Diva of Darkness: volumes I~III Promotion
Diva of Darkness: Volumes I~III eChapbooks will be available for FREE from February 14th through February 19th, 2016 on Amazon.
(click on book covers to download)
a Woman with a Gun
I am a woman with a gun
dead end eyes,
severed reflections
beautiful, I am
cunning, you are
and wise we are not
I roll the dice
and cast your fate
with Heaven to greet you
at Hells gate
as I lie down here beside you
-blood cells spilling like diamonds-
I am reminded
that without my gun
I am just an ordinary woman-
disassembling
and that without your gun
you are nothing more
but an ordinary man-
dying
A.M. Coffee
Satan in my coffee
on a Tuesday morning
riding shotgun
to work with Bob
and his cat-Black,
in a white Chevy truck
black coffee
I need cream
to make it brown
and sugar,
lot’s of sugar
to kill the strength
to calm the storm
brewing earlier in my
roach infested coffee pot
‘they lay eggs, you know’
Bob says to me
the cat hisses
it despises roaches like dogs
particularly the one
crawling out from my thermos
~^.^~Black Cat~^.^~
Cat.
Black Cat.
Crossing the street, Cat.
Cat.
Black Cat hisses!
Tires screech.
Rubber burns.
Smoke clears.
I didn’t miss him by an inch.
Cat.
Black Cat.
Not just another
Dead in the street, Cat.
Cat.
Black Cat.
You should have never broken my heart, Cat.
Black Dandelions
Dandelions,
though you thought me beautifully evasive,
Dandelions
smother and choke
their counterparts;
Dandelions
know no boundaries
they only know they exist as I exist;
You hand her Dandelions
tied in your mother’s favorite silk ribbon;
I wilt
at the sight of your black blasphemy
because you loved me once
Who would’ve thought your blackheart charm
would soil seeds after you bled them
then buried them, dry?
——REVOLVER—–
the Revolver spins
6x’s before
i’m elected,
gunpowder coke
chokes my grasp,
as the chamber
clicks, my brain spits
matter to dust
and thus
creates the sunburst
on the wall
behind the man
in the crisp white suit;
beyond his soul
is my soul smeared
in colors of bluebloods
surrounding petals
on a white Gardenia
pinned in her bedroom hair;
and there she sits naked
on her boudoir chair,
her snatch the color
of the sunburst on the wall
behind the man
in the crisp white suit;
he smiles and hands me
a gold plated vile,
it’s been awhile
since the last i gripped her hair
and sunk her slugs to oblivion;
the red of her pained lips
seep blood into my mouth,
and her skin is soft white
like a light bulb,
her body delicate
like the vase once housing
the Gardenia;
her eyes having read Hitler
she speaks in tongues confessing
our sins upon holy Mary and Joseph
as they close and shrivel
in silence
around the Revolver
in his hand
Psycho Sluts Live In Heaven
Psycho sluts live in Heaven
branded in apple tattoos
that kiss the mouth of those unSatan
like those wogs slithering like their counterpart semen
trudging upstream to mate with my berries;
Angelina Jolie ordered herself
a Double-Scotch-On-The-Rocks Mastectomy
and I think ‘what’s the point’
you’re getting old anyways!
So embrace shriveling up
and eventually dying.
