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.