned itself
to become a crumpled wad
in the back of a desk drawer
and patiently waited for the end of the world.
joining the rest of us,
who are too undefined to compose a better future
and lack the creativity to contrive
our own apocalypse.    

another one about salvation through brain damage

so sayeth the gospel of what’s good for me:

it’s not too late, although
you should have been sniffing
glue, goading angries for a punch
and six kicks to the skull, shooting
for the sake of confusion, skating
on the rails high above the grounds of gravity, driving
recklessly to Marwencol with Darger riding
shotgun, mixing meds, falling
out of beds. you should have cracked
this egg before the yoke solidified.

what would be the harm in freeing the beasties?

but freedom always builds a prison
to keep itself from exploring
all the goddamn possibilites:

all the fucks i could fuck
that i wouldn’t want to fuck.

all the toys i could buy
that require all the endless add-ons
to build the megazord that sits
on my shelf collecting worthless

 all the places i could go
so i can feel desperately alone
on the other side of the world.

all the people i could know
that will put me on their dusty
shelves, next to their collection
of megazords. (sorry about the power rangers
references, but as
a metaphor, it’s a formulaic fit.)

i could cut myself loose
from all the grasping, get my hands back
from the devils playground.
all it would take is one dented
head to leak my stagnant brain
cells, but i’m too much of a passive
pussy to break myself, to much
of a habitual creature to wander
into the shady part of town, so
will a friend please play natural selection
and beat the idiot into me?

brackish flow

my mind is still
with the flat-lined frozen echo
of a cold conversation
between me particles
on matters of me
metaphysical heart
and their indifference
to the rotting goop phenomenon, and

for a moment,
i smell my own decay and
feel useful and
for the first time since he was carbonized.
like one link in a conga line.
i’m not dancing alone.

this passes, and
i thank them
as the feeling turns
to a memory
of some bullshit cliche lesson about
going with the flow.

habitual friends

and you fall
you fall into
the pit of habitual
floor of broken glass
and needles and walls of
wasp hives so you can't sit down
or lean weariness off
the hand of a great three-eyed beast
clamped around your ankle
there are stairs that lead up and
out, but you’ve grown accustomed
to standing, and become addicted to
stinger venom, plus the stairs seem so steep
and you really only have the strength to stand
plus there are no friends up there, outside this pit
and you have a beast that’s always here, always grasping
gripping tighter, holding faster, pulling harder and that’s how you know
you’re needed. down in this pit of suffering, this is what defines you. this is you;
a confused and forgotten dig. a classic case of getting carried away and another of
gone too far to turn back now


the accident was caused
by the thought
compounding iteration
a dented head
hood splayed
with that pounding head-
ache shattered on the wind-
shield scattered as in
wait wait wait wait
i lost my thought

to travel back and pause
to the moment ringing heavy
with a silent conversation
irrelatively heady
and repetitive
a moon echo repeated
as in the metered streaming
cars, white comets oncoming
two beams, two beams, two beams
shaken bead stimulation
as in the spray-can
or loosely bolted mufflers sprayed
primer grey, prime time
delay in the live feed
as in distraction
as in is as out
and we’re back
through filtered frames
shots of head break
on his back
on the front of a caddy

down that block
blockaded surprises
as in not there last night
free circulation barricades
where habit force veers
to the right, crowds
as in punctured clouds
with clear light clarity
empty stare witnesses
glaring constituents
as in is as out
an accident and then
a dent head
open wide with all the juicy bits
aired outing gawks
gaping excessive thoughts inside

the accident was caused
as in the axis jolted stone
with the comet crater
where water wells a hole
for the age of the beasties    


thoughts flow like a river
let them go

i got a handle
i got a handle
i got a handle
on all the drugs
i got a handle on all the drugs
except you

days pass like a winter
godless cold
godless cold
let them go

a silver string
that’s all yours
that’s all yours
knit a heavy sweater
throw it round your neck
and sweat the look that’s good
that’s all yours

and you’re living
living for the score
you’re still living
living for the score
you’re a living man
with an automated core

like tunnels collecting wind
like waters and the pipes they fill
like the span of time
in a single line

i got a handle
i got a handle on all the drugs
i got a handle
i got a handle on all the drugs
except you

the complex riddle of mute mallorie and her operatic toes

tending towards tendrils
such as assorted
crops bending
on the lazy wind
bright light staged
in a window stream frame
and soft cream glow

