Untitled #26

Cyanide kisses and hemlock wishes;
The longings of an aching heart;
A forgotten friend, a poem without end;
The things which tear the soul apart;
The death-grip frost, a lover lost;
Getting shot down from the start;
Are all things tragedy, yet magically
They somehow inspire art.

 

Untitled #25

The Cleopatra of our age
Is not the queen of some great nation;
‘Less kingdoms stand upon this page,
And empires echo in recitation.

Her blood may be not royal blue,
And piles of wealth, may seen, not be;
But damn divinity which claims her rule untrue,
For she is the queen of me.

Untitled #24

The things which brood beneath the soil,
The worms and ants and roaches,
Writhe and wiggle,
Snicker and giggle,
And they dance a dance quite royal
As the dirt encroaches.

You can feel them lurk ’round where you sit,
Then from the grass,
A bright red tick.
And with a dart,
A pounce
(To the nurses accounts)
Although the skin was split
Where the little bug bit,
It was the soil that made you sick.

Untitled #23

The Devil’s voice cracked like a bone
While he jigged his brimstone fiddle.
He sang: “We’re born alone, we die alone,
Might as Hell be alone in the middle”.

But then young Death, in her blackened cloak,
Gave her scythe a sultry twiddle.
And when she spoke, how the Devil broke –
Undone by her rhyming riddle.

The Rowboat

He built himself a rowboat,
Pulled his cap over his eyes,
And secretly wished that it wouldn’t float,
For he was obsessed with the fact
– that in the end –
Alone
Is how everyone dies.

His vessel was dragged out to sea,
And the waters foamed a torrent black,
The riptide whispered
“You belong to me”
And he thought that he’d never go back.

For in his little rowboat,
The only things that he had
Was a loathing self
Of fabricated strife,
One decent eye,
A sharpened knife,
The endless sky,
And a bottle of rye.

And halfway through the bottle,
He slipped into a sleep
Where the whiskey would often coddle
What happened in his deep.

But with a splash of salt water
He was reminded of her sweat,
And his missing her burnt hotter
Than his shame, hate, and regret.

So, he looked behind him, to the coast,
And lamented his decision,
For now he knew she was what he wanted the most;
So with his knife,
He made an incision.

He peeled away his pale white skin,
And used his blood to write
Upon the scrap, a letter
Beneath the glow of lonely moon,
“I must, I can, I will
Be better,
And so, my Love, I’ll be home soon.”

He poured out the rest of the whiskey,
And folded up his flesh-born note,
Tucked it to the bottle,
Tossed is to the waves,
And hoped it would float.

He used his shaking hands as a paddle,
And turned the rowboat ‘round,
He silenced his own death rattle
By remembering her sound.

And though his heart pushed him on,
He worried
– that back to her –
He couldn’t go there,
For he was 33,000 leagues gone
Off the western coast of nowhere.

He paddled with what strength he had,
But he couldn’t gain a heading,
And his failure made him seething mad,
Though that was soon replaced with dreading.

He feared that he would soon succumb,
And give up on his declaration;
So the rowboat boy then bit his thumb,
And gave a roar of determination.

He took his knife once again,
Chomped his arm to dull the pain,
For he then sawed off both his legs
To use as oars for distance-gain.

He ripped apart his flowing shirt,
And cut his hair to fashion rope,
He rigged some sails
Through all the hurt,
Because his Love had given him hope.

Untitled #22

She bore a constellation on her shoulder,
While bittersweet death ran down her chest.
And with every breath of her breast, I smolder,
As our love out-flames eternity’s test.

To the Birds Outside My Window

To the Birds outside my window,
This morning of June, hour’d four thirty-three,
While I love thy chipper tunes
As my romanticized, rose-blind view of the sea,
Thy song hath boiled the morn to bubble, and steep
A black-leaf tea, surging caffeine,
When I really fuckin’ need to sleep.

And now Time has trickled to quarter’till,
Thoughts start dissecting immortality,
As I’m devoid of any control or will,
Snagged on a sleep-ridden congeniality.
O, Birds! Ye with feathers white and red and umber,
The Bell tolls five now, and echoes o’er the bay,
And thou hast snatched my soft, sappy slumber,
Thus, I can tell, from ante-dawn,
It’s bound to be a long-ass day.
So, fuck it! Birds! Chirp on!

The Cellar

The door to the dank, dark wine cellar
Flung open as space split wide,
Bled more a stank so rank and stellar,
An embrace – a hit – of something that had died.

Still I stepped down atop that creaking stair
– ‘Twas so warped by moldy dew –
And as a new-leapt bird streaking through the air
The rot uncorked – I hacked – and instinct told me what to do.

Every clenching inch of my revolted body
Then struck me with a crippling spasm;
For that wrenching stench unbolted, and did embody
A fluid muck, a fetor rippling, oozing from that chasm.

So, with a sense of urgency, I pivoted a full one-eighty
And tried to make my way back from the top-most stair –
But the stink so dense gave no clemency, it riveted so greatly,
Just as the nether-slide I took that day, ‘twas impossible to forbear.

For the pine beneath my tattered-boot cracked,
And fell I with such a sudden drop,
So direct a line, a straight-down chute, to be attacked
By a stinking shine, a coughing clutch, I fell with a putrid plop.

I tumbled down like a sack of guts,
Sloshing and flopping whole my fall,
I rumbled – splattered – back slashed by cuts,
Blood-shower washing, flesh-scraps dropping, crying my sad call.

Then o’er echoed such a sound, one never to be forgotten
One which resonates, reverberates, and ricochets in my ears;
A thud I can’t let go – head hitting the ground –  soaked in the rotten
Stench – that perforates; sound – that retaliates; stays throughout my years.

My neck then popped and shook when I lifted my head,
As if a newborn child, clawing from the womb;
I was a wreck, my heart stopped, when I took a look at the dead
Thrashed, and torn – as if by something wild, gnawing – body in that tomb.

There, perched above the spoiled flesh, like a feasting, feral hound,
There sat and sipped, bit and nipped the master of the homestead.
I lurched, recoiled -sharp as a bee sting – and upward did I bound;
Again, I slipped, on skin like dampened plaster, which from the corpse did shed.

The master, in his dining clothes, chuckled, glugged, and grinned
As he took another bite from the mushy, rotting muscle;
Then, even faster, chomped three toes, and swigged some blood like wind;
And I so shook ‘pon seeing that his slushie was made of my friend Russel.

But my employer then called to me “Come now, Butler, see!
I have a plate set for you, and some cutlery!
I know he was your dearest friend, but I beg you to dine
Upon his flesh, and sip his blood which I’ve fermented into wine!”

Limerick #12

I met a gal with a clit like a bean
Which was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
And I wanted to fuck her
Right in her tight pucker
‘Till I found out she was only sixteen.

Sonnet #6

I sit upon a throne of wine glasses
That bobs, a cork, through seas of sweet Merlot;
And as I sail, the ghost of time passes
Right by my purple’d lips as on I go.
The bottom of the bottle’s an anchor
That sinks me to a dreadful, drunkless muck;
When ruby’s devoid, in flushes rancor
That grips me when there’s nigh a drop to suck.
So please, my sweet and sleepy grape-born juice,
I’ll write to thee, much like the odes of Horace,
Until thou snip my dry lethargy loose
And wrap me in thy silken, velvet chorus.
And not again ’till then shall I feel fine
When I doth fill myself with thee, red wine.