Poem #36…(thank you Frankie Valli)
.and big girls don’t cry.
whiskey
diamond
teardrops
plunge eternally
from my cunt ~
she weeps bittersweet
for you;
I’m 80% proof
[20% denial]
that my clit
is capable
of moving heaven
without
the gentle fondles
of your tongue and
fingers ~
‘big girls don’t cry’, so you once said
when you left me
desperately
suckling your cum’s residue
off my heartbroken tits;
the twins miss the subtle
of your hands and
mouth;
and ‘big girls don’t cry’,
I dare to echo you ~
I wish you could see me now,
how disappointed
you’d be
sinking me
to a level
of no shame.
.pale shade of misery.
and the taste of you
remains
red raptors galloping across my tongue
sprout de-feathered wings
of salted sulfur
shedding barbed wire scales
w/ tooth and nail
off my flagrant skin;
you licked my cunt
then kissed my lips
so how deep
did my love go?
I want to make out
w/ your mouth
and have you scream
my name
in agony ~
it’s midnight
and my bedside
is empty
for I have a broken face
that I cannot piece
back together
but I can paint the thrashes
where ‘X’ marks my grave
the way leopards
paint the spots on their skin ~
tell me, Sir Demon within,
when we meet again,
will you stitch up my heart
so it’s no longer jagged
in two. . .missing wires?
And please,
don’t touch my face,
this pale shade of misery
is hard to find
in a drugstore.
~ SunWater
for you
I snorted ajax
through my veins
injected a sewing needle
through my nose
as your nudist orbit
crossed to me
in waves of tidal blood
I’m left cowering ~ alone
on an anthrax laced beach
no shirt, no shoes, no surfboard
just a broken plated body
washed ashore,
de~reefed
dead
echo’s
of love
echo
beyond
the corrugated seashells
buoying on
vacant promises
where the sharkgulls
once sunbathed
Diva of Darkness: volumes I~III Promotion
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clinical depressant
chainsaw. . .
the chainsaw tends to jam as
my wife’s head is stubborn at times,
but today I succeeded,
I tell the therapist behind an expression of regret,
and a cigarette I five fingered from the ashtray from the previous session.
and the coffee smells like day old coffee grinds
but taste freshly brewed though, lacking sugar, that caramel look.
the therapist asks why I would even dare put a chainsaw to my wife’s head?
I didn’t have bananas in my cornflakes, I admitted without being charged.
So it’s her fault? The therapist assumes.
I tell him that the lady now sitting next to me,
who was sitting next to me earlier out in the lobby,
has been bumming a cigarette from me since day 37,
since it was my wife who suggested I see a therapist to help with my depression.
So it’s her fault, then? The therapist redirects.
I shake my head, bite my lip, and toss the cigarette into my coffee cup;
the cigarette makes a fizzing sound
like the chainsaw now sitting beside my wife’s stubborn head.
I shiver, not because in the manner I killed her in,
but because of the bloody shit I got to go home and clean up!
the therapist scratches his shiny head before taking pity on me.
he refills my placebo pills in a new prescription.
Same time, next week? He says. I nod.
and nothing is resolved, as usual.
DIVA of DARKNESS 