Saturday, May 13, 2017

Let Us Out.

He breathes and
I want
That freshly pushed sound
To enter into-

Smashed up against
Darkness, and,
With eyes closed
Slit the wrists of restraint
Sucking in the muse-
Hip first.

The rumble of ooze, is
Drawing on reserves
Of too much time dealt in blows
That flooded gate

Open your arms, You
That I may inhale your Masculinity-
Pheromone first. And slice you open
To let Us out.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

The Vernacular of Indecision

Copious chunks of time
Blundering over contaminated beliefs
A sanctum of raw, and let us face it-
Useless candor.
This noise, swarming
Elected to hum into me
Over me,
Ten feet ahead of me.
Place the wormhole behind.
Is it so easy?

"A burning violin..."

Build instead, a new cavern
A place to play a succulent tune
To pluck moist notes until blisters form
To sing of oil soaked pine
...and sticky thighs.

Careful now, to not trip and crack
The point of four separate points
As they rush to converge upon the pedestal
Of highest regard.
Knocking jawbone and elbow
To the detriment of ego

The Ego of heart; the Ego of mind
The Ego of Erogenous Platitudes
...and the fourth, more contentious ego

The melody of organisms around me
Bleeding into my psyche
Juggling the 'due' in confounded annoyance
Passive/Aggressive mutinies
Multiplying in these closest, innermost boundaries

Fucking each to the other in deep succession.

Instantiated by memories and assumptions
Locked in post-haste anxiousness to serve that 'due' justice
Of an unrepentant, analgesic sort.
Transparencies kept thinner, tenuous, strenuous. Unfit,
...yet succeeding, if success is what you call failure.
These loquacious synonyms
Nothing more than the vernacular of indecision.

Sunday, March 26, 2017


Bubble of ice, or air.
Or lack of air- which is it?
Clouded in cluster-fucked conditions.
Windpipe cinching, motivated by the divide
Of reveries motioning just beyond reach.
That teenage reclusiveness
How the fuck did it ever climb back in?
And burden the wise limbs into submission...?

The savage plastic coating fits good.
Promoting the prognostication of rancid days yet to come.
More unfed love; more unfed limbs; more
Bleak; dismal; eradicating; cock-less nights.
The echoes of male murmuring,
Wriggling in between muscled impermanence
Controls my vacuous, disconcerted attention span.
Distracted, to the nines, the need for deep rubbing.

Saturday, February 25, 2017


The smell of incense interrupting my gaze
Black lines used to define- halt.
Austerity hunts early
Snaking the worm from unfed jaws.
A collaboration picks up
Carving idea where idea left off.
Two energies
Making love.
Ink mates naturally
Clung to his last delicate submission
While nearby...
Glass separates the morning between 43'
And a red desert bloom.
Elegy whispering into pristine quiet
Slipping succinctly into the well-oiled psyche
Of what is yet left to manage and handle.
Rough, warm hands are welcome
To ease the stiffness and solemnity
Of martyred tradition.
Coffee cooled yet candle leads on
Into the aromatic infusion
Of makeshift "attempted" release.
     His lines muscle in
     His devotion- profuse.
     In mirroring our addictions,
     I find secular divinity and sexual homage
     To a world knowing no limit
     As the mind runs wild.

Sunday, February 5, 2017

Modelo and The Muse.

It might, it might... it might be over soon.
'Might', 'if', 'suppose', 'maybe'
"You are either in or out of your den, which is it?"
Ooh, that place where I find myself
When the crackling dynamite detonates.

He is as good as he ever was, no- He's better.

"Disassociate" Enough.
No other need to fill in the blanks.
"Move on..."
It's what I need to get with the 'getting on'.
Simply put, abrupt. Useful

Smoke-trails, Jameson, whiskers in the sink
It's an all-male event. He even smells masculine.
Thirty year high, like clockwork; he's an oppressive heat
It's good to know that the high standard can still be counted on
When the night stands at his attention.

Philosophy of sound, digressing lyrical brilliance
How to move blockades of 'empty' out of the way
Clipping strings to accord acoustic satisfaction
He plummets deeply, and so we both plunge;
Hand in hand.

Scruff, rubbed closely, and wandering warm hands.
Diligent, pinching fingers, direct in their appeal.
The ringing in of personal new year's has been the best yet.
He has always been close to heart and mind
And so there he will remain.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

'Taciturn Indifference'

I sit and to the left
Bold meaning hangs high.
That well-spoken half 
Whose meaning through adornment
Gains weight.

Tilted up and yet legible
I pause to ponder what protection is suitable
To preserve and still allow
Access into your last parting gift.
Riddle me this, O Meister of Misery
How now does your countenance sway?
The days race and whiplash takes me to you
Left side first on almost every morning.
Though your breadcrumbs have molded
I eat them daily.

Upload another chapter 
That I may balloon my own destiny
Anchored to the will 
To leap-
To leap...
To fly with this energy 
That boils when the night is young.

I've cornered myself on the chessboard
Between a Queen and too many pawns.
Strategy is a black veil
That I must lift or tear down.
For this, I turn, to you. 

Are your greyed reserves now blackened ash?
Have your tendons turned to jerky?
I know beyond a shadow that if your blistering heart still pumps
There is wisdom needing cultivating.
So give it to me, you intriguing prick...

For never before have I stapled my soul
To a memory that snuck in through a tiny hole of light
Devouring inhibition as you have.