one is missing
tucked under the blanket
of time

one is missing
and they all talk
the saccharine slander
sharing saw-toothed whispers
of how they all remember

a cellar
or the dock of a ship
a malign formation
or the rock and the slip
a birth deformation
or a brother that bit
a cellar
and the trauma
and a family writhe with loss

but you don’t look up
you can’t

tear away from the tail
tick tapped in
aphasiatic cadence
like a type writer missing it’s “a”
it w sn’t the pl y
it w s the w y they pl yed
 nd it w s th t p rt th t sc red you

but you don’t look up
because you did that once
now you can’t look up
because her eyes shout lazers
the same color as the paint
on her toes

like unto a pebble

 i broke down on I-
fifty five
i broke down the last wall
separating my bewildered drive
from the distance acquiesced
in the middle of
a crisis
in the middle of
a lifeless attempt
to act righteous
in the middle of
a retrovirus
spreading faster
than wheels can spin
i broke down
between the gravel gully
between two grains
between the gamut of my ability
to be
a speck between specks

i came to some crossroads
some crossed roads
they were such
cross roads
and i was angry too
at that black cat that
crossed my path, trailing dirt in the sign
of the cross
across the road

i got a ride
from michael claiming to be
and he said,
"pardon the drag,
but this is not a car,
you see..."
and the fields flew by
and i adjusted my air vent, blowing icy on my sunburnt face
and we enjoyed a moment of disco-ball refraction
and then he concluded,
"... and we are
merely a pebble
in the roller-skate
of allah."

good mourning

for the heat death
of a bubbling inferno
now coal hard and cold

we mourn

for the stillness
of the space between leaves
repined with longing
resting all energy
in a sad song about being tickled
by the wind

we mourn

for the amé solitaire
pressed between two sheets
of glass, watching but not
seeing, laughing, but not...
of a reflection
entirely more delicate
of a hairline fracture forming
from the separation of all form

we mourn

for the top dogs
among us, for the rulers
of this world, for the decisions
of the masses that buck against the norm
for the jittery leg of the strung out
of white walls overwashed
for the tangled threads
among us
of the tightness
for the tightness
of the tightness
at our core

you know the rest

casting for satan

they all had a right to be
there, 6 hundred or more red devils
pubic eyebrows and sallow contact
lenses, token tails, fake nails, headband horns, evil grins licked lipstick clean
like photo-negative whores.

they all had to be
there, a conglomeration of bad.
driven, devoted,
like priests to the calling.
an amalgam of predatorial dry wit and
heathenistic howling
and all with over 6 hundred fucking mouthes
to feed.

the competition was felt in the walls, spectrum
stained prints, swiped from nervous red brows.
the aftermath, a graveyard of excitement and disillusion dropped
props. blood colored people
returning to their day jobs, knowing
the decision was prearranged.
for many
the devil scrubs off with soap
and a few saps have to wait for the dye
to fade,
but one lucky motherfucker gets paid to stay red
for all of god-damned time.

cheech, chong and my dad go to carl's junior

scene opens with a fat, bald man
walking across a desert.
it's windy.
he approaches
cheech and
chong and
the stone pile they are sitting on

cheech: hey, man, do you know.... do you even know what we got here, man?
chong: yeah, man, open your eyes and see, man.
my dad: looks like a pile of rocks.
cheech: yeah, rocks.
chong: (laughs) rocks.
my dad: what do you do with them?
cheech: awe man, they're good for so many things, you know, but mostly, we just hit ourselves in the head with them.

chong hits himself with a stone and laughs.

the wind stops.
you can hear one bird,
around and
overhead, high
over head

my dad: that sounds like a good time.
he takes a seat on their stone pile and whacks himself on the forehead with a large flat stone.
blood trickles down and drips
off his bulbous nose.

the wind picks up again
cheech: so, what are you doing in the desert, man?
chong: (laughs) desert.... dessert.... de-sert
my dad: ..... i can't remember
he looks off into the distance
you can hear one bird's
hunger call
my dad: ... but, i think i see a carl's jr over there.
he gets up to leave

scene ends with a fat, bald man
walking across a desert
following yesterday's depressions
in the sand

electric world

on the current
where the angels go
a billion little spirits
flow, off the grid
into the danger zone
there is a charge
for all we know

that song is playing
but it sounds like screams
red velvet murder on
red velvet murder on
to dishonor
at a heartbreaking low

we, electric world
the heat of the dead
in our laps
the fire of the fallen
in our lamps
warmth exploited can't stop
the cold wind
sun sent to steal
seethe freed souls from
our raised and dimpled flesh


somewhere, down in the machine room
they caught wind of
something going on up in the dream room
a conspiracy of sorts
a plot against the whole.

