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Full of Sin for captain zombie The nightmare, the forest, the fullness of sin I wish I knew now what I knew back then A young enchantress’s eyes so wise Drinks me with her cup of knives Eats me with her teeth of glass Eats me with her hungry ass Invites me to hide
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Fuck Poets I ain’t fucking no more poets! I mean it. I’ll still be friends with’em And hang out with’em once a week at the bars, bookstores, and record stores. But outside of the readings, workshops and features I’m through fucking them. They’re all “door knob sucking crazy.” The bartender’s right as the weatherman. The
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Eulogy for Robert Cochran “…they wanted to blossom and that means being beautiful, but you want to ripen and that means being dark and taking pains.” -Rainer Marie Rilke Five a.m. I dreamed I had a vision of your effete corpse dancing naked decomposing meat marionette attached to invisible wires bloody hollows weep crimson
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And It Was Sweet When I was about seven years old, I guess it was the summer of ’69. My father hit my mother for the first and last time After the fight we, my mother, little brother and I moved out of our white wood framed two-bed room house in Oakcliff 2607 Overton road
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HOW’S THAT WORKING OUT 4 U? While Morpheus Greek steps out of the dream within speaking a muted language through closed captions on the flat screen tv over the stilled raving of steel drums. There is no dream, only a digitized illusion. a conjured spirit of electrons and closed casket circuitry arrives to answer pixelated
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Morticia Speaks French as Gomez Goes Insane with Passion Take 69 Tramp stamp and pigtails A sundress and no panties this time, No messing about with jeans. We are sitting on the sofa I have a hand between her thighs. Smoking pot and menthol camel crushes And we are talking about the novel, My first
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I The Science of Poetry Einstein’s incendiary ideas words arranged in an idea of order mathematical sequencing it is the intellectual alchemy of the dead watchmaker thoughts boiled in time reduced in a nanosecond of synaptic flash to the ashen essence of humanity. The pure black symmetry of silhouette in shadow, tarot cards tossed into
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My Father Has Cancer February 14th 2013 “Merciful Father, I have squandered my days with plans of many things. This was not among them. But at this moment, I beg only to live the next few minutes well. For all we ought to have thought, and have not thought; all we ought to have said,
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The Source Each time I hear some pseudo Goth I Vampire poem I am seized by an overwhelming urge to projectile vomit a red haze of violence clouds my mind and all I can think about for the duration of the poetic nightmare is I want to kill Anne Rice I want to kill Anne
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Bukowski On The Bus Like U2 the Beats introduced me to poetry. The language lush, rich, and green as old money. These days we all read a little too much into Bukowski. The boozed up philistine postman with literary pretensions. He made it look so easy. And we always go after those girls.
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