Oh! Fuck!

Its been a week now and im tired
not of you at all i just havent slept
since Sunday but this is what happens
when you live off nothing but coffee
for a week straight sewing machine foot
and a stomach ache so heres the question
then will more help us stay awake or
give us the caffeine blues which is
pretty much just laying in bed awake
feeling like glue waiting to happen—

a horse that aint gonna be racing
because of a bad leg

a high school football injury

Whats the term im looking for?
Invariably lame?

Photojournalism

I burned the negatives. The camera
makes you uncomfortable. Coat pulled
up over your face. You turning towards
the wall. Just misses

the chance to remember you. It’s
become a game. One quick snapshot
for someone to bag. But you… you’re good. You
put Polaroid out of business, when you restarted
the Trojan war in the living room.

Arms reaching out and flashes banging
blue picture shows inside my eyelids. I dove
like secret service in front of a Nikon that had
its eye on your silhouette from behind the couch.
You were staring down the crowded hallway,
lined with stupored soldiers booming chorus;
war songs from older days.

well I’m a-walkin’ down the road
with my head in my hands,
lookin’ for a girl who needs
a worried man. only one kind
of favor I’ll ask you, just
allow me one more chance.

We made our way,
through the corridor filled with drunkards,
downstairs to the porch,
to smoke a cigarette
where the light showed right on your face.

You were wearing that hyacinth dress.
You were soaked in champagne.
You looked into my eyes.
I looked down
and dug into my chest.

Lady

You’ve gone
and shacked up with
the moon. You spend
your nights listening to
it play its stupid song on
the piano, and spilling
wine on Cassiopeia.

Truth be told (please)
on those nights when
you come to me
in lieu of sleep,
saying something to
the effect of "Let's get
a bottle and
drink alone tonight,"

I do imagine
how pretty you
would look

with your hair
wrapped around your neck
like a scarf or
necklace

laying
like a princess strung
out across diamonds.

But really, I don’t have
the stomach for

drinking anymore,
and (if

you must know)

I’ve dreamt of a life
on a floor in a blanket
with you.

I’m halfway
there.

Ashley to ashes.
Dope to dust.

I don’t even like
music anymore,
I just want to hear
harmonicas cough.

Ain’t it just like the night,
To be gone by
the time you wake up?

Peace,
Bitch.

Cobwebs On a Window Sill

Eight shaky legs tap across a dusty pane,
shuffling along thin lines like a eunuch
slowly inching across a white
rope while mustachioed grimaces
and mascara eyes burn red.
Sometimes, I wish
that everyone forgot
everything I’ve ever
said or done. Then
I remember that
they probably already
have, and I bury myself
under as many blankets
as I can find and curl up
like a dead spider.
I long to be hanging,
as if by
a thread of your skirt.
Oh! How you set
my heart aflame!—it quietly
crackles in your fireplace
while you curl up with
a book (maybe the Subterraneans)
on that cushy chair and footrest
that was our bed
on the one night when
we never slept closer.
Let’s make love right here,
On this tangent.

Three-way With Dorothy

Oh, hello good friend! Yes,
yes come in. Of course! You
know you’re always welcome
here. What brings you to the
Lake District? Ah, I see, Leiden’s
not so far from here. You say you
met a gyspy gal in France?! My
word! And you traded her
your heart for a harmonica?
“Yeah that’s right, though, I
don’t think it was a fair trade.
I mean, it sings beautifully, but
the damn thing only plays the
blues.” Sounds like you’ve had
quite a journey in B-minor.
Tell me all about it over
tea and swirling smoke.

Believe you me, I know exactly
what you mean. And yes,
Audrey Hepburn is a babe. Let’s
take her to Paris, and reenact the
first chapter of the Dharma Bums
underneath the Eiffel Tower.
Hot damn! Would’ya look at that,
the sun is coming up.
We’ve talked clear through
the night, and greeted the
dawn with fireflies. What
now then? A morning walk
through time and space? That’s
a lot of ground to cover, thank
Buddha we know the shortcuts:
Follow the rain on empty streets,
Turn left on Columbus,
Run, make your lungs
Scream for mercy.
If you hit middle-aged,
You’ve gone too far.

I guess it is true, after all;
we seem to be made
to suffer, it’s our
lot in life.
Laugh!
It is a joke!

Remember when
we were sixteen,
and we plotted
to take
over the world?
Surnames from Native
American ghosts and
MacBeth’s battle dress.
If you’re gonna’ go
balls out, you might
as well wear a
skirt, aye?

Oh, you said it friend—
No one tells a dirty joke
like Shakespeare.

And me and you,
we know answers
don’t mean shit. We
know the real importance:
all our questions are
the same.