Deflower
I am a flower
I am beautiful in your eyes
I smell of everything you lust
above me,
beneath me,
behind me,
you break me
like the stem
once holding the flower
Death Dealer #66
I woke up aggravatingly hornier than the night before
mislaid without the sense of prepaid gratification
from that stupid whore now stumbling out the apt. door
Beneath a vehement deluge I thought about that magnificent
Theatre of Incest, the fucking dog barking incessantly down the street
that barmaid with Jell-O for fake tits, that old man who acted like a bitch
all gone, all gone, all gone right where they belong
in that unholiest sanctuary they assume Dante’s Paradiso
I took a hit of the Devil’s blow, read my list, then took a hard piss
in that open cesspool of mouths coupled with the shameless and the breathing
feeding off Catholics who are misleading, Christians who live their lives by Jesus
“Jesus!” what a fucking mess, much less, it is for the best, I guess, if I blessed those
living in some post-idealistic place, not chased by the demon lovers of regret,
ensnared by the demon haters of no mercy; his name is Percy, and he sits
one stool opposite from me, 66 years of pouring tears into his warm beer, then sighing and crying wishing he were dying, dead, gone from this disenchanted place
once called Eden, now called South of Eden, my place, the Death Dealers place,
I show Percy no mercy and he dies swift and just, back to that Eden of lust
where his ancestors thrived before the serpent apocalypse eclipsed with the light like tonight
Vomica
I dream
of gold lighted Christmas trees,
and non-flesh eating
Zombies
beating down my naked windows,
my hands fumble clumsily
with the blinds
trying to blind those
from blinding me
There’s a single light bulb
hanging
from its intestine
it sways back and forth
creating shadows
of demons on walls
as I sit poker-faced
in front
of God,
De Vinci, Beelzebub
and Methuselah
all dressed
in post-iconic Gangster get-up,
the scene alone
fascinates me, exorcises me,
that I start having
an out of body experience
when my Full House
collapses
retaining them to beckon me
on all fours, first
across the floor
reeking of misconception
until I find myself
viewing the misinterpretation
of the world
from upside down
Though I realize
I need glasses
I see everything fine
and when
I got lost
inside of her
I found
my way out
and
when I awake,
the room is eerily empty and
full of life-
I vomit
Fist Fuck
he shoved his fist
up her pre-oiled pussonian
and rearranged
her organs
to accommodate
his needs;
she stirred
when her tubes
sucked vacuumed
her eggs, broken shells
fleshy yolks, evoke
then vacate
when he pulls his fist;
her womb settles
like patina fragments
in a Monet landscape
portrait; occasionally
they liked to
paint their
macabre
just before the break
of sunrise when
the rooster crowed
its best
Trainwreck
Black tie-dye canaries stall the
hands of time cradling infants
still umbilicalled in the
hanging garden’s euphemism
Cataclysms and Catholism
may be the answer to a self-imposed
self-apocalyptic junk-alcoholic veering
down the tracks @ a 125 miles per hour
but I can’t see the moon trying to eclipse
the sky for it is fucked as I am fucked
LA must be a logical place harboring
my body as an epileptic earthquake
the Richter scale reads: 10+10+10, and
I wished my superficial girlfriend would stop
reading me bedtime stories gauged with
animalstic fairy tales of skid row; I feel
barbaric and I want to conquer Germania
just to fuck with the demon dogs in her head
but she constricts and I have flash backs of
birth of contractions of gestation of copulation,
and I can see my mother poetically broken by what took
an eternity to create merely took seconds to destroy-
and the roses smell pretty, still
Pirating Underground
Cowboy Junkies
from Hell
ride your faceless
demons
whiskey vodka
sex
&
black hearts
surmount
& you’re pretty still
behind
your naked breasts
Desperaturbia
Clipping toenails scatter
in the
sink
My anxiety
needs to
rethink
desperately of us
Your cigarette butt ashes
embed on my
tongue
And your black market
perfume reeks
of maggot
beauty
Constant
no one knows this pain,
constant
breaking this broken heart,
indiscriminately
in a fetal position I lie,
a perfect picture of heartbreak
weeping
drowning
waning
dying
in infinite misery,
torn apart
ripped apart
stepped on
trampled on
I am the lingering aromatic
of loves once true love
before he died inside of me
still brings about an absolute suffering;
and no matter how many times
someone says it’s going to be alright
they don’t understand the vacant hole
residing in the center of my soul
and how it refuses to mend
broken
vagrant
violent
empty
I am
Under the Influence of Sonnets
1.
I’m a defective typewriter,
skipping a lot of periods,
hitting H’s and O’s equaling HO’s
black dots peer into my soul
2.
My mouth feels extra dirty tonight
my tongue feels extra horny tonight
tonight I will regret tomorrow of
what today brought on yesterday
3.
I fear an overwhelming sensation
when my name escapes your breath
it is sadomasochist deep like deep-throating,
insulting like an intense golden shower upon you
4.
My eyes are gauged, I read your cum in brail
my fingers prick raw, blood seeps under,
in the unholiest darkness our toxins unite then
erode then fade like wounds on groping hands
Domestupidy
I can’t take it anymore,
your fightin’ words
riddle like bullets
in my head
You stroll across the room,
your bare ass thighs sit
parted on the sofa,
your lips purse
I tell you all we’re good for is
orgies and social dinners, but
I’m ignored as usual, you’re
unusual, as usual
I tell you, if you love him,
then set me free! Oh
for fucks sake, stop
fucking with me!
I need another drink, another
excuse for you to wallow in
self-pity; and this house of
domesticity has become a
house of domestupidy
I’d like to think we’re better
than this so I hand you my
cigarette and tell you to
do that thing with
your gifted clit
I hold my scotch breath; I envy
the way your pussy smokes
my cigarette, an obvious
connotation that my
dick is no match.
