Cry`baby
a guy`s weakness
is a tough girl,
she said,
tuning her iPod
to sex type thing,
she is kryptonite
to his soul,
cupid`s arrow
to his heart,
las vegas
to his sins,
and
when he is stripped
of all that
he gets
drunk,
writes
cry`baby poetry,
jacks off
and
speaks through a voice
that tortures
the ocean
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Raising
I came too, sat upright,
and vomited over my
legs: I was shocked,
like the four other
people in the room:
‘Wow!’ I said, raising
myself and gingerly
waddled to the
bathroom as silence
shrouded me,
giving me the will
to carry on with it
all and then reappear
minutes later,
minus my jeans
and a lust
for wine.
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6 feet from sobriety
perhaps, bitches when the sun has risen 6 feet from our sobriety &the bottle of whiskey has been emptied into the “essential“ of norm …
like i said, perhaps until then, where the fuck is my mask?
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a man and his pizza
you visit again 6 feet apart from my balcony to yours bitching again about the pandemic about how you need genuine and emotional physical contact, bars to pick up women in, friends to take road trips and head trips with, places to lounge, drink coffee and plug`in to and how you`re liable to cut off your own arm just to hear yourself scream; your cell pings dominos pizza is sitting outside your door you light up with giddiness ‘cause even you realized that things weren’t really that bad so long as no one fucks with pizza Like this: Like Loading...
Choosing Nicknames
My name’s Nicholas Romanov. I give myself the nickname, “tsar.” I print it on cards for my piano school. Nicholas “Tsar” Romanov, Instructor.
Pupils question me. Who gave you that right? Nicknames are earned, they proclaim with righteousness. Nicknames are predicated on allergies. Tics. Quirks.
I tell them people ought to assign their own nicknames. It’s demeaning to have others label on an arbitrary basis. They used to nickname me freak and nerd because I preferred Tchaikovsky over pogs.
I print up more cards, TSAR emblazoned in largest letters.
I lose business, stand firm. I dispense more cards.
I’m a tsar. Like this: Like Loading...
river Lily
your whiskey drinking is handless, he said ripping my panties off my hips,
it`s like a river that doesn`t flow straight Like this: Like Loading...
one death at a time
i have onion breath and a scar that says `wake the dead`. no more street vending hot dogs, or parkour`ing around the world in search of laughter, in search of love, when i see my world diminishing every hour, one death at a time. tell me how do i tell my unborn child that i`m not ready to die
yet?
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an Observation
i wish i could tell you that everything is going to be alright, babe, he said through an inhale of vigilant smoke
we were sitting on a furloughed porch stoop on a thursday morning dragging on cigarettes, watching our shallow graves wade in timeless waters
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regret&sometimes loathing
he wasn`t much for my emotions, `cause he`d spew insults like `your poetry is a prison with your verses on death row`
and
`your insecurities are like temporary flowers wilting in white padded rooms with black curtains and no windows`
personally, i think he just missed partying with strippers named barbie and quoting bukowski to his cat
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11 a.m.
he said he awoke with phlegm in his throat and a dirty brunette fucking with the sid vicious`ness of his mind
so, he said he kicked her off his bed and she rolled under and disappeared like those non`nancy`s his liver picks up outside the hollywood liquor at 11 a.m. the same liver that suffers daily from binge psychosis and bullshit poetry Like this: Like Loading...
