water rises like a prayer
into elegant oblivion,
into perfectly everyday
it is disappearing
like oceans hiding in their heaven -
and a world that is drying,
a small one
a girl poetry
you can write
and to me
I will read it
Down the Foibe
was the last time I saw you
and it was there in trieste
that we felt this way, falling
to the sad swoon of the sea
thrown from the gulf
both of us in free communal
bound by tongue our caress
our love broken
Down the Foibe
in the darkness
chasms of our limbs
and our hands can connect
recapitulate, get up
torn from the stars, strive
our loves above
and throw ourselves back
Get out of your shell
a turtle with his flippers and long stiped head
just pushed the door open and strolled in
hes not walking about over my girlfriends underwear
hes staring at the pastels on the floor and the empty easel
what he wants I have no idea as I sit in boiling water
he noticed my heat
and is now in retreat back to the hall
what a shame of a soup I am
the last roach appears
and I kill him.
hes theres on the floor
you see em'
(he birthed many silverfish)
I wrestle him
hes still alive
on his back
wounded'big bug of prime
I'm a torturer now
kill him for the plebian?
cause the violin is moving him
an accordion his legs and antenna
first lines are meant for something
he tells me
(gruesome my next move)
for social pleasure, cleanliness
he does not need this strive
In passing we are
Harrowing cello memoriam
The bowing ligaments
Avid readers of
Our left behind dime
Store novellas pouring over
The typed scrawl
Relapse, as if to say
In life this Leaflet breath,
a mere moored
Pen to character
Us, pockets of poesies
Cannot sew a limerick for
Halfpence, sonnet for
Bourbon, a sober
Beggary we denounce
And hold each pebble
To hide, to decorum
Our granite headboard,
In life, we hear odes,
These tiresome repetitions
Of the literary past
out god &
suckle on her
& we would
all of our
sins & collapse
enlivening as always,
meant to be
let the ripple effect to pushed burn envelop
sizable ripe white rhinefleisch of face
do it again, repeat, do it again
were not dueling behind scrim
(this art of war is ash and powder)
for linsky our hero poet dies, all of them
over and over
what do you reasonable expect, literature?
hard nibble of lead, forced ink to fountain,
or shall I dismember an ant
tear away his bodily fluids, his legs,
draft out on Chinese fortune opening
these symbols of wishful rhyme, lust, love,
what do you wish of us scribblers
I've got a chainsaw in the backseat
I'm itching to chainsaw people
and to think, my second but a lowly servant,
my Tatiana a humble muscovite in Vermont,
are these founders box seats soiled for my ass,
a dead lifeless sprawl of arms on the ground
chainsaw out out palpable flesh puppets
make a hat with the scent from her perfume
wear her face, and yes, indeed, take a limb
(for they make great toothpicks)
I hate that I'm cornered into serial killer
I hate that people my age aren't very smart
I hate the I love old women, old stories
for its the young ones you duel
and I've sanctioned, and off cannon shot
labored hard to prevent this affable shot
and they move on
they all find vaginas filled, giving,
and my cock, this young linsky
out of place in olga pewter to heart
they say all poets die,
they say all people die, dismember
for chainsaw and onegin
did you shear my sideburns off?
I even hear they let a woman talk in public,
I spread the rhetorical, propaganda
for I'd rather a woman then a black
is black these days in talent
a red starred aristocratic american indian
thinks mainly whiskey, it helps
soothe down the throat this abnormality
but in a few moments silence carves stone
the shaped piece of whittled arrows that pierce
hard to notice really, much different,
coffee, ham, sausage, bacon
on your fine crafted Italian suit
for these stains of fabric are common elsewhere
us in decadent hut hurry in ballet,
massage calves, ankles, but blood is shed on stage
fascinated beautiful poets, people
are left to their own devices and mutating
as we speak, these loafsome lumbering lyrics
learning simple magic concoctions to dislodge
the pelt of hail in your throat to swallow,
chopped up human worth
please give me my Tatiana
the prince of no worth
useless panderer of words,
hook me up with your sister
of the beating precipice
laid out in the motley of pine and timber
a crushed red dress of desire
so succulent to amass such saliva
so savory to lend ones hearth,
we shred in vanity
the blood she released
behind a locked door
didn't tell the truth like
she hoped it would
even when it spiraled
in crimson fractals
against the white porcelain basin
but it was the closest thing
she had to it
and that was what
kept calling her back
Fried Chicken One Rainbow and 24 Grams of Beef
Carnage on celluloid a dictator begs for his life
As shrapnel slices his hand raw
And orange flares scar the skies with shots of light that look like virgin splays of red
Behind the Veil a ticking bomb of consumer bile
And reality tv deals
Jpeged insanity and Halal chicken grilled golden
Mixed with the rancid death of a Martyr's Prayer
Democracy the silver trumpet of reason
Disgraced by brutish desecration of all that is holy
A shopping mall of manufactured sensibility
Becomes the weeping dream of freedom
Hustled to every media outlet
How much for a widow's blood bruised tears
When the sell is over
Cherish your denim and numb your soul with your
Amazon Wish List .
