We Are the Orphans of the Dying King

At dusk
we emerge.
At dusk
as the fat man
dressed in sharkskin
ascends the tallest tower of this city
as if
to escape from an ocean rising from depths and obscurity to drown the streets,
then we emerge. In surging currents.
Too dark for sight,
we navigate the night by neon light.
Disturbing the placid shadows
on shadows: we are invisible.
Spinning artificial
faceless grins
that shine at a distance.
We are the soft-eyed creatures that cavort in boisterous hordes,
worshiping the moon,
for soon the sun
will run off all our abstractions;
making us real again.
We burn the house in pieces when its cold, and every day it seems a little colder.
We grow our teeth long and wear great masks painted in the colors of indifference.
We answer to any name,
we do not deign to keep one.
We are ambiguous,
anonymous
glorious.
We are shadows saturated with bawdy singing.
We are the orphans of the dying king.

Gag!

So there's this guy...
and he has this disorder of the palms
-- what with he sweats profusely --
and it stinks, odorously.
So he's got to wear this hand antiperspirant
and deodorant.
And it's always wiping off
so he's constantly reapplying the shit.
He goes to pick things up and they fall
through his slippery fingers.
And he goes to lean on a wall
and he slips
and he falls.
He can't catch footballs.
And when he jacks-off its fantastic!

The Pigeon

Winged little tramp
scampering around the streets on three toes
or flying tiny distances;
always singing to the next bird.

You're filthy
and your neck seems
to sheen with the
multi-hued gleam of oil
in sunlight.
And it looks as if
your feathers
have all been
tarred.
And your lips are
all black
from eating garbage.
Yet you hold your chin high
bobbing your head
in arrogance,
the proudest beggar
I have ever seen.

Fly home to your vagabond's
roost. Gawking down on the city,
perched like the hawk.
If I saw people from
that vantage point
I would also be
vain
and dirty.

Prose Fry

I couldn't believe it was real.
When first all my little hairs on
my arms
and legs
and self
started dancing.
Grabbing eachother
and pushing away,
making my skin boil red and speckled
flesh. In turn exciting my veins to go
writhing and vining with me.
Never entangling
but occasionally rubbing;
all slithering into the trunk of me where the
color dye of my shirt appears to have bled
onto my skin.

"Would you look for chrissakes my
chest is all fucking plaid!"

My friend says, "Its just bad medicine.
You are very sick. Go lay down."

St George

O, uncle Georgie,
What's a lizard to do?
A spear in the belly.
O, uncle Georgie,
All of God's mercy
Can't save me too.
O, uncle Georgie
What's a lizard to do?

Infatuation

It’s raining outside,
but the sun seems brighter
through the window,
in a dark room.
I could see the perfect silhouette of her until she turned away, pulling the quilt. As we sit there, both of us smoking, glancing out the window and at eachother, she says, “Tell me how you love me.”
So I stooped my head towards her and she moved to turn from me a second time. In earnest, I was answering; I held her shoulders and kissed a blemish grown out of her breast.
She didn’t understand. The gesture tenderly rejecting her pretense of modesty and diffidence. She frowned at me, as she did I could imagine her thinking: he is so full of shit.
I wish she had said so.
I would have known, right then, she wasn’t for me.

Prose

for Rael

I would like to meet people who lack depravity and gravity. This crowd is so wickedly static. And I will surely burn in the heap with the rest, unless I go alone. But this girl unfurls her curls, like chains, and my cries of elated disdain resound as I'm bound down. She laughs at me, as I reel in knotted steel. Tension spreads across us like the dissemination of her redwine tears across the wet cement. We hide knelt beneath a street light. The moon beams white indignation upon us. We cannot see the stars. Tar catches at her heels as she leaves me in the rain, to breathe.
And she will die in Estonia.
And I will die in America.

Was it the Lover or the Beloved...

Was it the lover or the beloved,
who was pimped by
the simple logic of his hand up the lady puppets skirt.
As his fingers parted her lips she spoke:

"The heat passing these moments
burns and turns the furnace
where passion was fashioned,
in steam, by the friction between
two afflicted souls"

With that he took his hand from her skirt and ran it the length of her legs.
"I'ld like to stoke that factory fire with dynamite kegs."

She pretended this offends her,
so he might've lent her
moments romantic leisure.
These he couldn't render.
So her Tuesdays love letter
was marked return to sender.

A Fat Fly

Have you ever seen squaller?

In a back-yard somewhere in California,
I watched a fly
on its back
on the ground.
Lurching in circles,
unable to take flight
or stand upright.
Insect decadence.

Such an unpleasant sentiment
I stabbed the vermit
with my cigarette.

Insomnia

I can't sleep,
less my youth and beauty recede while I sleep.
I may live the longest in the eons of unintelligible existence,
consciousness without beginning or end,
hazy reality,
and I'm amazed I don't nod out with a half cacked pipe in my hand.

But at least while I'm awake I am safe from my nightmares; monsters. The Manticore with
the head of a jetplane,
the body of a backhoe,
the legs of a train and
the heart of an atom bomb.

His green Uranium breath burns off all my hair.
I wake up groping my head.