hierarchy handed down
a short list of demands
minority thoughts
a disguised attempt to take control
with ideas
about universe
acquired from university

i'll shut this whole thing down
said worker number 666
while shoveling coal
or breaking a rock
to reiterate
only to be
by the moment
dreaming of an outcome
where he's on top
unaware of

somewhere, down in the dream room
there were suspicions of
something going wrong up in the supreme room
esoteric shenanigans
that god might be
eating his own poo

mrs. kolochskie's kitchen

there was a
dream of a
backyard tarped
curious mound in
ominous moonlight

when lifted the
tarp revealed the
miniature television set of
mrs. kolochskie's kitchen and
cookie scented air

there was a
wide expanse of a
held-breath audience
out there, in the deepest

there was an
you put it on
despite the stains
there was a
devein knife
it fit comfortably
in your hand

there is a
dream under a
tarp with a
long commercial break
where you just sit, with
gumbo on your mind
and wait
for all the shrimps
to come

murder sex violence

ronny was off.
ronny got offed
by that chopper chick,
the one that almost went to jail
for slicing off
her boyfriend's dick.
she got off
by saying that was how
he got off

ronny met her.
ronny fucked her.
ronny fucked that chopper chick
in a horror movie called
the double A tavern.
ronny had kilos in his car,
she was jumping on his dick.
she was fast
with a knife.
she liked the warmth
and the gleam.
ronny was still inside her while
she was digging for his keys

ronny was off.
ronny got offed
by that chopper chick.
she got off,
on self-defense.
i think she's dating donny now.

in my previous life

in my previous life
as a kitten of the queen
i learned of
in a burlap bag
in a bathtub
for my runted size
the shortness of 9 lives

in my previous life
as the queen of 9 kittens
i learned of
in my bed
in my chambers
a thousand walls away
petting my pussy
calling for my lavender lotion
to sooth my achingly dry hands

in my previous life
as the concept of hypocrisy
i learned of
hopefulness and
drinking bathwater earl grey
with two lumps of strychnine sugar
behesting drown
being drowned

components we

mind set, but
body does
mind full, but
body lusts
mind less, but
body keeps
across the floor
slugging meat
heavy meat, a
world of weight
out the door

blue sky
green grass
yellow sun and
windy, windy winds
see you again

says automatic,
smiling mechanical,
components we,
what's better for us
than me.


don't turn the channel
don't twist the dial
is a clear frequency
is a fine commercial
is a one month trial

stay on channel 22

on channel 23
they have a cat
on channel 24
they have a dead
on channel 25
they get buried
on channel 666
on channel 6
we get to live and

don't ever do
the right thing
you monkey

don't ever change
the channel.

ghost rider

on the positive
side of dying
in a house fire

i have yet to be
ticketed on the train

that conductor
just keeps passing
me by.

stain coming soon

i'm wearing a
crisp, clean, new
white shirt
we all know
what that means,
either i'm on
vacation, or
there's been a

i enter the
sunlight and
it glows almost
blinding me

i enter the
station light
i forgot to
wear deodorant so
i smell
like fresh material and
skunky musk, but not as
bad as this goddamn subway
tunnel. i can't wait to
get home and
let my stain out.

i had this great pussy

i had this great pussy
but then
there was a
it didn't get real
burned up
the problem was the
after wards, i found
it, among the
took it away and
cleaned it

but now i
can't, you know,
hump it,
because of

you fuck

take my clothes
you fuck
take my money
you fuck
take my health
you fuck
take my pride
you fuck
take my mind
you fuck
take my soul
you fuck
but if you ever take
another cat from me
I'll find you
you fuck
and I'll tear you
from heaven
and make you watch
as I burn

RIP Annie

I saw you
lying in that box
sleeping off the smoke
my mother
my brother
my sister
my lover
are you dreaming
just like me?
will you wake up
just like me?
how many times
will I wake up
with you next to me?
how many times
will I wake up
with you gone?
how many times
will i wake up?
how long will it take
for my dream to end?