You, the greatest source of intellectual income
Marrying my heart to my mind.

You, whose experiences left me dry for hesitation
And drowned for the communion of souls.

Two lines now for every point that requires discerning
Earned in the light of your regret and expertise.

Bolted to your door, my essay on 'Retourne chez moi'
Fuck these borders of land and thought. Come back.

And sewn into the wood of my skin with taciturn indifference
"Je demande des nouvelles de toi qui sont encore survivant"
Your words become mine and all this in between meaning
Fucks with my heart and my head.
Find me, Translator:
Let your body language do the rest..

Friday, January 27, 2017


The quiet
Silent movements
Burn me- strong
When they have been left,
Too long, unattended.
This sound-less template
Beckons my being
In its entirety.
I belong to the order of silence
And all things remained unspoken.

Is this prudent
To open a cascading venue
Of wailing?
From a trickle to a whisper
A whine to a wail
I cry in indelible strokes
To any surface that will listen
Any substrate that will welcome
The graceful flow
Of all my deft ability
Crafted carefully, as time wore on.
I am here now
Still perched
Betwixt the arrow and the gap
Of a precipice known too well.

Tuesday, January 24, 2017


Love's voice is loud today
From a wail to a whisper and then
A boom.
Love swells,
The internal evidence deplores
Begging for a morsel to suck on
To savor, to engorge.
The famine turns wet today
Tantalizing reasoning,
Driving wise understanding- mad.

I'm taken.
Smitten by the longing
And the ever present ardent need
To sink tongue, teeth and knees
Deepening the fervor
Of all that yet waits.

Friday, January 13, 2017


These, these dreams, these remembrances, these holes in my head.
Long spells down crooked corridors of memory
Serving the purpose of ache.
Scarring that continues to scab over
Long after the destitute reality had converted the ‘now’.
What discipline needs recruiting
To exacerbate these intimate, useless musings…
That pander to longing and worship?
Worship of a time long lost,
Whose relevance died out with its own reverence.
This wicked wind with its teeth
Biting back daydreams long drowned.
This wincing self needs guidance
To be led to thicker skins and deserved redemption.
Leave all the foundling dreams that echo
Of all we knew in our younger skins.

Tuesday, January 3, 2017



The proof provokes a stifling dichotomy.
It was said more than once that some good would come of this shit.
I wouldn't call it 'good'.
But there is more than poison
Yielding from these noxious boulders.

It's in the tone, the tenor, the tenet
A significant shift, undenied;
This pulse projects truth
The tune of which is found, in the sigh and frustration
Of years passed.

I read and realize that the detour from previous miseries

Monday, January 2, 2017


Send me there to your woodsy home
Overgrown with moss, loss and amulets of nature.
Let us brood over discoveries we learned too late
And of love that slipped vigorously away the further we reached.
...and the faster we ran.

No recompense to these great and cataclysmic epiphanies
Inner chiding burns deep into muscle, into tissue, into bone.
Wriggling into yet clean spaces flush with fresh oxygen
Where blood knew to run. In spite of movement,
...we sucked those corners dry.

I follow you armed with your recanting, your reminiscence, your drool.
Your brutally loud but soft cursing, echoes yet, in my vast array
Of collected notes and regaled alchemy.
So fuck you for this drought you drove to my feet
...your weary neck- destroyed.

Wrinkled defeat revealed the more powerful lesson
Perhaps, your intent on its teaching; snipped wings mourn nothing
Taking flight by alternative means. Spurs dug-in, wreaking results
Catapulted into a reasoning that will yield to my liking
...I laud your method, yet.

O bristling soul with airtight pores, locked in desperation
We can yet linger in our atelier of candles, brandy and bruising
Fucking the memory of what we misspent.
Meet me at the precipice of all your lost hopes
...daring to twist towards reform.

I am here, lessons learned, shirking the might of bold demons
Flagrantly pumping optimism out from every limb that yet listens
Articulated in wild caution, to leap when the ledge is highest.
Born to blast blood from banes that wouldn't die
...bowing never to vernacular omission.

In ode to your sorrow, your despair, your regret
Your greyed intellect grew diamonds in this cavern of thought
Misted uncertainty fraught with resignation and defeat
Gained no foothold here; I move ever upwards, to spite the soured lost.
...fucking negatives in my wake.

Strong this day and contemplating long on You.
That steppe that stole you whispers still, one last speck of curiosity
For the wonder and potential of what drew your affection toward Me.
I linger yet in your favor and for all my days into succession
...where X marked the spot on our map.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

"I Crave News..."

Day one, much reminiscence.
I steady the sway of these trade winds
Swirling close to everything I feel.
The swapping of energies to experiences

Awesome change is living nearby
At the ready, always, elbowing up
Gritty choices, to swing in favor of the challenge.
I live to see how much more I can prevail upon.

Near me I see, the landing of sentiments made
Ingrained to my psyche in the most indelible way
The Lone Wolf lives, even if all I have left
Are his words from three years passed.

I am here, at the precipice he spoke of
Doing more than contemplating the 'where to'

"I'll leave words under your door
Under the singing moon
Near the place where your feet pass
Hidden amongst winter holes"

I am here, still, in the choked distance
Coughing up those secrets we donated
To wistful eras and nameless hounds
That roam yet in winter, in solitude- sublime.

Time yet disburses its venomous poison
Eroding the cells that replenish with night
I beckon your voice one last time
Enough to tell me, "I hear you..."

It was not too long to be of any worth.