Second Person

The priestess kissed you for your christening.
Risen out of sin, you tremble as she removes
her facade. Revealed macabre. Accosted at
random and lost ten days in the malaise of futility.
Crescendo-ed to the gates of fated faces.

Lo,
you where found. Dirty and hurtin'. Behind curtains,
pulled tight like the drum. And some Tuesday blight
was always peeking inside. To no shame that resided
there, those outside still hide from desire, nature, and
twilight.

You know midnight, alright. Its the only thing you'll
stand tight for, in righteous fire. The moon is a tab
of extacy. The air is a cool, lucid liquor. Misunderstood
at nigh. And providing silent hindsight.

An Elegy for Jim Carroll

A good junkie,
could clearly articulate
mad hallucinations
of sight and mind
that seem so relevant the moment before they are forgotten.

And when brushing his fingertips across the placid surface,
how could he not have fallen in?
Lament
nearly drowned him.

He emerges and he is emaciated and his veins are enormous and his skin is pale,
but when he spoke I could have sworn he'd lived for ever, and would.

Vacant Lady

"What's wrong, the throngs of songbirds
-in your voice- are silenced by complaisance.
Forgotten

"What of your choice to rejoice in the noise of
yourself?
You're rotten.

"Your lips that were perpetually whet with
kisses
lie dried on your face.
Yet, you deny your thirst.

"Your hips that where the tempo to every dance
are as still as your vacant eyes - entranced.
Void of romance.

"The yearning that once burned bright
right out your eyes has dimed
to a cinder.

"This sordid winter has turned you
frigid.
Did you even notice?
Your every passion hangs placidly flaccid.

"I am impatient. And your penchant for lament
has sent me away."

Narcissus Reduced

You don't know sweet woman
That you have humbled me;
See when I thought I'se struttin'
I was really drunk and stumbling.

Yet you lie next to me
With velvet, vermilion skin.
How could you not see a fool
When my disguise is so thin?

You are pleasure beyond indulgence,
And glory beyond wealth
To demand the love of a man
Who loved only himself.

You don't know sweet woman
That you have humbled me
And when I close my eyes
You are all that I can see.

Kindling

I suck spit,
Eat shit,
Bite thighs,
Get lost in eyes
Of the deserts' green turquoise; she drives the boys mad.

She loves bad,
Fucks good,
Screams mad,
We really could
Let the secret take its nature in our forgetting.

She says she supposes
Her fire is dwindling,
So I cut her lovely roses
Into bits of kindling.

Gethsemane

a triolette


In Gethsemane
Misery is unspoken.
Feigning something manly
In Gethsemane
As I pass the lady
Who tends the garden.
In Gethsemane
Misery is unspoken.

The Firing Squad

He concedes his feelings of yesterday. Stealing time for congealing real dream. The Dreamer is trapped by his own schemes. Preened in the sand. Beaming ecstasy sunshine.

“I’se striding the night divine,” he says, “with moonlight homicide. Hiding in the sides, lines, and paradigms,
Then
playing the fated caged against their prison gates."

Braying wasted on just a taste of sedation

Termination

He did not see for all the caution,
and went crumbling asunder
with machine guns
and dust.

Orange Pumas

As I become intoxicated,
I saunter aloft upon thin air
towards heaven.
Floating high upon the clouds,
I can see the world more clearly.

In slumber I fall.

And as I awaken in hell,
peering up from the abyss,
the world above no longer seems real.

It is a long way to ascend.
As I return to cognizant
reality, and observe the
prisoners of purgatory,
I hasten back to hell.
That I may glimpse
heaven en route.

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!