Sir, sleepy
naked on the bed spill –
my drink drops skate down
my sternum –
tummy
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
pause
you between my legs
my stomach a rest for your head –
earwax glued to my belly
your snores vibrate against me.
ベトナムの芸者
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
~ redemption has no CA value
acetones
in every blind melancholy
finds retribution;
but it’s in the rain…
where thirst quenches
those visceral
of pores
aching for salvation;
sadly,
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 ~
Trainwreck
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
Freedom
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.
