Daddy’s Home Early
Cleaning up the house
Dancing and sweeping
In his button up shirt
And frilly thongs
Daddy walks in
An hour early
Looks at me and shakes his head
Comes over and takes me by the chin
Princess you know I don’t have many rules
But the number one rule is
Ripping open the shirt
buttons popping off
bouncing across the floor
Are you ready for your punishment
Yes sir
Sliding my thongs down
Stuffing them into my mouth
The name of this game is called
Quite time
The more noise you make
The harder and deeper I go

~ redemption has no CA value



in every blind melancholy

finds retribution;

but it’s in the rain…

where thirst quenches

those visceral

of pores

aching for salvation;


there is no redemption here,

just an ocean

of rain

falling off my tulips;

my pussy needs

an umbrella

& a cigarette…



I unloved

that we



fu ~





Black tie-dye canaries stall the
hands of time cradling infants
still umbilicalled in the
hanging garden’s euphemism
Cataclysms and Catholism
may be the answer to a self-imposed
self-apocalyptic junk-alcoholic veering
down the tracks @ a 125 miles per hour
but I can’t see the moon trying to eclipse
the sky for it is fucked as I am fucked
LA must be a logical place harboring
my body as an epileptic earthquake
the Richter scale reads: 10+10+10, and
I wished my superficial girlfriend would stop
reading me bedtime stories gauged with
animalstic fairy tales of skid row; I feel
barbaric and I want to conquer Germania
just to fuck with the demon dogs in her head
but she constricts and I have flash backs of
birth of contractions of gestation of copulation,
and I can see my mother poetically broken by what took
an eternity to create merely took seconds to destroy-
and the roses smell pretty, still





We are all searching

for that someone

that quickens our breath

and lets us exhale,

that consumes us

expands our minds

and will remove these shackles

and free us

from ourselves.



blue ball


he tee’d-off

inside my 18th hole,

his 9 iron

casting divots

upon my wet hot sands ~

and while he focused

a hole in one on my par 4

419 yards

from downswinging me

a pivotal orgasm,

his backswing dis-aligned

when he felt my tempo

shift inside my tee box;

and there

his little white ball choked,

turning blue,

sinking, slinking

toward the bottom

of a chokeholds pond

never to be played

where it lays



How it’s done

You start out
a beginner
work your way
to intermediate
and advance
to advanced
until you find
you have gone
from rookie
to master
and now
you discover
to be
a youngish
elder statesman
and the next
of newbies
look to you
for inspiration
and advice
on how to
skip a few
steps in the
of making it
to the top
and you hate
to break it to them
but it all starts
at the bottom
with a mop



Why we never make it to Bukowski’s grave


Black Lilly’s hang in the garden

of Sir Edgar and Sire Alan and Sir Poe

Longfellow wants me to stroke his fellow

and Emily Dickenson likes to pick the crud off

perverse unpoetic poetries as it offends her, HER,

yeah fucking right, I tell my lover, the kill author who

suggests dinner with Bukowski on his grave, he says we

can hang patio lights and plant plants around his headstone

talk poetry and bullshit and more poetry and less bullshit and

then get down to the real bullshit of why authors had to evolutionize

in less than 50 fucking years, and why typewriters are now for roaches

and paper and pens are for third world countries, third world babies, third

world generation X’s and this is rather depressing conversation as I pour me

another glass of cheap champagne wondering why in the fuck my author lover and

I never make it to Bukowski’s grave much less to the liquor store for some real booze?