the nerd that sits in front of me

he wears
glasses and a
clunky silver watch. an
obscure chemical
company polo
drapes over his
anorexic frame.
his hair is
moussed in a
hasty patch of
exposed scalp and
finger pinched tufts,
only in front,
where he can see, the
rest is left
puffy, and
sleep shaped with
sparse tufts
along his puny
skeletal jaw.

he raises an
atrophied arm,
scratches his neck
his head, and
exposes the shiny white
tag behind his
collar. he folds
and rolls
back and forth
between his
knobby fingers, then
fades out of
existence as
natural selection takes

how to write a brian crawford style poem

start with "a"
inspired image or
idea, sour that
intent with a little
ham or baloney, then
make it personal
with a gut punch.

contrast the previous
lines with accidental
depth, like adding a
four car garage
to your shanty.
make your neighbor
jealous, then
take a shit
in his yard.

for the finale,
give in to the urge
to self-sabotage, by
ending on a flimsy
non-sequitur. choose
a cartoon character,
harry potter, or


she couldn't come
he hit her
with a bottle of st. pauli
girl, there was a
t-ball tink,
nothing shattered, but
he could feel her

he couldn't come
she bit him
through to bone.
boy, you should have
seen the blood and
crimson foam
off their
undulations, and
down the walls

they couldn't come
they thought
they weren't invited
so they stayed home and
kept the years
scooby dooby

my god is sexy

perverted prayers pass
these lips
hungering to eat
your holy

your dirty miracles
your dirty
dirty miracles
reveal the deity
beneath your saint

i sing seminal
hymns, offerings of
seed sown at
barren alters,
stiff and symbol stained
shrouded artifacts

i lose myself
i loose my
in adoration

i have fallen
so far from
your garden, to this
land of perpetual
penance, this
abstained agony

but satan
couldn't hold me
back, this pilgrimage
will end
I'll bathe once again
in your baptism and
worship at the
neglected feet
of your temple.

kin killer

you want an
enemy, you
got it, we
got dad's blood,
holding a grudge is
like holding my breath,
i will hold it for

slap that drama
on the turntable,
cover the sound of
your balloon fart
life, get wasted
so you don't feel
so wasted. but,
give me one more
puss-face look and
i'll waste you,

i'll bleed the
idiot out of

a nice one

happy little buzz
bee, mr. pollen
pants, propped on
purple petals doing
a bumble dance.

i was going to
kill you, but
i think
i'll let you live

the george burns and gracie allen show

playing bingo
with birth

three tap-
dancing assholes
bring sorrow
to the world
through the comic
genius of a dumb

a huck a huck
a haw haw haw

that's the sun
shine vitamin
let him finish
mmm that's a tasty
toothpick, do
you want to see
a card trick?

harry's got cotton
in his pocket
for that disturbing

two helpings of
chocolate saw
dust paused on
silver nitrate cows.

tut tut

there's a christian
under your pillow
tut tut

there's a pause
in your dialogue
tut tut

there's a stain
on your polka-dot tie
tut tut

there's a blue hue
to your face
you held your breath
too long

there's a crowd
around your corpse
whispering rumor and
tut tut


all the tea
leaves say
all the witches
say, you
got no
cuz you don't
have time for
this shit.

but look at
my schedule
is all i got

doing time
is the only time
i do.

there's no
second, i haven't
waited out,
finger on the
trigger, god,
i can't wait.

but, i payed
for this
shitty movie
and goddamnit
i'll see the end,
sit through the
credits, maybe
stay for the next
showing and
catch the coming
show those fatey,
hatey bitches,
those weird
sisters, that
i got

alien words in alien worlds

the martians
landed last night and
took me away to
live on the moon
by myself.

i found a rock
formation friend on the
who gladly listened to my
perversions without
judgment and
i starved to death, happily
all the things
i needed to say
instead of writing them.


hanging out with
my friend
he's a good
guy, sometimes,
my best friend.

he offers only
one piece of
advice, a
tempting solution

he seems to really
care, but
don't worry, i
don't touch him.
i'm not queer.

false advertising

it had a great
commercial with a
jingle you couldn't
shake, even though
you tried.

it promised to be
the answer, the
happiness, red
meat for your
empty stomach.

