“Don’t Try”

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They’ll bludgeon you for trying
rape your persistence

the only thing

to hold us down
with their nostalgia
tripping from grave to grave
watching my old friends
my lost love,
lie
waiting for death.

*The title is a quote from Charles Bukowski’s gravestone.

The Bureau of Emasculation

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play off reflection, I caught you staring in the mirror,
playing through a bit of high,
but I work hard enough,

it won’t be a problem

always starting at the same time,

always starting too late
the grip feels good in my hand
the rubber against stiff fingers
we wouldn’t want the Callous
they’ve hollowed out the underside
to take away feeling
stuffed with sawdust and formaldehyde
I never could be full enough
good enough for you
sew it shut
sand down the veins
and pare mushroom tip

it wasn’t so long ago
foreskin charms
phallus necklace
earrings always
dangle

Brain Beating

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brain cells drain like

blood trailing toe holes
composing the semi empty
to mostly empty receptacle
that is man

carving
a habit rippling
into eternity

they’re taking their scrapings
extracting teeth
and plucking the roots
like Sitar strings
they’re just trying to return
the electric touch
bless ‘em for it

Doc cuffs the bills quick
Tabs a pretty sack
Of greenery so I’m

paying my way
with teeth and finger nails
dirty deeds and coagulatin’ oil rags

week of the next
peeling for fix
in the lobby
the nose
drip and waiting for the withdrawal
to shock like a cattle prod.

I can feel the magnetic waves
in the atmosphere
the blue cancer
They got it,
Pulled the last stale tooth.

and the heart no longer beats
but shudders
to free form jazz.

It’s Only Natural

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a stone does not mean to be cruel
contained in arrogance
it just is


nations perpetually christened
in genocide
but they must be


domineering husbands
and the bartender
has a fat lip
but she has to


sacrifice the women,
the children
anything
for the survival
of the white man.

the oligarchy has finished eating
kind enough
to feed us the crust
embezzled with the phlegm
of each of their celestial
C.E.O.s

multi colored
multi variables
some reek of mustard gas
some are only stale,
with cyanide following,


silent
others biZzare shades and huEs
anti freeze: bright blue
but finally another knot in my stomach
and the sweet taste in my mouth.

New York Revelry

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The sun reflects from their tinted window
burning the passing children
playing in New York street
purchased from the vendor
for a foot job behind Denny’s

we hum in the jazz bands
just downtown
gospel for the people
every Sunday morning


we’ve been advised,
strap down the audience
tickle their ear lobes
with the sharp part of mother’s favorite spork.

I had almost forgotten
the septic taste of ignorance
the self assurance of bigotry
we’re all a twinge sick
the apelike growth
in the furrowed brow
plucking away excess.


How many of us have
been caught straying
to where we don’t belong?

Addicted to Sacrifice

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If I could just burn another
bit from the tip
I know I’d make it through.


It’s not a willing exchange,
the spiral,
advantage given, advantage given
we’re desperate
blind, gathering our things
but this funhouse is sealed
and we’re lost for good.

Sedimentary Chest Cavity

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weeds, onion shoots
growing from the side
of abandoned dirt roads
careless carbon, without consciousness

not content nor contempt,
just being
energy in the atmosphere

always we press on
with the force, their breath
moving us through
eternity

the yoke splattered on my shirt
subtle reminders
that the soil and my soul
aren’t so damned different

and acidic pieces of death
in the air
passing through
keeps me moving
keeps me alive

the potholes 
keep me awake
on my long drive through Hell.

A Malfunction

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It isn’t morning yet
and I can smell the thick air,
the biochemical warfare
sweeping in, across the Atlantic.
Even the air is stale.
The crackers are beginning to see
we’re way past our expiration date. 

Adding gizmos like limbs.
Privilege has always inspired new growth,
however cancerous to the rest of society it may be.
The abundance dripping down his chin,
the pit regurgitated, sticky, rolling down
his chin, his shirt, and dribbling to the table
like his sack scalped and glossy marbles
slimy sloppy marbles rolling out of the bag
goes squish in my hand.

But they have an app for that too,
there for impotency and eunuchs alike!

 I’d prefer the virtual to the real.
less messy, easier to handle.
Shoot, he’s even nice enough to leave it
in the bedside table when he’s off to work.
That’s when I really get my fun.


They’ve got an app for me too.
I haven’t seen him in three days,
at least I don’t think so,
but these pictures move too much.
I’ve watched him die,
I see him dying,
a malfunction

Addiction

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Isn’t it just like a man?
Sitting, watching the swaying hips
each conniving turn.


She slithers
through the blue cigarette smoke.
I do things differently,
doorways for suckers.
I brace for impact,
through layer after layer
clearing out foundation after foundation
taking years to establish
but moments to dissipate.


She pulls at the meat
twirling it between her fingers
throwing it from her talons
into the air
to her tapered beak.

Could we all be monsters
demon lurking in the night
loitering under street light
looking to the painted faces
and the saber tooth heel?

What could I feed her?
What cherished memories sacrificed
for the next high?

 

 

(I do not support; strongly condemn the type of misogyny in this poetry,(though it is a perspective in society that needs to be addressed) she’s intended to be terrible because of what she represents, NOT because she is a woman.)

Fast Forward Through the Good Parts

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Lou Reed’s banana

splattered in black tar heroin,
but they still want
to feel his rot from the inside.

Unhappy until
the smell is acrid
and salivating,
singed flesh,
and burning hair.


They don’t want to watch
the violent jerking,
hauling’ re-hauling.
They just want the tremors of before
and the smell of burnt toast.