None
one
finger
two
fingers
three
fingers
four
and his hand slowly glides in
in soft rhythming strokes
opening her soul, a universe
his thumb
strokes
her bypass
thus accelerating her heart
from zero to sixty
her lips pucker and disperse
when he shifts his wrist
deep inside of her
she is a beautiful place
a magical place
a princess flushing blush
she is the core of her thrown
she writhes and convulses
her orgasm pulses
and pulses
and pulses
an impromptu dance
her orifice a ballroom
of roses and musk
flirting with his fist
kissing his fist
fucking his fist
and together she bonds them
as one not two
drenching those sheets
in spools of lustfilled tears raging through
four
fingers
three
fingers
two
fingers
one
none
Vaccinations of Sobriety
You’re goin’ to hell, this much I know
my conscience burps in a lengthy mp3 wave
I could feel the fiber optic cables pulling
within the bowels of my intestines resembling
the spaghetti straps falling off my waif shoulders;
ringworms, tapeworms, heartworms would be envious,
so would my dog if I had a dog and my cat despises dogs
but loves the Chinese fighting fish fighting with the
mating water toads whenever they get in the way so
my LED HD plasma TV resembles a human aquarium;
I can’t seem to trudge through the liquid pixels in search
of a higher equilibrium than my boyfriend who’s obsessed with
tossing back Vodka shots and listening to gospel rock music on JesusTV
while I’ve become obsessed to picking up the remote in my drunken stupors
to donate blasphemous portions of my spirit through PayPal for a good cause;
but Jesus keeps changing the channel on me, and we’re out of booze
and I don’t think the liquor store ‘round the corner accepts foodstamps,
I start to worry, the ringworms, tapeworms and heartworms gather around
my soul, pulverizing my senses with the empty booze bottles, as I try to
hold onto what little dignity I had before facing the vaccinations of sobriety.
Beneath A Gangster’s Fedora
I listened to my heart beating in the depth of my mouth,
my erratic breathing revolving around in my eardrums
as if this were another place, another time, only with me
standing on the opposite end. . .and blood is a big expense
How long I’ve been living in my own pool of gangster lust, greed
and revenge never ceases to amaze me, never ceases to question me
each time I hand off my Fedora to the wake of her pleasure
nestled on a spindle without an ounce of regret or the threat of death?
I am breath. . .less as my bare feet touch down over
the scuffed floorboards harboring deftly secrets that have
ended in spools of blood from some post-tragic interlude
and I await mine each time we meet like this. . .this way
I glimpse over my shoulder, and my belly pulls from the
naked sight of her lithe body lying there on white sheets
soon to be red like the night I broke her ingrown cherry
she could never be a virgin twice, life would be too meaningful
There is a mirror standing across the room, my naked body
gravitates to it, my Fedora clutching tight in one hand gently
places it on my head while the glide of my finger across the brim
mirrors the glide of my dick over her pussy to expel those cir-cum-stances
She moans in her slumber and her ass emulates against her moan as those
chaotic hips sway one way, sway the other, humping those sheets she calls
his name and whispers my name and shame never becomes her despite
the babies crying downstairs, a couple fighting in the hall, I am fucked
Seven Sins (that don’t compare to deadly)
ENVY – How in the hell am I suppose to envy what others don’t have?
GLUTTONY – If I bit more than I could chew, I wouldn’t have any teeth
.
GREED – Everyone else has everything else, so why can’t I?
LUST – Just because I have a pussy doesn’t mean I have to satisfy it every second I have a sexual thought.
PRIDE – Who needs it in these times. Beg for money. Drink out of a used cup. Pick up a penny. Squat piss on a tree.
SLOTH – Isn’t everyone at six in the morning?
WRATH – If I spend all day plotting an economical revolution then I wouldn’t have time writing shit that doesn’t sell such as this shit!
Musings of a Writer, Blocked
I’m not as intelligent as I used to be
somewhere, somehow, my brain
fell off the grid of post-independence,
now I’m influenced by the vast roaches
inhibiting my fortress of proverbial pain,
though they call to me, whisper my name
their shame becomes all of what I used to be;
the Marigolds no longer bloom on my plantation
they too have become all but a crying out sustenance,
not for water, but for company, companionship,
someone with the greenest thumb to stroke their
whimsical little petals now weltering beneath
the cosmic forces that bind us not as one but as three;
to re-seed another whole new life, I must twist the
dead Marigolds until their necks break, and when those
tiny seeds invisibly bleed out, I am reminded
that now would be a valid time to remember what I have forgotten-
in the soil I watch as those vast roaches clamber beneath me,
soiling those precious anthropoid seeds with their scum scavenger cum;
still, I’m not as intelligent as I used to be but I’m writing again
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 