Finished Before the End of the Sentence


I can feel it dripping

Down my throat

Like turpentine

Taste it tainting

The water supply

Sometimes it sticks

Festering through my lips

To catch a whiff

At all hours of the day

It sticks to your clothes

Like cigarette smoke



In the floor and the ceiling

Asbestos and mold



Printed as the watermark

On every page

The wriggling tongue

Behind sealed lips



I’ve been carrying death

With me

The most fashionable

Of face piercings

A skin condition

from within

to gradually

Consume all.

From Maggot to Fly


The cigarette bud is crushed

Into the creases

Of rotten Would.


I can see my face

Resembled in the ash

And know we are

One and the same.


Though I more closely

Imitate the insect.

Rummaging through cadavers,

Squirming boils burst

at their own



Dug deep into the earth

To taste the red hot

Of my species


Under so much weight,

I begin the great ascent

Knowing it’s likely

I’ll never see

The green surface.


It’d be easier to accept death,

But what’s the point

Of a bug like that.

Picasso Priss

It doesn’t matter how my words resonate
For jagged on course
Just crumbles
It doesn’t matter how I crease
Like dog eared pages
To build your empire
You’ll only spend it on walking wife-beaters, and PBR

You were meant to be hung on the wall
For when inspected
You realize they’re painted with pricked fingers
Tooth enamel
crow’s nest hair
Brain segments
finger nails
Severed limbs
Forming a third dimension

Mash muscle and fat to a fine paste
In place of pastel
It consists of the families, daughters, sons
That put them in the most prestigious of museums
At the expense of their own life

Some survive, strutting the streets severed
Wishing they hadn’t
While others out witted
Parting the head from torso
Before parting from dignity


Intestines, pancreas, lungs, splayed onto the street side
Tucked away in decomposing, cardboard coffin
The smell of rot, the squish, poking sticks
Is the mortician as careless with his scalpel as we were with tapering maple?

Money was for the dead, we didn’t care that are shoes were more sieve than show
The second definition of family: to hold a balmy hand until fingers cramp,
and the dark rings under your eyes like lines drawn in the mud.
Now every time I see a cross I look both ways
How much tragedy, omniscient narrator with the spot light, is enough to satisfy you?
“Don’t go out after eight. You don’t know who might be running the streets.”
Your reflection in their glossy eyes,
Will stain the sclera for years

All sins originate from then. That sweltering box, like a finger held over a lit match, they say the first three days are the hardest, the single drop of heroine, polluting gallons of drinking water. I can’t last these three days.
Can you deal the cards, from behind the dashboard?

Next to that hospital bed, sheets stained, nurse in the hedge maze of halls twiddling the phone cord, anxious for the ghouls response.
I stayed up with you until the sun sat in the center of the sky,
the spotlight for your final monologue.