We share it all together,
Drinks ands dreams, laughs
and lusty wenches.
What’s mine is yours,
and vices versa.
Any wise man or
fool will tell you what
nirvana is.

A Very Stupid Poem by A Very Stupid Person

Eruption!
Splooging from
its throbbing core,
trickling down
from its peak,
flowing over
your curves.
If only it
would preserve
everything it
touched, like
the flood that
seeped through
every crack and
crevice of Pompeii.
With these columns
fallen over and temples
turned to ancient ruins, you
become an armless effigy
holding me at my waist.
And we will be known only as
this statue, entitled:
“Young man and woman in rapture.”
And they will ask
Were they in love?
Was that typical position?
Did she come?!
Did she come?!

But no, you

Just wipe me
Off your thigh and
Get dressed to
Go back to him.

Still, I take small
delight in knowing
that he cannot have
all of you, because
you left your

panties underneath
my comforter—a treat for
some lonely archaeologist.

Prelude to a Hangover

She looked up at me,
“You’re so different now,
I wonder, what’s changed.”
I searched the skies
From her eyes and back

I liked you too much
Then
“and now...?”
Now,
I know better.

She rested her head
On my chest, and
We took turns breathing
Until we fell
Asleep.

Immaculate Conception

My head lying in your lap,
listening to your tummy talk.

Can I cradle the
idea just
a little longer—
while it’s still
kissing belly buttons and
cute little cramps in the
small of your back that
my fingers softly knead?

You crinkle your nose
as if to say sympathy
pains don’t sweep you off
your swollen ankles.

Come along, darling, we’re
already late as is.
Missed carriages,
leave us stuck
waiting
for the bus.

The throes of labor
make you push and
push, and in the
chilling breath of life,
a tiny heart beats still.

Our First Date: An Abridgement

We sat drinking coffee and
smoking cigarettes at a table
outside of Starbucks and
pretended it was Paris—ignoring
the overweight latina woman sitting
nearby whose night was, “Crackalackin!”
You told me that if you
put your thumb over the
butt of your cigarette while
you hold it, it’ll keep it from
burning down. Then, we sat
on a curb and made toasts
to carelessness, clanking our
two dollar bottles of André
with bubbles in our eyes.

It’s funny, the things one remembers.

We spent the rest of the day
in bed. The red fuzz from
your sweater made my sheets
softer for weeks. You told me
about some poor sap who used
to tell you that you were
kindred spirits. We laughed,
but even then, I felt sorry for him.


5 a.m.—sick from
too much coffee. I’ve been
pressing my thumb to the end
of endless cigarettes, and the ashtray
just becomes a mountain.

I Want To...

Flesh collides with affection.
Clammy and wet warm grip.
Fingers feel their way to their place,
and, ah, a perfect fit. You might say,
we fit each other like, ah yes, a glove.
Knuckles whisper secrets like lovers
in sheets, as sweat blurs our lifelines into one.

Oh god, sometimes
I’m so corny
it hurts.

I'll Be Your Ton-ton

Watching The Empire Strikes Back on Valentine’s day,
I can’t help but think of love. Hallway crescendos in
A bleak, virtually uninhabitable Ice planet—
Almost like some winter romance
On a bench in the Petersburg countryside.

They say the chances of survival
are seven hundred and twenty-five
to one, but to hell with that!
I’ll don my parka suit
of armor and valiantly charge
into white nights, on my
ashen grey mare. The smell is
less than kind, but I so rarely
get to play the hero.

A whole moment of bliss! Is that not sufficient
even for a man’s entire life?...

Then again, one might find himself hanging
upside down with cold feet frozen
to the ceiling, and a faint feeling
from blood rushing to his head, watching a
snowy-white monster tearing flesh from limb.

A humble reply restores the innocence
of the tired phrase it leaves unsaid—
Two lovers’ farewell cemented by certainty.

Ah Nastenka, Nastenka! If only you knew,
the loneliness I endure now!

And oh, the wise wisdom that
too often comes backwards:

Looking for someone…
found someone,
you have!

Yes, it’s a cold, cold place, but know that
I’ll be your ton-ton. I will cut myself
Open spilling my guts, heart, and all
To protect you from the piercing winds,
To keep you warm within my hide.

Contention

No,
I am not getting out of bed today.
Why?
Because, fuck you.
That’s why.

Swill

There is no future to be found
In the wet, limp leaves that lie
Soiled at the bottom
Of an almost empty cup.

You look like you haven’t slept in days. I hear that
Tea bags are great for getting rid of those dark circles
Around your eyes.

Prayers pour into white
porcelain bowls.

How many bags of tea
to contain all of this bruising?
How many shots of whiskey to explode
the ink that has settled in my mouth?

There is no such thing as tragedy –
Only tea steaming
upwards to
the sky.