A Year's TIME

Poems that I did not previously post for one reason or another. I am currently working on a play, so I may not post anything for awhile.


Untitled

Female climax
is not required
for procreation.

Will you say I’m beautiful if I let you breathe the cunt juices of yellow woman
down my neck?

Will you match my gaze if I am:
on my knees
with lips around your cock
swallowing deep & begging with my eyes?

Will you bring me pleasure if I lie by saying it feels good?

Will you Love Me Forever if my continual gratification
of your sexual desires
(without any myself)
is unspoken, understood?

January 2010



Hazy Frame of Reference

In the dirty, black broken glass back alley deserted in the vacuum that is my mind,
why are you there? what have you gotten into? Why do these glutton, mindfuck, greedy not Buddha—and is Buddha—sanctuary of smutty words and unwarranted tits in your face fingers in your hair play, rewinding spindly Nature, spooling through my subconscious mind all night?
Whether to kill you or send you a love letter, I don’t know, no Knowledge, weren’t we here once!
Packed in pork hides with our hot flesh and rough hands—eyeing eachother madly on the Banks of Eternity,
ready to cash in our shells,
drive away, or else be driven away,
Song parade of imagination, Batman of fatalist thoughts, shaking down to the bones, like twilight,
like grey, dim, pinking Indianapolis sunrises and sunsets, over & over in some warehouse, abandoned, powerlines of mind bouncing SHOCK THE LIFE OUT OF ME
whole world grey, grey hazing over, there is nothing left, Slanted Eyebrows, where did you go no way of telling where I am now without the Light, or if I am, or how to go over there from here, there’s no perspective, no street signs to speak of the Antichrist. You, yourself distorted image of god, Serial Killers, on antipsychotics—sociopaths, sinking into 10 feet of snow outside—This is a myth of my own creation.
Close encounters keeping us hard, fast from seeing & being the ultimate truth that lies in the back-lack of my skull, sitting in a hipstercafe (downtown), legs spread with a fat dildo, I’m not going, to try to, Push, Clogging up my Canal, You. Keep…keep…keep trying to push It out in the warm, crowded coffeehouse with a snowfort of Indians out front, I dream about you, lost, every night. for one week now (but not tomorrow since I’m writing this) The person inside me, living there: am I you am I afraid you’re in my soul??

Winter 2009