tiny violins for my fake friends

poetry

real friends don’t play pretend
and make ammends if they offend
surely with no intent
to damage you but by accident
and real friends are by your side
would never lie
or leave you dry
or let you die
but real friends do not exists
like unicorns and sentiments
like aliens in rocket ships
but much much more like sentiments

Hide your daughters, Bluebeard is back in town looking for a new wife

poetry

I’m back,

I’m back

from that place

disgustingly green

where hope drizzles reluctantly from the sky

“Will I see the tall city towers once more?

To all that is and ever existing,

Let me gently lay my head on the winter’s bosom

Let me breathe in the urban fumes,

I swear I’ll not dance la bostella again,”

those were my thoughts and wishes while still captive

in the most horrid and colorful place on earth, where beauty

and ugliness mesh too well that only a faint pain remained

after finding a saint half-smiling in hell.

translation anybody?

poetry

Nolite esse, Anime virorum malorum
et feminarum malarum.

Milites DEI volabit
et proelia vulnerabunt malos
telis potentibus.

Mare ignis hostes DEI convocabit
et mors pro miseros erit…

Spirit of Evil Men and of
Evil Women, do not be!

The soldiers of God will fly,
and battles will wound evil
with powerful weapons!

The Sea of Fire will summon the enemies of God
and death will be before the wretched…

because someday the end does come

poetry

high on achievement
and digging a hole
knowing the bottom cannot
be as warm and soothing
as your arms but somehow
hoping to dig through
to a nice patch of sod
on which i’ll lay and wait
for the sun to shine perfectly
down straight from above
to warm me as i develop
hives from the otherwise
pristine landscape
in the six square foot
wide hole i’ve dug in the
time we’ve spent together
while i was trying to make
a name for myself
or some moron named roger

bass, tone, tone, bass, slap

poetry

bass, tone, tone, bass, slap
bass, tone, tone, bass, slap

i’ve got the answer
it’s in these red palms
finding the rhythm
on this taut goat skin

bass, tone, tone, bass, slap
bass, tone, tone, bass, slap

i’ve got the answer
it’s in the night air
keeping the downbeat
in this room upstairs

bass, tone, tone, bass, slap
bass, tone, tone, bass, slap

i’ve got the answer
it can’t be spoken
but if you listen
i think you’ll get it

tone, tone, tone slap, slap bass, bass

What is true

poetry

raw power of lust
crushes your delicate dreams
+
a shadow of need to flood
into death’s arms is not void
for you are a hindrance
+
the bare breast of the ill goddess
aches when sweet cyanide milk is produced
truly smooth as love, a lie
+
for love is a waxing moon
essential to cool your water
beneath my storm of quenching fire
but life is with ups and downs
every season has its tide
+
our blazing sun soars above the sloth sky
as a rose dies wishing for life after the painful summer
+
knife bitter urges by pounds of boiling blood
blood sprayed from a man, woman, boy, girl

the old world

poetry

oh what a tangled web we weave
when first we practice to deceive
hiding love beneath the leaves
so night will steal all that we see
forgiveness fails set as a seed
and grows a crooked unbalanced tree
which birth’d an apple gave to eve
then consumed by shame and greed

the choir boys and choir girls
yellow with their hair in curls
refuse to fully recognize the plot
with their shit like molasses
and their heads in their asses
they all wait to see jesus get shot
through centuries of neglect
they most surely forget
oh jesus, oh jesus who wept

AND IT MAKES YOU WONDER SOMETIMES
if Brutus or Judas made it to heaven
if a man who knelt and pray to jesus
is saved after holding up a 7/11
none can debate in this horrible age
that both light and dark are brethren
so where do you go when your hearts not
a home it’s a cage filled with rage
and venom?

that all real conflict is internal
that you and i are not to question
it’s i and i that is the focus
eyes and ears they can be tricked
but you can never hide from yourself
and save marriage or siamese twindom
you are alone in your head with only
yourself for the rest of your life
and there is absolutely no debate that
if you look in the mirror you can
attain that there is two of you
we have two of everything
except our heart, alluding to the soul
which you can only believe exists
you can never see
god is like logic and logic is like
a cat chasing it’s tail

words are fanciful and fun
and belong to everyone
but actions are guns
you need only fire them once
and things then are done
not your place on the sun
or the pace of your run
can undo what’s become

and when based in deceit
with ill will in your teeth
no matter what you speak
you’ve planted that seed
death will then creep
the apple she eats
this ignorance runs deep
these ignorant sheep.

flame in, flame out.

poetry

bowl of red
boiling spice
to dip our delicacies
boil, entice
our senses with

cow throat
cow heart
pig intestines
         –  ‘my friends,’ i ask, ‘do you not realize what was squeezed through this?’
pig stomach
(among other things)

6pm I ate you down
4am you woke me up

climbing back into bed with
an arse afire

i’d be a novelist

poetry

if i had a
longer
attention
span
and could
stand my
characters
beyond
two pages
or
maintained
interest in
the plot
beyond
the exposition
or could
write
more than three
words per line
i’d be a
novelist
and you’d read
my novels
keep them
at eye level
on your shelves
quote lines to
seem erudite
recommend them
to friends

too bad
the distance
between
IF and your
shelves
has already
defeated me.

waits, bukowski, kerouac, eliot

poetry

in the thorn valley where
the trees are made of needles
and the rivers are made of
fire i saw a man walk once
without breaking his stride
humming a tune something about
the blues

the

blues

got him through the valley
and i thought to myself that
i would one day endeavour
through said valley and maybe
sing a tune but i figured
i’d have to put it off ’till
i found a suitable song
to sing