| Blackout night |
[20 Mar 2008|04:04pm] |
Blackout night, self induced hell in a bottle.
Dance of a thousand devils upon the pinhead
of a shrunken iris in a glass filled eye socket.
Demon brew brouhaha, sold your soul
for a fifth of black labeled fuck all
signed it away in broken-nose-brawl blood.
Absolute absolution of all inhibition,
indignant ignition of the tethers of reason,
reprehensible responsibility rages on a pyre,
slamming pistons jackhammer, spirits flood,
driving them home with their combustion,
phone poles turn picket fence in a hurtle to the crossroads
but Beelzebub brakes for souls and owns your foot.
Toes splinter under the force. Sinews snap
with the whiplash of the sudden halt, inches from oblivion.
The words "too soon to leave yet." echo in your mind,
car door creaks, a tumble and heap and you find yourself
stinking and disheveled on the side of the road to nowhere.
Your ride’s totaled, teetering on the lip of a pit,
flames licking at the rubber till it drips black goo
like the liquor-blood-sweat squeezing from your pores.
Satan shows back up in the form of a state trooper
who kicks the shit out of you before saying a word,
cracking your skull like an egg encasing a pulsing membrane.
His tongue flicks out and slathers your throbbing brain.
You catch a glimpse of your sorry face in his shade
and finally he says "Boy, what’s a soul worth if it aint soiled?"
You snap awake in a sleazy motel, with a hair-lipped hooker
coiled around you, her breath hissing from her like a wounded snake.
The ceiling’s paint peels away to reveal your contract- signed and binding.
Blackout night, self-reduced shell, the mottled skin
of what-was-once a man, now the shambling dead,
slouching in wait for the day the devil collects his due
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| For Lilly |
[20 Mar 2008|04:08pm] |
or Lilly Bean Jinko, endearingly
Baby.
My little Lilly Bean.
They set a date for you to spring
into this world,
to first unfold your petals,
but you did not listen
to that refined medical wisdom
and came on your own terms-
early.
You entered the air
with a scream that no surgeon
had to induce with a smack,
I swear you spat out the amniotic
fluid on your own,
even earned yourself a scalpel nick
to the cheek in your eagerness
to be free.
Restless, even in the womb
and I've no doubt
that these are telling signs
to the way you will be in life,
to the way you'll think,
to the thorn you will refine
your sweetness into and place
in the side of anything that obstructs you
from getting where you want to go.
Even though the peace
a satisfying fart brings
is all the philosophy you need for now,
I can see it in you-
a tiny spark that will be
a far reaching fire.
But for now Lilly Bean,
you're simply
my baby daughter
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| In there |
[20 Mar 2008|04:10pm] |
For Sandra
Yes,
I want to talk at length about my semen.
Or my ejaculate.
Or my wad as you so lovingly put it.
All right then.
I'd like to mention my load.
Pearlescent. Stringy
and radiant when the light hits it
like the moon in its full glory. Rigid,
I create jewelry each day.
The life inside it like a colony.
Vigorous bits of slick
to-the-touch-stuff that quickly turns sticky.
Poppy milk without the poppy
The gobs of vanilla pudding.
Elastic strands like
silken rubber in your hand.
It's important you feel it freshly warm,
understand the texture isn't watery at all, but viscous.
That I don't unravel or dribble
between my legs. Rather,
I absolutely geyser, yes I gush
from some not so deep center--
like a Texan oil well with its deposit just below the surface,
or better, like a coked-up bartender
madly mixing White Russians in a cocktail shaker
who suddenly looses its top.
Still with me?
Oh I know, sweetie,
I'm waxing on, but ride it out
if you will.
I find the substance engaging.
In fact,
I'd like to stroke my fingers
again and again across my quill
and write a poem across the wall.
"A Poem of Manhood"
Would you find that intriguing?
Words inked in semen. But no,
not semen alone, I told you.
If semen is thicker than water, then
cum is thicker than sister-
hood. And the way
it is alive! Sparkles.
Wriggling microscopically
like electrolyte.
From the first
translucent drop of white
to the pearly spray that comes later.
Oh, did I mention taste? Well
you'd say salt.
But think milder.
Savory.
But lighter.
An intoxicating musk
from a bustling, Arabic bazaar.
Viking pale, virile
and oh so distinctly
male.
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| Almost |
[20 Mar 2008|04:13pm] |
In the slow condensing of self
and the subsequent distilled drip
it dawns upon you,
like becoming suddenly aware
that you are standing on the lip
of a yawning chasm,
but it's no pit that triggers your epiphany.
It is perhaps a glance in the mirror,
one you've made countless times,
a phrase you catch yourself saying
often,
that when you listen to this time
just does not sound right at all,
like hearing your voice on a recording-
it never sounds like you….to you
and you realize your existence is glass fragile,
your identity is as precarious as a '72 Cadillac
seesawing on the brink of oblivion
with you and that big block in the front end
and a four-hundred pound gorilla in the back,
who's nervously rolling down the window.
Then that little crystalline moment ends
its short fall and impacts, exploding
into a million tiny fragments.
You finish shaving or your mundane conversing
or whatever it was that you were in the midst of
and fall back into the elaborately built system
of blankets, casings and cover-ups
that allow you to sleep easily at night
or what some would define as
the human survival mechanism.
A collective sigh of relief is almost audible
above the din of all the world's clocks
simultaneously starting back up
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