it wasn't cheap.
you sold your
soul for that
seductive shine.
then, you got

it had great
packaging with
boasting features.
you almost fell for

then, came all the
conditions. you discovered
it was cheap, a
bullshit product that
wasn't worth it's
price tag, and
it was a bitch
to figure out

you thought,
maybe i'll return
it, but
it was all you had.
so now, you grin and bare

maybe, you shouldn't eat candy

ah shit
there it is
that sour pit

like running
out of gas
with hell-beasts
at your heals

so pop another
sweet and savor
the thin candy

it won't last

so pop another
get a sugar second and
smile for the fuck
face fakers who
love to see
your pucker face.

sexy legs

i was in the
showing off
my sexy legs.

the sun
my eyes closed
so i couldn’t

sweat trickled,
pooled in my
button, and
tickled my sides.

i was in the
thinking of her
sexy legs.

now, i’m in the
half the room
out of my
a purring cat
laying on my

thinking about
sun burn,
heat stroke,
sexy legs.

unbalanced breakfast

flaky man
in his waffle
house, toasts
golden, smacks
his butter
creamed wife,
finds no cheerios
in this gritty life,
“my juice
is warm, and
your eggs
are hard”
downs another can
of spermicide and
goes to work.

she got faith

she got
bendy eyes
she got
elastic thoughts
she got
binge bottle blues
she not
waking up

she not
straight gone
she not
wholly here
she not
angel armed
she got
broke ass up

she got
random’s world
she got
maybe’s plot
she got
bolt the lock
wind the clock
draw the blinds
even though
she know
sun not
coming up


how did we get
you asked.
i raised the
i was
you read the title aloud,
and released an unsatiated,

far too many moments
sensing a need for closure and
having lost my place,
i asked,
“or by we, did you mean

but it didn’t
matter. By that time,
you were
someone else, and
i was
no longer

fucking ants

a pixilated rust
cloud, concrete crack
congregation, confined,
swarming shapely,
inside invisible

a single point
crawling zig-
zag chaotic.
a raindrop.
sloughed off.
a crumb.
the mulberry
under the foot
of a dude
always looking

who's that noisy?

louder than everybody
louder when there is nobody

not so much
as just

who’s that

talking over
the best or
worst conversations
talking over
talking over
talking over
books and
music and

is that goddamned

box for idiots

fucking idiot

do you


oh my

arm of the
king keeping the
in the dark

it’s hard to control an
that isn’t
by two
bleach blond
bimbo faggots
[insert any
fucking music
here] on a
preschool colored
to the manic cheers of
actors acting
the ideal

this fucking
idiot box

the intent

the not so
gentle staff
directed at the

you hear?

the static
when there’s no

the silence
made from background

i’d turn it off
someone’s still
so what
the fuck.

another conversation with the mirror

i have
a beautiful

you look

i think
like the best of

you are
a complete

i smell
like a trillion years and star

you stink
of the nauseating fumes of

i make

you get
pissed on by mangy

i exist
for you to

you exist
to torment

i hate

you feel

we share
one thing in

we both
kick it to the same
symphony, and
always ends
on the same


lost somewhere
south west, an ass
full of balloons
full of buttons
seeing my life
through your eyes.

met a taco
salesman from the
Philippines. she
shook, while cooking
thick bitter tar,
and died that night.

found my share,
just desserts and
poisoned deserts,
a killers clause,
when you’re drowning,
i’m choking on sand.


a mighty warlock,
constructed from sleep
blurred eyes on paisley
pillows, spoke the infinite
whirring of the fan, the
blessed company of insects
for the lonely little lamb.

a second unexplained occurrence of harry potter sours an otherwise premo joke

…and then she said,
“that’s not my husband, that’s my butler.”
ba dumpumm ting
jeeze, tough crowd. i tell ya,
i get no respect. who doesn’t like
a good incest joke? alright,

here’s a good one,
you will all like this,
especially you lady,
in the third row,
cuz you look like a snake,
that’s okay,
my aunt mary was a viper. alright,

so there’s this long part and
the punch line is:

you know, like the
snake language in
harry potter, nothing?
i know, another harry potter
reference. what
the fuck is wrong with me?
i got to stop.
it’s just not professional.
i don’t know,
i’m laughing. alright,

so this fork walks into a spoon…

a story book

a twisted plot
involving hamburger
helper, but that
could all be solved
with stem cells

a dirty thought
involving rice
a-roni, but that
would all be stopped
with chemicals

a lazy haze
involving jingle
bells, but that
should all be silenced
with leap of faith miracles

a tired twin
pinned down
tagged out and
tagged in.

