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wasted again
stumbling along ragged streets
cold to the bone
not a single contact
context
or place to call home
streetwalkers whistle
milling that way
or this
underwater
the surface is terrifying
i hope never to breach it
though i can’t stay down here forever

venal

machinery machiavellian
a bar of soap on a nightstand
i have come to prepare myself for death
drenched in perfidious intent

you know
you’re really rather becoming
a demure ingénue, a chic pastiche
with charms labyrinthine

despite my furtive forbearance
i may have actually wanted you
but i knew
‘twas naught but a dead man’s demand

do not believe my halcyon visage
redolent of some buc0lic love
all i desire is a final fling
a dance; a pyrrhic dalliance

provocative warfare ensues
bodies lying taut, eliciting a feral scent
as the chamber moves
to raveling and unraveling flesh

at last, an explosion of color!
your glistening skin lies
like a harem of opulence
as my hands to the nightstand move

con trol

hair risen
cells askew
pretenses down, he tenses up
and like
a wrecking ball

illumination

listen, lad:
there’s a lot to be said for
new experiences
just don’t forget
your origins yet

remember, boy:
the wild drive home
how the breeze would
free your very bones

the tender press of lips
when the biting tension
of feelings repressed
slipped to supple redress

when reality was but
a gateway to imagination
and the time, lying on your side,
that you could see without your eyes

something dissatisfied you
to be sure
you sought transformation
and at that you have thrived

well done, young man.
you have traveled so far
you can’t even see yourself

semicolon

dilapidation
a shallow casement
food aluminum
a bat out of hell
schemes slipping away
a catapulting
clinical; insane
five rearview mirrors
dog’s barking wildly
furniture’s rusted
the freezer’s aflame
this face bears no name
two breathing bodies
the future stillborn
though not even come
she is coldblooded
paused carapace
caught up in one breath
assassination

moonshine

i knew some kids
who spent every night
cavorting with cohorts
and dancing themselves silly
full of second-hand smoke
and too much tennessee whiskey
belting songs unintelligible
shouting just to be heard
burning their way to an identity
whenever the soft sun sank
they painted themselves anew
mirthful hues of reds greens
and one-two-three's
the ludicrously lovely rabble
thought they'd live forever
but one dark day in early may
the home of lost children burned down
damned in its own reverie

fete

i saw seven
bronzed, winged women,
clad in blood-red
feathers of velveteen gold,
skipping in the spectral fire.

the ferris wheel's festive garlands
danced to and fro above the flaming fete,
sprinkling ashes like neon confetti
upon the gluttonous dying below,
burying them in their smoldering lust.

when the final struggling juggler
collapsed at last in smoking attire
a cry of dismay erupted from the crowd
and bitterly they cursed the corpses
for the carnival must go on.

nightmare

an eternal pulsing matter
a spectral sphere of squalor
hanging from thunderous threads
above a darkness perpetual

shadowy spirits running amok
writhing about in a hellish dance
this planet feeds forever on its young
an eternal escalation of breadth

an astral being faster than time itself
throbbing hard on my heels
gloom slowly encapsulating
i am swallowed

the twins

when they emerged,
clawing their way from the womb
like a pair of rapacious wolves,
the pupil of the one-eyed doctor
flashed a curious glint.
the twins burst forth in a fury
of bloody opposition;
edward, the eldest, exhibited
a self-aggrandizing grin.
hot at his heels was his adversary;
patrick’s puerile paws held
tight ‘round his brother’s hair,
but the lone locks of edward’s scalp
could not withstand the pressure.
they tore,
trapping the disenchanted patrick
within his screaming mother
and edward, though victorious,
remained bald forever.

preemptive eulogy

time has slain him
his body hangs over its
cruel line like
laundry dry

born a nuclear boy
he always hoped for
a striking finish
some fireworks
or at the very least
a mushroom cloud

he sought adventure
fame and fortune
‘round every corner
every nook and cranny
he left uncovered

he made himself a poet
a nomad
a locksmith
a shipwright of the soul

he ate
drank
worked
fucked
sailed
rode
smoked
shot
wrote
painted
spoke
morphed
kissed
drank
he knew
read
built
watched
traveled
understood
overthrew
wept
laughed
sacrificed
pushed himself


he did everything
anything he could


and it meant



nothing

fragmental

for the whole year behind
but one thing ever
laid upon my mind.
i gave it my all;
i lost it; defeated,
but not without hope,
i rinsed; repeated.
it made me neurotic,
sparked my synapse-
fireworks-
effervescent collapse.

trans-siberian pantoum

the realization had never hit me.
but now that i’m on this desolate tract,
i know without the darkest doubt:
this heart is inherently trans-siberian.

but now that i’m on this desolate tract,
i have no place to go and none to stay.
this heart is inherently trans-siberian:
a pulse yearning for no destination.

i have no place to go and none to stay
on this dreadfully impassive centipede,
a pulse yearning for no destination
across the final frontier of desolation.

on this dreadfully impassive centipede,
i have no motivation to reach out
across the final frontier of desolation:
the bleak realm of public relations.

i have no motivation to reach out.
a handgun pointed now at my nostrils,
the bleak realm of public relations,
is forcing egocentricity upon me.

a handgun pointed now at my nostrils,
wielded by a malnourished muscovite,
is forcing egocentricity upon me.
i am completely and utterly alone.

wielded by a malnourished muscovite,
the bullet hits me like a falling anvil.
i am completely and utterly alone;
there’s now a damn fine reason.

the bullet hits me like a falling anvil.
i know without the darkest doubt
there’s now a damn fine reason
the realization had never hit me.