You mistake
The knife for the cake.
You savour the gore, lick
The conflict, flavour already
So like blood, but more.
Heady, metallic.
Hang a balloon in your ribs,
Pop it with a rail spike.
Bang.
A peel of plastic, maroon,
Like a bib, remains.
That’s how it feels,
That pain.
Promises are hammers.
Monday
She looks for herself. The evening's rain has skinned the pavement with a reflection. Stalactites of yellow streetlight and neon, deep violet sky between black buildings, the dim green clouds of treetops in the park across the street. She used to watch Eric's reflection in mirrors and puddles. Now she only looks for herself.
The skirl of tires on wet pavement startles her up. Without quite realizing it she'd knelt, then crouched, then leaned out over the curb to study the pavement. She shakes her head, brushes grit from her jeans. The bus lurches on without stopping. The next one won't come for a half hour. She looks at her bare wris
The first thing I remember is the taste of vomit. Always. This is my life story, the title of every chapter, that taste. If I believed in god I would thank him for leaving it at that. A quick dip, a few wordsthe treatment of Christ by John. I would thank him for sparing me the fate of Noahs people or of Pharaoh.
In my earliest memory Ive half fallen from my red plastic chair. My throat burns sour, my arm is splattered and warm, my hand is clenched like a thousand year old mummys around a fork. A fat black spider dances impaled on the tines. I can still feel the tickle of its pinprick feet on my tongue.
Id call
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.
Edmund Burke
Sick. Im sick. I felt it today, lying in the park. The sky was so blue and deep. Even the stain over the city didnt look too bad, but it was what made me realize Im sick. Im just like that yellow stain, sulking at the edges of all thats good and pure. The world is bright around me, and I have every comfort at my disposal. But I dont feel comfort.
What is it about nature that lets us know we dont quite belong? Just sky and trees and animals, no mind or anything, but it tells us. Its some big paradox, I bet.
Pretend to be aloof
the proof of the intense
who seldom use a friend
to ends uncouth
Instead of chivalry
he spreads her trembling thighs
and rivalry between her pleas
ebbs red
These holes in hotel walls
are portals to disease
his falling mortal soul
but please
Scotch bro and crotch joke
and pot smoke by torch glow
fox trot on slow coke
watch him go
You mistake
The knife for the cake.
You savour the gore, lick
The conflict, flavour already
So like blood, but more.
Heady, metallic.
Hang a balloon in your ribs,
Pop it with a rail spike.
Bang.
A peel of plastic, maroon,
Like a bib, remains.
That’s how it feels,
That pain.
Promises are hammers.
Monday
She looks for herself. The evening's rain has skinned the pavement with a reflection. Stalactites of yellow streetlight and neon, deep violet sky between black buildings, the dim green clouds of treetops in the park across the street. She used to watch Eric's reflection in mirrors and puddles. Now she only looks for herself.
The skirl of tires on wet pavement startles her up. Without quite realizing it she'd knelt, then crouched, then leaned out over the curb to study the pavement. She shakes her head, brushes grit from her jeans. The bus lurches on without stopping. The next one won't come for a half hour. She looks at her bare wris
The first thing I remember is the taste of vomit. Always. This is my life story, the title of every chapter, that taste. If I believed in god I would thank him for leaving it at that. A quick dip, a few wordsthe treatment of Christ by John. I would thank him for sparing me the fate of Noahs people or of Pharaoh.
In my earliest memory Ive half fallen from my red plastic chair. My throat burns sour, my arm is splattered and warm, my hand is clenched like a thousand year old mummys around a fork. A fat black spider dances impaled on the tines. I can still feel the tickle of its pinprick feet on my tongue.
Id call
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.
Edmund Burke
Sick. Im sick. I felt it today, lying in the park. The sky was so blue and deep. Even the stain over the city didnt look too bad, but it was what made me realize Im sick. Im just like that yellow stain, sulking at the edges of all thats good and pure. The world is bright around me, and I have every comfort at my disposal. But I dont feel comfort.
What is it about nature that lets us know we dont quite belong? Just sky and trees and animals, no mind or anything, but it tells us. Its some big paradox, I bet.
Pretend to be aloof
the proof of the intense
who seldom use a friend
to ends uncouth
Instead of chivalry
he spreads her trembling thighs
and rivalry between her pleas
ebbs red
These holes in hotel walls
are portals to disease
his falling mortal soul
but please
Scotch bro and crotch joke
and pot smoke by torch glow
fox trot on slow coke
watch him go