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 