Squat
34 lines
Together we heave
open the primordial doors
bordering a grand and fetid
monstrosity of a house.
The smell of corroding
wood and roaches wafting
out and up our nostrils
as we descended into the belly.
The faint flicker of the pilot
light guiding us down the steps
and into the small allowance
that has been keeping
the carnivorous frost
away from my appendages.
I light a candle on the pilot
and a smoke on the candle.
She tries to run her finger
through her hair, but gives
up when the hair spray
begins to fight back.
The ceiling rasps and throbs
as feet trudge across the floor
above. A flush followed
by coursing water that greets
us through the holes in the pipes.
It slops a hello in her direction
and I watch as she sidesteps
into her other foot and falls
back, sinking the cot
with her cannon ball cheeks.
The vibrations shake the dust
off the walls and it stings my
eyes, letting an unfamiliar drop
tumble down and crater the floor.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
more poetry
Assiduously Routine
Every morning the beams
reach through the cracks
and beat my eyes open
like two godly fists
punishing a sinner.
Squinted and swollen
they carry me toward
a glistening reminder
of the night before.
The golden hue of whiskey
like a lighthouse signaling
my arrival and the beginning
of another torrid day in the valley.
With rigid fingers I strangle
the neck, sucking down life
in one incandescent gulp,
taking away my senescence.
I can smell the tang
of expired ham writhing
and cringing in the pan and hear
her tapping the tick-tock beat
of a Fembots song I played
for her the first night we fucked.
I meander through the crooked
door conceived by the belches
of the earth and wilt into
a chair, my hair spilling
onto the table like blood,
seeping into the grain.
The clang of ceramic hitting
wood bounces from wall
to wall, making its way through
the tangled pool of blood,
and up to the chasm, unearthing
my face from my wings.
She peers over her shoulder
with benign eyes.
I grimace.
Every morning the beams
reach through the cracks
and beat my eyes open
like two godly fists
punishing a sinner.
Squinted and swollen
they carry me toward
a glistening reminder
of the night before.
The golden hue of whiskey
like a lighthouse signaling
my arrival and the beginning
of another torrid day in the valley.
With rigid fingers I strangle
the neck, sucking down life
in one incandescent gulp,
taking away my senescence.
I can smell the tang
of expired ham writhing
and cringing in the pan and hear
her tapping the tick-tock beat
of a Fembots song I played
for her the first night we fucked.
I meander through the crooked
door conceived by the belches
of the earth and wilt into
a chair, my hair spilling
onto the table like blood,
seeping into the grain.
The clang of ceramic hitting
wood bounces from wall
to wall, making its way through
the tangled pool of blood,
and up to the chasm, unearthing
my face from my wings.
She peers over her shoulder
with benign eyes.
I grimace.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
new new new
anarchists don't go to meetings
28 lines
I can hear the knocking
a few doors down
the hall.
I look at my door
and then walk over to it
and flip the lock.
I stand still during
thud thud thud.
the girl on the other
side gives up after
a few minutes
and I flip the lights
back on and resume
my daily crank cleaning.
finished and worn
I think of a girl
I saw at the deli today.
I think of her raspberry
lips and her tight
black jeans hugging
legs that wink back
at me while I gawk.
I think of her and wish
I'd have thought
about her ten minutes
earlier.
little things make my days
worth bearing.
28 lines
I can hear the knocking
a few doors down
the hall.
I look at my door
and then walk over to it
and flip the lock.
I stand still during
thud thud thud.
the girl on the other
side gives up after
a few minutes
and I flip the lights
back on and resume
my daily crank cleaning.
finished and worn
I think of a girl
I saw at the deli today.
I think of her raspberry
lips and her tight
black jeans hugging
legs that wink back
at me while I gawk.
I think of her and wish
I'd have thought
about her ten minutes
earlier.
little things make my days
worth bearing.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
I'm uber jazzed...
for Tales from Earthsea (new Goro Miyazaki film)
note that Goro is Hayao Miyazaki's son.
note that Goro is Hayao Miyazaki's son.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
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