The Dirty Muse


Life is experiences and

Road trips

And I’m so hip

I read poetry on the


I sit at a ripe age

Like the poor man

With prosthetic


Yearning for some


All of my best ideas

Come between


And release

They call me

The potty prophet



Same sad song

Same plain chorus

Of heart break

Self pity pop song

The I so malieable

It seems we all play off of

Cliché, clichette, shit in the red

Solo cup

Cheers, beer, insincere

And the million excuses

That make it her fault

Responsibility is drained

Like crushed cigarette bud

from stale lager

The barbed downward spiral

The words make a cell

my dull quill scratched away,


in the aged cheddar walls.


Thumbs Up



Returning to the ghosts

of my worst years

my branding moments

the growing pains

that left me lanky and flaccid

and I come down the winding stairs

of the estate


cadavers in the clearing

orange flag markers in the mud

of my fat

To be the putty scraped on the door mat

before she steps inside

I let her into my mind

she told me I need


I laughed like

“Couldn’t you tell?”

I love like

wet stones in hell

I repent

all the years

slurping out of

malaria puddle

I dream of a different suburban wetland

a frigid lack of inspiration

and weathered skill

here I am,

some pitiful sponge

sliding race track straws

up my pucker fish

to find a spine

to graze her cheeks

hold her close

as she chews on the palm of my hand

hacking bread knives in the kitchen

four fingers down, a thumb left.

What else could I possibly give?

Give it up Griffin.

Sitting at the peak of the world
Loose paper flapping in hand
More than the leaves from the trees flowing before me
The tree tops earnestly staring at me
Mocking them
Mutilating the corpse of one of their own
With a needle point quill
But I care
But I’m sorry
And that makes it okay

As long as the trigger of the Lugar is pulled
The bullet meant for the commanding officer
Barking orders
Making masculinity miniscule
Then all of the squandered lives of
Perfectly good men
Are justified

Trigger pulled. It was poop.

Pump me full of adderall
Heroine, cocaine, tea, cigarettes
Ungodly amounts of caffeine
Until it’s all that I can do
Sit and push out shit
Shaking anxious wrecks
Blowing down walls
While I sit here
ass puckered to the seat
Still ready to die
Still typing away
Like if I stop
The trigger will
Pull me
And I’ll snap

How to Pick up Women

after a few pots of coffee
I shit like machine gun rounds,
My ass sags like rumple stilts skin
Putrid burning mass graves
Producing poo more impressive
Than poetry
When I meet a woman with a scandalously
Intentioned smile
I become
The fluffy bunny
Doing back flips
For a carrot
And a stroke

I read her a line or two
Prove my artistry
Probe my brain
Probing with chocolate finger
Frantic fanny
“that’s not even that impressive
You should see my shits
Gander the goods.
People come from all around
Towns from the far side
of the world
to seize this masterpiece ”
And when they do
The long tapering snake making its way
From the toilet bowl
Down the hall
And out the front door
That’s what gets me laid.

Flip the Bird to Completion

I’ve been fucked over
So many times
Sometimes when I struggle to take a piss
Trying to bleed a stuck pig
I watch my cock
Where it should have been
Now a middle finger
Giving me the bird

Watching the Legs like Cheetos

“I can’t pay the rent this month.” Dave said as a matter of fact.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there was a family emergency, and they need it more than I do. Family has to come first, Rich.”
“Dave I can see into your room.” Richard leaned to the side, looking over Dave’s shoulder. A pile of bags of Cheetos to the waist.
“What do you need 200 family sized bags of Cheetos for?”
“146 to be exact, Rich. And it’s a religious tradition.
We fill up a small pool of Cheetos, each of us bringing exactly 146 bags, and drop one single apple core, from an apple eaten by Mother’s best hog,
we all dive in the pool and whoever finds it gets a smooch from aunt Agnis.”

His voice floated like a cloud when he spoke her name.
“Not only did you spend your rent on 146 bags of Cheetos,
but you bought these Cheetos so you could kiss your aunt.”
“Woah. Woah.. don’t be a pervert Rich. It’s aunt Agnis, not just any aunt. The billowy, voluptuous, roaming the halls late at night in nothing but a bright red, revealing night gown Aunt Agnis, and this year she will be mine.”
Dave pauses to look off in the distance like an action hero.
“She will be.”
“I just..” Richard’s face turned pale, and his forehead dripped with sweat. “Don’t understand.”
“Maybe it’s time you sat down Dick.”
Bending over to sit down: “It’s Rich, asshole.”
It was then that she walked through the door. Like a kayak on unsteady waters, her hips swayed, and with them, as did the rest of her. Swaying through the door, red lipstick. The only thing I can stand to describe without an extra pair of underwear on hand. She was voluptuous, she was billowy… in the right places.
She was I-chee Wowa.
“I hope you’re not talking to my favorite nephew that way.” Dave turned red.
The heels made a slight clicking sound against the wooden floor.
“Uhm. No. Ma’m. I wouldn’t. I would never.” He nearly keeled over and died right there.
“You better not be.” She pivoted on her heel indicating she was finished.
“Excuse me.” He said it quietly, but.

“Is there any way I could join in tonight’s festivities?” He tried to talk like he’d imagine Hue Hefner would.
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem, Dave.”
She said his name.
“Did you remember the Apple core?” Dave half smiled, the eroticism recognizable at any distance.
“The apple core?”
“Well no one can kiss you without the Apple core.”
“What the hell are you talking about Dave?

I’m not going to kiss you.” She looked distraught.

He looked past her and saw Richard snickering in the far corner of the room.

Wiping up the bullshit.

Even growth is controlled. All of life has turned artificial. Convenience has taken over. It seems that with the direction we are going it won’t be long before I’ll be able to hire a third world worker to wipe my ass.

Her name is Mochikwa and never before have I felt more comfortable with someone wiping my ass. Prior to her I had suffered with a fat brown man, who was far too abrasive and rough with his strokes. In fact his strokes seemed to have no technique to them whatsoever. It was more than apparent that he had not had the proper training to wipe my ass. That’s when I had him deported. If you aren’t competent to wipe my ass then you aren’t competent enough to live in this great nation. Mochika has soft tender hands. In fact, I enjoy the feeling of her hands so much that frequently I will ask her to wipe regardless of whether or not I’ve enjoyed a BM. I got the recommendation for this servant from my father. It seems Mochikwa’s mother worked for him. He said that her mother was even more beautiful, though I find that hard to believe, and even more tender hands? I doubt it.

Holding Hands with Self Deprecation

Our hands look like battlegrounds
From tightened grips
Breaking away
Clawing at sweaty
Bleeding hands

Pick up the dirt from the ground
Rub a clump
Into the open gash

It’s alright
As long as I can hold your hand
One more time
And maybe
Stop writing poetry
that sucks dick.