humbled

I topple like a Greek Island icon
or perhaps a shipwrecked maiden

who waits for Jesus or Bin Laden

Anyone
who will help me on this cold, long journey Home.

your fucked and feckless heart, sweet tart

your legs
are Rumpelstilskin stumps

but your eyes and cock
know the Mystery of the cannibalized heart

you exist in the Mists
of Avalon, but I know

you have a day job

and a blown business card.

unlikely thorns

you were robbed
or stolen in carnival country

my darling
your colours were so bold: amber corn candy
shoe-red candy apple

and the death toll
climbs like a Biblical ladder

tossing gay Jacob
to  Palestine's rabid dogs.

Clench fierce and tight
the feast of abandoned dreams
is on tonight.

your ooakish heart

stuntman,

you are stunted, a Rumpelstiltskin skin
stretched taut

over your undersized heart

and that arrow of yours:

it squirts venom and spunk
in no particular order sometimes

all junked up. A short, salty
path down an open throat
can lead a derelict pussy
astray and then save her, to betray her
on a later day.

DeathWatch

how many times
must I watch myself die?

I tell you;

I am tired.

Help, Ooak's Alive

but just barely, her pulse
as frantic as a derailed train

her attire
virginal, bridal

yet she suffers
from itchy fin.

Oh!

My darling, my daughter, these fashion meisters
starve you thin, watch

your gasps on pink sand,
one-thid flounder, two parts
Beauty Queen

and your androgynous
pretty face

cannot get you out of this viral mess.

left to ferment in ooak hell

brine daughter,
I never intended to steal
your future. the elevator cage
descended in carnival brass

and there was room for only one.

now you fret in brine,
preserved for a millennium,
as ugly as you are lovely
and hopelessly untamed.

Sweet Heart,
forgive my cunting heart, your

ever-loving mother.

escape from ooak hell

 

my escape from ooak hell

was protracted and savage

 

one never leaves

unique torment

without a wound-stuffed blanket

 

and all those pretty dolls

I left behind: seawater in their eyes,

articulated torture

 

our Maker!

why have You been cruel

and blind? Why have You

been the Greatest

of all Traitors?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

My Feral One

your fierce orgasm
streams viral

in a sorrel forest,
you wear a cape with velvet

lining and a feral-framed smile

All is blood-thick and wild,
the churn of blocked clots
and heart throbs

oh, oh, my love,
the lupine pattern of your dispensed
disease leaves me spent

and thrusting futilely, against stone,

against water.

backstricken

look closely; there I am
backslashed, stricken
no longer bobbing like a rosy apple

your undarling departed
slicing a new moon shoreline

until I am tossed to wetlands again,
my skin bruised and clammy

persistent in this undead odyssey;
lies and knives bring you close to me.

I Tell You

I am ready
to slip the knots

escape stiff, coarse fabric
be a woolen maiden

full-lipped, cunning-hipped

and running,
not pausing for respite

or the cheap impostor—Delight.

Ouch! That Is My Cunt You are Trampling

husband, brother, lover
that is my pussy, my sweet and sour cunt
you trample

how can I express
my extreme distress

There is no file, no number

consenting sacrifice

eleven chapters ago,
I was threaded into the story:

seamstress' child

and you stayed beside me
to read and stroll

our landscape,
a stiff handerkerchief.


Lover,
I was happy, yet you abruptly
repeated:

Let me go;
let me go.

who was I
to refuse or ignore?

Eleven chapters later,
I am read no more.

stalking sea icons

all those pretty names
shimmer in sand,

desert roses blown
beside cacti blossoms

such vibrant knobs,
a nod to beauty

and what of trust;
is it worthy of your starfish hand?
raised even as arms
crumble

brittle and rosy
under the sun.

Not To Be Missed

Interior Travel
separates curtain from shadow

your rosy lining
blanched the coat of all colour

now in permanent exile—
a white tattoo on a ghost wall.

The Unenviable Miss SlipSkin

Miss SlipSkin, how  inside-out
you pull your face as though
it were a fine-traced mask

Your tears warm your throat;
if they were words,
they would leap and shouyt

grotesque. Your stockings
clot your veins and golden tresses

invade your strange intestines.

Peeled again and again,
your truth grows thin,

Miss Unenviable Slipped and Skinned.

the restless exile of the dead

the dead are exiled,
nothing more or less

we are ghostflowers
with the scent of rolled bottles

the ocean bobs us—
a lipread message unwarmed by kiss.

At Long Length

It does not matter,
my pain, an abortion in Three Acts,
your feckless dishonour.

My unbeloved traitor,
you have traded skins and gemstones
since the Beginning

of poetic time.

I miss you; you are mine.

Not with standing
my beheaded cry, you

refuse to live; you neglect to die.

your pocket fame

here we go again,
celebrating your pocket fame:

only 30 years dead, your name
haunts City Hall marquee

a ghost with no game

streets cobbled
like your sole and nape

all those timid curves
you could not control

now set in pitted sail.

The Nico factor

your flat feet
are water instruments;
walk upward, mer-angel.

and as for your voice,
it died before that final
heroin joy-ride.

as Middlesex as any beautiful
freak could be, you do not deserve

mercy, so perfectly
hate-worthy.

Diary Of A Dispossessed Optimist

I Do Not Have To

die this way; I may resist,
recalibrate, cry why.

Or

I can be one with the ocean,
conches, periwinkles and oysters.

It

is my wet and salty decision,
and I wait on the outskirts
of your enlightened derision.


Sincerely,
A Somebody-or-Other

Leonard, My Plump

You were a Kerouacian cunt:

And your Marianne-slash-Suzanne personnae
attend Nico's ghost funeral.

Mother, Masha
Father, Sasha

your plump framework
is simply No Damn Good.

Letter to an Unzenned Erstwhile Friend

Life often leaves us shipwrecked.

I suspect that Faith
Is the surest Provider.
Love,

Grace.

In Our Secret Lives

we fight,
and sleep on the sly
in fields of rye,
Catchers of Disease and Fright.

When you decided to deconstruct
my life, you left me no head, no bed

no might. Forgiveness charges
on a sweet grey nag;

I am here. I never betrayed
our secret; I never pretended
to be right.

Avenue Of The Unfound

Your city called to me
through laddered dreams.
I bought jigsaw maps
and stitched a scarred trajectory

toward your cold address, your timeless
vacancy.

My Sir Hyde

It behhoves me not
to inspire a twist of mercy

at the tip. I disabled
a stiletto on rose cobblestone;
now the slant of your eyes
blinds one final petal.

your bungled strategies

ride on, little stranger!
those safety boxes you construct
from matchsticks and fine smoke

cannot truly harm you.

What more can you expect
from debt except a sheepish
collector at the door?

My Pretty Anna

you have always been my Pretty One,
soft-toned Anna,
ever since the day of your shrill arrival.

Even now I wait,
I fret, I unstitch taffeta remnants
in colours unimaginable

and then I create your beauty again
just to watch the audience unravel.

the forgetful slave

absent-minded,
I go about your business

spilling eyewater and pink wine.

My pleasure, your insistence,
these floors that sweep us down

into the history of chaos, begin to tilt
like losing windmills.

My Master,
the sight of you on a fine St. Bernard
causes my memory to salivate
and painstakes my pride

anything but (except)

how can I be any thing
other than a piece of crap

eliminated from your waist band,

bobbing like a demented
Halloween apple,

blondely alone?

serves you right

Lady Polka Dot,
your self-promotion
backfires

leaving you egg-faced,
akimbo in a tea cup.

You are not at all worth
your while. Own up

to the disaster of Esther's ladder.