If I were with you on Christmas we would go sit on a low bank of the black muddy river, wondering why it’s so cold but not frozen. We’d drink hot chai tea with soymilk and share frosted secrets. You might say something like, “Ducks love to watch people in love sit on benches and throw stale bread into their reflections.” I would pinch your side and feel you rippling and think about how beautiful you’d look asleep with rose petals over your eyes or stars around your neck. Your breathing as my own, we’d exhale constellations and I’d say yours looks like a peacock. A snowflake might land on your nose and I’d think, hey maybe if it’s ok with the season I could kiss you and the world might still turn alright.

Wake Up Curious

Dripping from the rafters are
Bones flaunting for the eating
To dress with skin condiments
And call feisty lunch

A buckwheat heart
Hefty maple soaked

To eat like sex pastry

My Name is a Trophy

Evening love,

Blow that promise across bottle tops
I won’t take it as truth
Until a bottle top whispers

Drink up, My circulation’s harsh

Quarter atop walnut swivel stools
Your highness, so suitable for falling

I thought only of catching you
Of sweeping you away

The Device

You know when I lived as a catfish in the Nishnabotna
I would hold my breath as I swam past pipe fixtures
Even if they were just floating by
Lost limbs of the pesticide factory

My whiskers erect
There goes a threaded leg

Gasoline rainbows enshroud a 1912 T-model carcass
Coziest machine hosts a home collection of impaled worms

Catfish love crucifixions
I myself prefer funerals

Sharp dressed skeletons sway
Cinder blocks laced to their shiny black shoes

They say bridges are cliffs of hell
See their soggy faces
I chew their soggy eyes

A dead sex machine fell from one’s coat pocket
Rubber lust stuck in the mud
He always liked to deceive the people he loved

In Observation

The lunar lion sat, perched atop an exclusive hillside bordering a Neptune factory, my twin sister's doppelganger accompanied her. They ate pistachios and gossiped about amino acids.

Her innards spun like a flattening tire. She arrived to the party saddled aback an illiterate pony, escorted by an ebony swan; every time he quacked, it snowed.(One July, a group of children kidnapped him, demanding he chaperon a snowball fight.)They ate oysters and drank cocktails, then retired to the cemetery for an evening of granite and tears.

Impregnated and unaroused, the lunar lion rests in her olivine rocking chair, snorting cookie crumbs; her paper bicycle folds in the translucent rain. She picks up the telephone, though it's deaf, and tries to call me. I'm in the cupboard wearing my Hercules costume, drinking hydrogen peroxide, patronizing tea cups.

At the bottom of the sea there is an obese sea shell whose identity crisis provides her with the ego of a treasure chest. I stashed a love letter in her throat for you. Just ask her to sing.

The skull and flower preside at opposite ends of the table. Supper time. Forks have forged their identities. A vase stands centered. Did your mother pick those flowers? Or is that her skull? Either way, it's awfully thoughtful of her to flaunt her presence.

The cordless rang three times. Jupiter lit up in her eyelids like a dimmer light bulb. Four rings and God sneezes. A cue to end.

God unclenched his ass cheeks and out fell my smile. He didn't wipe. I get scared sometimes and start humming the soundtrack to my father's funeral. It goes... and trickles off into the sounds of gravel rocks and shovel heads.

Boom Boom and gentler melodies resonate inside the cadaverous eternity of your vagina. In your pants, time stands still. We grew old, paused there, escaping time, then the microwaved beeped.

Rubbing one out is more like a sneeze when you can actually get a girl.

Sharp dressed skeletons are climbin in boxes, slain by imagined fame.

What do they climb on? What is there to grab onto?
Nothin man, nothin to grab on these walls but old records. My dad listened to these. Why should I?
I want to hold onto a dick on the wall. Those are good and stable and sturdy. Never failed me yet.

You're tangled in glass again
Still, vain fear keeps you thin

Lustrous glances stimulate my mange
Rings of men see heaven gleam
Warn me when the viewing is over

Oh how you cease to speak
Neck swollen, a dull retreat
Warn me when the coiling is over

Bamboo Shoots The City

Drop a driblet, sip the poise
Grow in molded precipitation
Here, placid wisps mute whispers
Of craving blatant coitus

Feel em grow, tendrils tickling
Waking pains, ticking talks
Conciliation, beats lie in
Strangulation, a fine life

Bow tied arms, skeletal ties
Choke in insulated ambiance
Dear, placid wisps speak whispers
How they ostracize rotten needs

A-Bomb Ate The Law

Prophetic predilection induced by chemical arousal
Seem so precious, the themes of lament
Leech to the passel, make so strange!
Palpitate like missiles, bomb and implode!

