*Apply Puking Sound Here*.

There’s so much that I’ve wanted to, say in earnestness to you, along the lines of all your lies, I’d like add some truth of mine; Throughout everything, I have been, a loyal and trustworthy friend, I didn’t fuck with your reputation, should’ve put you on blast way back then; Instead I held my tongue […]

*Apply Puking Sound Here*.


Pour what’s left of me, into the puree machine,   press the button, liquefy my everything,   slosh me about carelessly, pour me out and take a drink,   how does it taste? your short-lived victory,   the look on your face, conveys quite bitterly,   the grit it leaves between your teeth, how you […]



Beautiful, gorgeous, happy glow…
Your Sweetest Nothing’s
put into syllables, for show.
Fiery, wanting…
glued to your face
your mouth’s curves
a daunting place…
I’ve been before
But tell me how – I bow down
into the splinters and cinders
that litter the floors
like your long line of whores
I see them all,
I choose to ignore…
You never answer questions
your many Life Lessons
have taught you little of
the snap inside my rubber glove
We are meant to Own our possessions.
Are we not?
You have seen quite a lot
Of my flesh,
Camera flash;
digitalized dash
in red LED text;
what now?
Onto the next…
Or am I wrong?
Am I dumb
To play along?
See here’s the thing:
I see the strings
Attached to each one
Of your crispy clean
I see the line of
Space and time,
wrapped inside
Of that tattoo –
You were too pure
to follow through…
this hurts miserably;
Yes you , yes me.
Look away if you must
Your face is too much
to see, anyway.
Just go on about your
fashionable way.
You were fine before
I came along
In my string bikini thong
to knock upon your door;
You’ll be fine now,
and I guess…
so will I, somehow –
Just forget it all,
my cries and calls,
forget me
don’t see me…
don’t see me fall.
You won’t believe me,
Your ears don’t hear
a word I say.
Go fucking play
As you have,
each and every day
as it’s passed.
What was that?
What did you say?
“Score?…Because of…?”
And you’re talking about
How I showed
my bare ass to you –
For that,
I counter you:
Mr. Fashionably True,
I hope this finds you well;
I hope it reaches you;
And hits you
makes you hurt
as you’re looking up my skirt…
What’s the score again?
Mr. Hockey Man –
dead red battery
flashing in your corner screen,
you don’t know the bones
that construct Lil’ Ol’ Me,
nothing taken seriously…
so fuck yourself,
good and hard –
multiplied by twelve.
I am a star,
And I will shine in Hell –
Quit kidding yourself.

Tar and Feather Suit.

These days the praise is so long-gone:

the desire once harbored for you to belong,

you’ve gone ahead and just moved right on,

into my nest with your reach – over-long…

I can’t help but to see through the “friendly”:

the poorly fabricated façade is now crumbly,

ignored chances to walk away from it humbly,

and now, the blood in veins courses numbly…

no differences to work out between:

two people from long opposing teams,

while one keeps the other second-guessing,

behind intentions growing into forces unseen…

the equation you’ve laid out is rather easy to deduce:

you think that you’re exempt from any need for gratitude,

an explosion of the magma from my own home-made brew,

that’s seething at the threshold of my door opened up to you…

if you had any sense, you’d be driving fast and far:

as my eyes have tired of looking at your parked car,

and I feel like I know nothing of who you truly are,

beneath your suit of feathers glued onto hardened tar.


He had been for so long:
speaking to me;
through hesitancy…
hands in his pockets,
his own needs,
self-rendered obsolete;
and so, frustratingly,
he’d come see,
so uncertain of himself,
so unstable in his health;
what can I say?
The man enchanted me…
his essence,
never left me
besides on my knees;
his touch was,
always slow and steady,
his hands were,
always on the ready;
to touch me,
to reach my inner-being,
his fingertips,
still haunt me,
when I dream,
he says he wants me…
it’s a thing,
wedged somewhere,
eternally in between…
a lasting love shared,
through an average mean;
and still,
when I think…
that it’s possibly,
him – HIS voice,
calling out from behind me,
it stops me from,
continuing on…
without at least…
…a glance behind to see.