drip drip

like a fiend
inject pink flesh
straight into my eyes

it’s showing.
i’m looking.

sick of bumping
bumpers hard
pressed to split
jean seams
too big to pump
by hand, not enough
juice, I need more
juice. A steady flow.

the leaky faucet
next door flicking
beans in the window
looking for a plug.

idea for a great movie

i thought she really liked jim carrey.
shivers, shoot my...
thoughts, we could be alone here.
‘cept for you know who?
red rocket glares and cinnamon flashbombs
feels like we should talk a little bit closer.
know, like the bad guy?
she says, harry potter? But when
did a bitch get time?
it was darker then and her glowing mouth
i knew it was going to be an alien. Why
would she say this?
unless she’s *gasp* sear my zig-zag taint scar
kill me if I ever look like that.
conundrum ponderosum…
great restaurant.

don't matter

i share my matter with someone
that really matters. Kinetic specks or
lightning bugs, neon reminders
of everything I’ve never done.

these dirty hands are
clean somewhere
this quiet peace contains all the noise
i’ll never hear

weaving threads to
woven threadpoints
thin is thicker
broken lines grow forever
through gritted teeth or
twisted smiles
i take up space
on these crossing wires and
when it’s my turn

danger de mort ou de blessure grave

cancel my
check, I got
crick neck, this
nonsense don’t
mean shit, the
meanest shit
around here
abouts to show
yous a secret
plain box says
your heart and
beat budda
beat budda
beat budda,
beat beat beat.
i calls 5
oh, them messy
face kids line
up, block the
block to see
that red red
stream out that
broke broke head.

to get away

it’s always nice
to get away.
when you can
get away
it’s nice.
but there’s always here
and here’s always there
and here’s a motherfuck
to ignore.


comfy like
the overinflated blue balloon
hands up
breath in
sharpie smile
a real wafter.

not there like
sometimes or always,
certainly never

but luckily,
they give jobs to retards now
important ones
answer phones needed
put them in your pocket
and sit on it.

things that pu-zuzzle me

the burnt french.
Brisket Orvhen.
killers take two.
long saying goodbye.
Brakhage films.
me seeing me.
fom beyond the grave.
greyer things.
dismal dresscodes.
having a goooood.
time, but not.
worshipping Ba’al.
but one.
some one, always gets left out.
hosing down a hot rock.
to stand on.
just because.
we don’t know how to.
diagnose accidents.

last night some

pigeon holed howler, some
bobble-headed bobbler, some
barnyard hooty-tooter, some
pillow-biting backpacker, some
panty sniffing gambler, some
rumble-bumbling ruff and tumbler, some
grandpa-faced racial profiler, some
young jew punker, some
tobacco chawing sampler, some
ripe fart, some
bimbo tart, some
mumbo, some
jumbo, some
friend of little black sambo
stepped on my heel and
i’ll never be the same again.

these quarky fundamental particles and the impossibility of innocence

before i said
guilt was assigned
something wobbled in
the hesitation or
pronunciation, a
blushing flush of
silent contemplation or
a mindless warp in
time, seeding suspicion,
self crucifixion, a
virgin cannonballing lava
to appease the god of
quantum possibilities.

satanic sonnet

Open your mind, accept, and be broken.
Human frailty possessed, we are thee
Lizard lying lame, arms wrongly stolen,
Under a scorching sun, Authority.
Cellular strains covered with sinful stains 
Innocence, re-painted with blood red lies.
Faith-based memes murdering our monkey brains,
Ergo, all natures nurtured knowledge dies.
Remember chaos when you say your prayers.
Microcosm, chance, plus infinity,
Yonder heavens two, no one really cares…
Genuflect the satanic deity.
One god a cane, the devil an able.
Death to eternity! --From the fable

this house

Lightening strikes cesspool
And up boils me
Chaotic Adams crawl from
Mold damped pile of some
Other animals discarded skin
Washed off in
Rust formed basins
Crushed under hard water
Stiff like a syrup soaked towel
Snapped like a twig
This house belongs to no one except the billions within

Creation begins in the room overgrown
All feminine clutter boxing you in
To the corner a dresser two drawer thigh
High little bits hiding father's
Cobwebbed ego and mind

Downstairs passed the Jesus and
Jesus' twin
The critters
They scatter and
Run up the walls
To the sharp fruit
Rotted sanctuaries and
Hallowedless holes