Progress to cultural ambivalence, see see!
Intent constructing my shellfish attire
Makes so strange, make so strange!
Dangle dolls, please phone the police

Monastic infected cockpit crones
Shred him to pulp on the pulpit
Acetic sinew barbarizes love
Conceal trepidation, lurk here

Cull the sightly malefaction
Hand held thread to asphyxiate
A plash rhythmic breath
Conceal trepidation, be austere

Stifling spices, cinnamon as imagined, transparently curl from beneath meagerly whisker infested lips; they project arousal in the most intended sense. Ornate in self resolution but languid in populated eyes, he remain sexually intact only by the tip. “Suck all day, yes I do, but no, I am no fag.” Following his accusation, a turbulent demeanor takes reins, a fit likewise to that of a death threatened lobster, red face, huffy puffy, claws scratch but fists lack knowledge of action.

Midnight:09

People outnumber the lights
Shadows shade them
The affinity is tidal
As she splashes we are a choir in blinks

Shaded by morose laughter
Resurfaced as a deity of plagues
Mind their moored vessels
I felt the minute you swayed

We’ve swallowed vermillion ink
Found the nude and named
Their fine tailed species
A sloth demeaned fame

I’ve canned transient attraction.

Our loose palate roots will digest you with raw hunger. You stroke their bowels and ponder a million. Numbers are abysmal. You are forgotten without an orgy of tears.

Over indulgence has bred me anew and celibate. I thirst and lick at a casket of salt; rusted letters illustrate morbid reminiscence of when you swam like a fattened halibut in my belly. The salt cures this and I rest fulfilled.

I am a loose nut whose response to the wrench is un-mechanical.

I am surreal and chemical; my synthetic soul is wooed by overhead static of the trolley car cable. I wear suits of blackened styrofoam and spit transgender smirks at fee-line females. Mating calls in the form of jingling George’s sound from my palm. The steeply priced cats only want green, I refuse to pay tiding and proceed to fillet their mannerisms.

Slam Birth Babies

I mix myself a drink, whiskey and sour. You are sitting in the corner, cross legged on the torn pink chair, reminiscing memories of when father struck you with his haggard concrete stained palms. I say you are beautiful and sexy. You say thank you. I imbibe your sentiments; the stale acids of my stomach lacerate them. We’ll grow up to be dolls, with coined eyes, oil bubbling in our pupils.

You awake on a patch of cold carpet, sore and stained with blood. It voluntarily left you. I’m on the pink chair, I ponder this. I decide it is your time. You’re just lineage of soot. This is full flavor. I spit. I wear your shell as an overcoat and I feel vain. You smile. I leave the room.

I howl and slit my throat, luckily the cutlass is sleeping. I pine for moonshine sweat and humidity poisoning. I go outside. The expanse is fulfilling, though also gruesome. It is alive and pertaining to abandonment. I blossom in this cavity; my neighbor is spying. It is his virtue. I exploit this and brandish a gun. We will be cradled together; this is assured by my accuracy of aim. He cries. I see this and become enamored. This is my humanity.

You flaunt like a seizure shook revolver, descending to arson. I yell at a photograph of Jesus; he is to blame for my everyday pavement buffet. Bright cars disembark me. You are lonely. This is lust. Or maybe you’re rusting and don’t want to crumble alone.

The inebriation is flooding. It’s a fag’s orgy and cum bombs are the main attractions. I am baptized in this. You are marinating your image at home and don’t wonder where I am. I am cheap; the fags bought me off the shelf. I am now a dime bag of semen. They robbed you of your potential children.

Ashes spew from the baby factory; the designer lines will be out soon. My son resides in a test tube there. He dies three times a day. I am proud. I pray he weds a concubine.

I am soaking in the tube; the glass tastes potent. I am lured by the rainbows. They touch me, they taste me. I feel beautiful. The glass cracks. I lose my eyes in a lake of shards. I am fondled by blindness. I become enamored by this void and decide to die.

This is postmortem: A retrospect.

I stabbed you in the confession booth; listened to you dissipate, then leered at the vacant sound. I left a love letter for the coroner, signed by you. Your peers will examine this and determine that purgatory is your eternal residence. This does not bother me. I celebrate this feat with a strawberry waffle cone.

I bruised my brain and don’t understand what 1:16 means.

In a prolifically muralized alleyway in someplace at sometime you sash your spindly legs around my Redrum canned carcass. The fogged dew drop windows of my leaky world creak open, virgin Mary is caught mangled in my left eyelid, I focus austerely. Her ass is augmenting; on it I find a spot that may harbor the universe and God. Stars and poetry twinkle in secretion; a long eternity will wrinkle before they illuminate.

I concave at 1:27, two minutes late as usual.

My arm is beating horrific pulses, I clench numb to stifle the rhythm. The cutlass dauntingly talks reminiscence. You grasp my ghostly hand and part the waters of perdition. I wake to an early mourning.