Sir, sleepy 

naked on the bed spill –
my drink drops skate down
my sternum –
i ask if you would like to lick it off gent-ly –
but you are asleep
i watch the trail go cold into my body


you between my legs
my stomach a rest for your head –
earwax glued to my belly
your snores vibrate against me.





scent is flagrant, pungent of an opium…

poppy`s, they bleed in seeds disrupt;

in her sleazy district of show long

butterflies weep

`neath the cocooned hues

like painted ladies

on red gossamer doors

blistering in dragon`s breath ~

mildew is a flower…

quaint and gold, rings on an absent finger

white paddies, they are vast

and evasive upon her mekong pu`bis

black as the center it folds, blossoms

bloom and scent of cherries papier mache

where blasphemous lover`s kiss in orals;

this is her celestial, sainted and fornicated

her face, damaged, her soul, feathered

and drifting in the bastard winds,

her body moans through her necessary bones;

in the afternoon teas and turtle baths of longevity

he who bids holds fast in the moments of forever;



this is the old way,

you will not see this again





black Whiskey in a dixie cup


and I`ve had my troubles

I tell you what

laid uncle jesse on the copper line

played 13 roulette

with my talkin` clit

loaded her with guns

and emptying clips, my slugs

have all become saviors `n saints

brass-trash silver-bullet and fuck me-blue

smothered in a lynch man`s residue

only coonhounds have a nose to follow…

and I swallows, nothin` hollow

this side of the Mississippi, Misses-hit-me;

I feel tipsy throttle sexy

when he sexts me

down that hangman`s cry me a riv`a

`specially when he trails my trail

legs ta limbs an` breaks my hymns

like cock`s in a bitch-hens den

I can feel them eggs startin` to soil

an` if I can`ts reach my sweet georgia peach

then I`m sure he`ll preach

with his paddles an` swats,

breakin` me in, churnin` me out

with his bibles an` ridin` crops

right `fore he sends me back to daddy

to water his cummunal roses,

I grabs his pew and spew

‘our father’s` hellelujah an` all men ~

but there`s a tyranny

in his biscuits and eyes, and gravy blues

they`s don`t lie but rather try

to smoke pipe the tails

of old tymers and christian folk

just ‘fore they hung that bitch

by her purty throat, her bodily

a squabblin`, lookin’ for hope

towards the heaven`s sky,

an `all she saw, he say,

was the devil dealin` appalachian moonshine,

an` her mama`s bluesy cries,

an` homemade cherry pie coolin`

on a window sill near her black whiskey

in a dixie cup



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.