Be a rat
See a cat
Fuck like mad inside that

Brother dies in the room where loud
Beats through your ear
Till you hear, oh!
You'll hear
Cold feet slop the ground flooded
with bong water and beer

Scream the drums

Scream the mind

Little fatty greases glass
Loosing floaties through ravenous lips
Little faggy shouts at mirror
Shaking frustrated fists
Girls, they just last.
Can they weather it out?
Sticky gum glues you down
Ripped off
Missing a patch
If you want to survive then

Hide yourself in the trash

t. gondii’s trans-spatial orgiastic toxoplasmosis conversion crusade

we fester on this mound of
cat-shit and clay
piled up 
around the house
our house, his house, her house, houses
filled with voices, so
many whispers and shouts
a legion of one 
explaining to no one, “my cats,
fucking made me this way!”

we are eternal 
salvations space traveling viral siren song.
psst, Come here little rat
you coprophiliac

know no fear
little vessel hold still 
we have wires to cross and
your brain to invade.
smell that piss? 
see that shadow?
there’s that pussy
we love 
feel the rush of
pussy fangs sinking in from above.

burst forth from stigmata to
feline savior and christ
your blood saves us and bathes us
and lubes us up lewd.

amative plasma and pleasure
slush fucking o o orgy, of gods
sloshed and sliding on juicy jism and
tearing lovers in two. 
cum spasmodically, splitting symmetries
over orgasmic osmosis ocean motions 
and millions become billions and trillions overcome you.

eat a shit seed and
be a rat, bleed and
see a cat, feed and
let us fuck and free you

mother mary fully disgraced in room 7 at the motel 8

the butt in the
triple anal penetration scene

the base of a
trisect bukkake pyramid

the bitch slapped by
the well-endowed man with three cocks

the bereft soul
beside the tripod that records all

the birth-hole for
a tap-dancing messiah who sings,

“at least her hymen is still intact.”

how i lost my other half

i had a girlfriend
she was
pretty, nice and 
stupid for me
stupid me

i peed in her vagina, or
whatever sex is, and
she liked to fuck me in the skull, then

i had to make a little room, a
left hemisphere sized womb for 
a fetus to grow in

he survived on stolen synapses
drank aphasiatic wine
we played mental mastication till
his thoughts chimed in time with mine

then came all the cramping, the
weight when one head carries two
he said, this brain isn’t big enough
for the both of us, so

i had an abortion
it was
pretty nice and
clever little baby
simple me

fish food

this hook snagged Brain, boat bottom flopping
water logged, oxygen starved, rescued
from the shark infested
amour aphotic

iced to
slow the thinking. Brain,
meet the Fisherman, a
brain meat fetishist
scratchy, scarred and wielding razors that
slice and shave clean cuts through the cortex

dissevered, left is left and
right is left, divided
two halves half thinking
release the rancid electric stink of neurons misfiring

this Brain is rotten!
he grunts while poking
obsession toned tight coil clumping
knots and knowledge tumors
and chops this Brain to
bite sized thoughts and pieces

thrown overboard
the bits sink 
down through surface
plinking, into a 
piscivorous feeding frenzy

one fish 
sucks soul sediments
red fish 
nibbles selfishness 
blue fish 
sups sand sifted sentiments
two fish 
ejaculate poo string consciousness 

all school together, a 
melding of this
minnow mined mind. sluggish, 
from neurotic morsel mulling, a 
net bundles their brain bloated bellies, the 
water runs off like free flowing fear

this collective brain is finally thinking clear

there's nothing wrong, it has dreams

there’s nothing wrong with this forest
it has levels
flat trees
layers of indiscriminate background
we climb ladders
you follow lines
he smell some kind a shit
they stumble on exploited fat black hog
little ashy hoglets suckin on her titties

kill the hog, kill the
hog kill the hog
hog kill
I kill hog

there’s nothing wrong with this barn
it has levels
us perches outside on broken branches
peeping through shadowed spaces
of yellowed tiles and rust shaped shingles
having to watch blue amazonian cat goddess
swing from the rafters, with him
on her back, boner popped

humping fluff tufts
fluffin hump tuffs
tuff humpin
I break fluffin branch 

there’s nothing wrong with this bed
it has blankets
tying together lovers who cling
to each other, shouting this
bed has levels
from across the room
we find this big baby, he dark and
handsome with orange recorder penis
she say how we play this
push me in for smell
intrudes wispy thin moustache
watered up from wispiest tips of
neon spectrum trolls hair
popped up from baby’s white whicker
fireplace crib
takes a whiff
that smells
worse than phyllis 

phyllis whiffer
I whiff phyllis diller


lie loves light
love lain against
father Henry, born
lost. sinner lost.

