A Bad Love Song

Honey liquid, bubbled

Rich and full

From her soulful crown,

Polishing the dull

Cavern called home,

Entering lull

ostentatious silence.

 

She came in through

A bottle of wine.

 

Have you ever told

A girl what she smells like?

Honesty ruins relationships.

Honestly, this was based around dumb

Luck.

Klonopin, Molly,

How many beers?

How many tears?

 

For the record,

Absolutely none.

Well at least three beers.

For the record,

She was dumb

Er, than,

 

found love,

Not again,

I wish to stress the

Finality of this.

 

Great, I gave myself away.

She smelled like playdoh,

She sniffed my pain,

Destiny promised

Our collision, my

Weakness.

 

Honey liquid promised

Lies, she spoke of

Youth, she spoke the truth,

Honestly, failure will be

My only success.

Eris

Milady,

 

Where were your thoughts

That spring evening under a pomegranate tree,

My nose striving to push through your pale chest

For one whiff of your golden apple heart?

 

Milord,

 

I rode on the back of starving oracles

Whose eyes still bleed from vulture kisses.

 

Did you already forget

The trickle of your robes and the soft

sigh of the tolerant grass as they fell?

 

I remember the screams of

Ares’s gore clogged trumpet.

 

But, you weaved soft palms through my hair

Well I worked my tongue around

From your sacrum.

 

All I felt were the desperate hands

Of drowning Phoenicians, chuckling up bubbles.

 

At least, please, tell me you know

What passage escaped your thin lips

Well I tightened my belt to go?

 

Why, I smiled and whispered

You’d do best to forget this.

 

As you wish, Milady.

Fire at N. 2nd St W.

Two doors down the forgotten little street

The drunk’s scattered backyard emporium glowed apocalyptic,

Smoke and flame tickling the armpit of a withered poplar,

Flickering teeth testing a lime-green Buick

That still has cocaine rubbed by high-heeled

Men’s alligator boots into the matted ocher shag.

That black scent blowing kisses up

Uncertain noses, I let the familiarity of

Sirens lull my sweat-drenched pale.

My only restraint from crawling

Toward that salamanders womb, from

Consummating my flesh and fire,

Why, it was 5 am on a weekday and I was in my underwear.

A Western

Heat visibly bounces off the thick tar of the gallows,

Rattled from within, cattle architecture

Lines the straight path to the future.

The death penalty desires center stage.

 

Rattled from within, cattle architecture

Shed paper thin leather, up unto windy plains,

The death penalty desires center stage,

Act 1, the good book and a troglodyte.

 

Shed paper thin leather, up unto the plains

The smell of death brushes our killer’s greased hair.

Act 1, the good book and a troglodyte

You stand here accused today…

 

The smell of death brushes our killer’s greased hair

The southpaw, drooling dull red, screams at circling vultures,

You stand here accused today

Act 2, Cain’s last words.

 

The southpaw, drooling dull red, screams at circling vultures,

Are you not my brother?

Act 2, Cain’s last words

I am not his keeper, let me dangle by the neck.

 

And so the west was won.

Ramblings & Folk Tales

Have you seen the scene where the snails have sex in microcosm? Have you seen Zardoz? I have.

 

Just doing something. Drinking from the silver cup. The lonely people. At what risk should individuals seek out adventure, at what point does that become as masturbatory as not turning Netflix off? I’m off. Womb tattoo, meat skirt.

 

There is a Scandinavian, or Germanic legend, in which unbaptized babies, or miscarriages don’t go to purgatory, but into the depths of ghoulish forest. Travellers get lost in these woods, often I’m assuming. If they stumble upon one of these demon babies lost souls, the baby spirit will jump on the travellers back. parasite. The baby spirit wants a ride, a escape from the hellish grove. It wants a mother, a father, anyone will do. The baby accumulates mass over time, the traveller is weighed down. The tree’s tighten, the moon hides, and the forgotten spirit swells. Ultimately, the unfortunate protagonist is crushed under dead baby weight, or escapes, freeing the traveller and baby of the bleak afterlife.

 

Kesha is the pied piper of pigs, TV is Satan’s cock drilling your brain.

 

Dreams got dimmer when I stopped smoking pot, nightmares got more vivid when I stopped smoking pot – Earl of Sweatshirt

 

The Blind must hate winter. All cold, all slick ice, even when warm the world becomes musty. There isn’t the archaic beauty. If you can’t see the blinding white cling to the earths surface how can you love it? Does the plant life dying mean more in total darkness?

 

Once you belong to a ilk, you know you’re in trouble.

 

I don’t take credit for everything said above. I do take credit for my scavenger nature.

William Murray

What’s your favorite Bill Murray?

Asked the merry sailor

Floating on the backs of souls

Awaiting embracing fire

And an end to their sinful

Aqua and grey

purgatory.

 

All stories must end,

 

Closures spider black fingers

Dance the salsa

Twirling red ribbon in slow motion,

 

All stories must end.

 

Small sticky hands

Interlock with your pinky and ring finger.

A chubby little girl

In a tattered dress

Belches,

Stripes!

 

Conflicting views on times linearity

Aside,

Unless something ends

How can you ever really study it?

a great bald judge

sentences, to any who may listen.

 

The sailor pitches forward,

His sea legs shaken

by the firm grasp of gravity and dry land,

By the gentle woosh

Of interlocked ghosts you know,

And chuckles

The Life Aquatic,

 

No, no Caddyshack!

 

A passing snob and her

Pink pregnant lump

Scoffs up

Ghostbusters,

Her high heel breaks

And she swings her purse

At a recently jobless nobody.

His reaction, priceless

 

Film it on his phone.

 

You feel the waters

Up to your knees,

The ebb and flow

Of somber destination,

Quiet delusion.

 

Candy concreted child on the left,

Drunken inquisitive sailor right,

Lost generations rubbing shoulders

Up and down the boulevard

You say

Groundhog Day.

 

A fairytale man, trapped

By some omnipotent destiny

Not to become good,

To actually fall in love.

To actually lose his mind.

 

The great arc pitches forward,

Outward, away or towards,

Some forgotten tale

You entered in medias res.

 

Unfiltered essential essence

Wash over your feet,

Tickling their message

Between your toes

 

All stories must end

 

Unless something ends,

 

Closures seduction writhes,

A ball of rattlesnakes

In hibernations release,

 

All stories must end

 

How can you ever really study it?

Road Head

Rigor mortis hit the carcass like the car.

Escapism encapsulated his pupils

Her fingers tightened around his belt loopholes

It had been thirteen minutes, since the bar

Twenty four minutes since, “you look just like [insert movie star]”

In the passenger seat, she swallowed her scruples

The chicken crossing the road swallowed the futile,

Rigor mortis hit the carcass like the car.

 

No heaven for road kill,

Heads bob with the bass lines tunk-tunk,

He punches the roof, punches the gas

Greed’s lupine eyes drink their fill,

She rotates so passing headlights may see her ass,

He bursts, animal blood trickles out behind the trunk.