Writhing in Tepid Streams


Hell bound Hounds

We’ve found

we’ve drowned

Could the sea

Wash more away

Than sin?

More than body and soul?

So unassuming,

So indifferent.

Maybe the secret to the pursuit,

Is in the changing tide

Unsure of what’s to be.

Sacrificed for this brittle end,

But with laces tied

And eyes covered

I walk.

Finding Blood in the Wreckage


 He is a creation of mine

A figurative shit

I forced onto the page

Blowing a gasket

How much pleasure does it take

Before it isn’t about love anymore?

How man slits before the wrists

Are no longer clenching an escape rout?

There is a green fog

Fallen through the tree canopies

Into the indignant

Hazed mind

I want the music

Mindset, words

That makes stone walls crack

That makes men feel.

My Quiet Friend

*Trigger* This poem deals with the subject of suicide.



I saw her years ago

She smiled in a quiet room

She was soft

Her body was warm

 As white as the sheets on the walls

a room without a window

for sometime

She’s patched

Like she’s spent a lifetime

Pulling her hair out

She says she’s done more than

taste death,

that it emanates from

her very being.

Death has become a part

of who she is

The circles around her eyes

Like she’s spent too much time

In the dark

The bright bands on her slit wrists

Like the neon signs in Vegas streets.

Sharpen the damn blade

The thick skin
that dog determined
won’t detatch

watching the guillotine
dropping, dropping
drip by drip
with each passing

If it would just sever
the anti climactic finish
sweat seeping
from frustrated pores

I’ve been residing in the basket
since the new year’s eve party
dropping again, again
but at best
a nic

but it’s been so long
they keep my cranium
in their filing cabinet
rusted shut


I’m coughing on the edge
Flashes of eternal bliss
But tomorrow it will all be gone.
There ain’t much left
And the money’s all dried up.
Ram Dass said Be Here Now
That means make the high forever ascend
That means sweating, clawing sobriety tomorrow
For being a little closer to god tonight.
Cartilage collapses and the noses scab at our scratching fingers
A sickening pale glow in my supple face.
Swallow a pill
Smoke a cigarette
The college diet
You don’t need to eat when you’re speeding by on stimulants
Picking slivering morsels out of the cupboards.
We do it because it’s life
We do it because we love it.
We do it to write
And eventually
We need it to love.

We find ourselves in a limbo
Satisfy needs and finger nails fall away
Veins collapse
Sober up
Break away
And hallucinate
I guess I’d rather fall apart as a tin man than turn into the vermin scurrying with the other rodents in the street.
That being said my teeth have yet to fall out of my teeth like a trail of crumbs following me everywhere I go.
And my gums aren’t yet charcoal crumbling away at touch
I am still alive
And for my now
I’ll chase the next high.

Deviant Nuns

They’re all nuns
Strutting around with anal
Plugs and strap-ons

They take your trust
And creation hand and hand
Walking into the basement of the temple of God

A bony hand gently
cusps the buttocks
memories of the armchair
in their clinic

dark fantasies

swimming through a golden sea
into the mouth
of a man drowned
hand and hand with maggots
and brittle crumbling

premonitions of a gun
snickering in the drawer

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

Defeating Bukowski

Sometimes I kiss her
The one sitting alone at the bar
Looking over her shoulder as the men pass
Desperate for attention
Desperate for a fuck
I give it to her
And she asks for my love
I’d give that to her too
If I wasn’t so sure
That the human strains from my voice
From the shared moments
Wouldn’t later be weaved
Into a noose.

Laughing Electrical Chairs

I told him that I’d be great.
That my words would soar and I would dedicate each breath
To changing this world of angst

But read it back to me
Throw me a line
You’ll know how impossible this is
This must be

The shit I put a bow on and call gold
My platinum predecessors
Know this path
They know how far behind I lie

They sit on thrones, burning electrical chairs
Laughing at me.

I am so many years from the gun
And when I reach the trigger
It still won’t be good enough

So what’s the point in trying?
What other option do I have?