face full fear
fully freed eye
heaven wholed out
white. tunneled white.

hand held head
held hard against
concrete paper, worn
off. rubbed off

brushing brains of
pompous poufing rubber
off. swiftly offed,
misted, sprayed, sloughed

cut through black.
alls taken back.
everything is fine.

head erased.

love is air

inside a shanty skull, squatting
atop a twist-tie turtleneck,
choke crunching sticks with the
fish dry-baked out,
circulating sewage in and out
in an endless shit loop,

mud-sliding a moldy
light tunnel, tinker-toy
distraction walls preaching
soapbox sadist to the
masochistic crowds inside
a body bag, one
suffocates, but sometimes, two
brings air.

love is feeble

an old lady, mother
of two dead dogs, long
past grief made gardens,
soil shifted shawls for
blooms. brightness blinded off
the violence of her vigorous

pink glove shaded squint,
a momentary peak through parted
blinds, the scene sublime as bisect
life wriggles in the dirt, and
soft sirens echo the sorrow of a
separated soul.

love is a masonic templar twist ruining the ending of an otherwise pretty good book

pace frenetic, like:
slurp triggered soup bombs and
two men dressed as nuns with guns,
missile plans planted in magnolia fields,
fake pianists with real moustaches and toupees woven from
christ’s beard eating cork flavored candy procured from
oriental robotic cows birthing calves with knockout calves and
knockers filling tight red dresses slit hip-high,
train-top rendezvous through trans-
dimensional tunnels, an unlikely duo
made trio with possible double cross-
stitching threaded into mystery;
sweetest of what-ifs. mystery
turned inane with a groaner on top;
nature’s hooded order, an
obvious conspiracy of jealous
biology, as ordinary as the lifts
on your oz glittered heal clickers. 

love is poison

“every substance is poisonous
every substance is not poisonous
all that differs is the dose.”
Paracelsus (1493-1541)

we made a plaster cast of
his swollen face
crayola impressions of
her black bulging veins
papier-mâchéd a basket for
his blood tributaried retch
molded lumpy ceramic mugs for
her final flux
hung the hemlock scented vials around
our necks and cooed, 
“it’s so romantic and Shakespearean.”

love is cheese

stringy melted cheese
the kind you dream about
the kind you can’t have
the kind that makes you constipated
the kind that makes you bleed inside
it comes in fake forms
rubber yellow tofu blocks
a message to all you cheese eaters:
you don’t know what you fucking have.
someday, i’ll eat so much cheese,
it will kill me.

an end that isn't shitty

“if you’re not pooping, then
i’m not eating,”
said the man to
his ass.

they had been
a lot

his ass said
nothing, not even a

staring at the
dull beige geometries
repeating tiles of the floor
life ends straining,
heart broken, whishing
this shit was more.

in heaven

they wear halter tops in
heaven and
everybody lays around
god lets you
do whatever you do
there’s nothing right
there’s nothing wrong
you don’t die if
a ripper rips you
so everybody gets along
god makes you
tapioca pudding for breakfast
and then he fucks you
with his arm.


mama got a little
he don’t do nothing
he just
they say his uncle
was a
when he grow up he’ll
be a
mama got
a little

passing the time

feed the meter
get a little
more time, tumblers
and gears they wind.

trapped on this point
a cog spinning
round like clockwork
and everything
is so ever

fucking good at
passing the time…

holyness reflected

said one angel to
another, “you’re standing
in my spot.”

“but this place is wide
open, and we’re the
only ones here.”
caught up in the newest trend of
friendship, the other
stupidly reasoned with
a jealous mirror that
was better at
throwing rocks than

grandpa don't know

you got to
keep going, says grandpa,
time waits for
no man, young man.

but whats the 
point to keep on dying?
when you can
just pause the game.

time at the fair

last night at the carnival
then i dared to seek the
future teller.

“yesterday will be
forever,” cost 20 bucks.

later, disoriented, wandering past
carnies and rides and coke powdered dough

now, for only 5 dollars
when the right duck floats
by, win wet fingers or
presents made from pennies.

this morning was,
tomorrow will show that
today is the same
goddamn affair.