Posts Tagged ‘Insufferable Poetry’


Shadows of late afternoon,

closed sign in a shop window…

dusk drives out the light,

tamps the business,

sends the people home.

I look at my silhouette

as I hang out here,

stretched interminably,

longer than I’ll ever be.

My flesh is so perilously close

to being just a tenth of what I am,

as I read the sorry tale

of Bessie’s luncheonette…

it’s much too late to feed you,

even to call you by your name,

speak to you.

There’s just me in her window,

half reflection, half closed-sign.

And my shadow’s off

to link with other shadows,

until their shapes have nothing to do

with me, with signs, with restaurants.

Soon, I’ll be alone in the dark,

sitting on some broken steps,

as hungry as tomorrow must be,

a closed sign in a window,

open for business.

death by Poet(ry)


when you woke up this morning

the dust in the acidic

draft-less air

had already settled upon your face

thus ruining

those past-apocalypse seasons we spent together;

it is a reminiscent of these

when I find myself at a morality loss

rousing up in cheap motel rooms

where the continental breakfasts

don’t seem “continental” anymore.

why do we keep on running?

where do you think we are going?

why can’t we just stake our claim

on some little dingy foreign country (side) dive

and trade treason for reason?

instead of bathing today, you bathe in perfume

and sit upon my dormant cock

the heat within your woman’s womb

doesn’t placate me anymore

but it’s the slow wind of those acidic elements

that waft through your monotonous hair

that which stirs my black key stroke erections.

and each strand that rakes through my hand

reminds me of earth –

pigmen born of mud

air, where contagion spreads –

fire, hell-lelujah in the sky –

water, a grave integrity of baptisms –

you lay your naked face against my cottoned chest

feeling for my last breath, you whisper:


you don’t know this


but you have a black picket fence

staked around your heart

a grave marker

sitting on your soul


and, you’re wearing a suit.


no self-proclaimed poet wears suits,





Sugar Daddy

I wish I was
the acid trip
on your tongue
in other words
I want to
blow your mind
so that you come
back to me
like a junkie
returns to their
for feel-good
poison potions
then I want
to pimp you
to the people
in my life
yet keep you
to myself
like a stolen
of cash
which I will
launder on
that I will
use to bribe you
into becoming
the bride of this
tapped-out tycoon
so please sign
my air tight
which clearly
that you’ll never
strip me of my
sanity when
you go

Legal Jargon

copyright your life
so that nobody
steals your unique
better yet
dictate your
to a dedicated
some in-house
who has the infinite
patience to transcribe
the intimate first person
subjective narrative
that you describe
in painstaking
and make sure not
to gloss over
every he-said she-said
moment that
made your epic
journey so special
this way you
can always sue
who tries to
infringe on
the fringe benefit
of having the patent
on being the one
and only