Andy Warhol lines the walls with yellow smiles
And educated lines of grass sit in mellow stripes
It's a grunge den of ideas the intellectual currency of Bohemia
Somewhere for those to vegetate the ones who spend three minutes perfecting their SO CAl twang
They don't like being tagged with labels it destroys their chakras
And radiates a pool of ochre negativity
They play radical old skool and classical beats
Anything under the radar
Home etched Navaho blankets
Mixed with retro urban chic
Apartment 218 is the belly of the city
Fast food and gin bottles grace the manicured lawns
While run down shops scissor the streets with crumbling strip joints and
The community prototype of DJs bathroom stars and needle angry loan sharks
Hustling the humanity out of the neighbourhood
Replacing it with clean tight sanitised shopping arcades
A grenade of mediocrity and multiplexed gloom
Apartment 218 is a neon paradise a riot of flavour where cheap threads and poetic vision
rebel against the soulless conformity of Sunday civility.
Go Go dancers Brazilian T girls with amplified silicone
A blue macaw , future politicians and the Velvet Underground
All hang out at Apt 218
But the elegant hub of artistic Kool
Will soon be replaced by gauche coffee chains
And piped muzak
And the crawling geniuses
Will seek salvation in a new nirvana
Away from the poodle and pearl nausea
That cuffs them to the alter of convention and
Neuters their quixotic pretensions in a sea of beige.
Back to Hank
I think someone like Bukowski
Would have called it a backbreaker,
Plain and simple, no dressing it up.
That all passion is madness dug
From the grave, the hollow growing
Ever deeper, the more you spend,
The less you save of your own life.
That love, if that is what it's to be called,
Is an iffy hand at best, a currency not
To be trusted on any market, a plain
Yet the man himself fell and fell often,
Working that shovel of paper and type,
Writing his guts out, writing to women,
Wooing them outrageously, pockmarked
Rake, stealing them from other beds,
Taking them easy, taking them right out
From under the noses of men more handsome,
Successful, and certainly more sober, more sane.
It's a conundrum, this love business.
That saying? "You made your bed, now lie in it"?
Well in love's case, it takes two.
I think of Bukowski, madman and prophet
I'd like to ask him what he thinks of you,
Wherever you are,
And whether you're worthy of this laborer
This fallen, toiling, foolhardy star.
Each thrust so deep mascara smears,
my thirsty mouth gasps for air.
Reach inside and 'find myself',
hands full of sweat drenched care.
Polar opposites tend to find
that color combines to matter.
Dark strikes and dark eyes
see through shards of shelter.
And split I sit upon the rocks
in crimson glowing stains.
And leak in to the grains of dust
that mix swiftly through my remains.
Blurred inscription pacify
through strokes inside my head.
thoughts of nymphs classify
phrases of flower heads.
Whats out of reach is always wanted,
whats in skies grip is pushed away.
Sinking, swimming emotion boat,
colorful waters turn to grey.
When life is served on silver spoon,
the pleasures least appealing.
When struggles counter underneath,
the sun seems underwater.
Characteristics of trouble seekers,
is not whats best for the soul.
But succession that follows nirvana
makes white of blackest coals.
Salvation of worry almost ceases to come,
passed at the smallest signs of sea.
Indulgence is always good for your eyes,
Hiding below whats underneath
Not to many tears fall like stars,
you fall like everything I wanted part of.
Choose to partake in mezzanine,
of lights that aren't chartered.
Last night I listened to the universe,
it sang a cry of mercy.
Tonight I listen to the ground,
it brings me right back to the sound,
Being is a cluster of sob stories,
changes in hearts desire.
Illustrate meaning encrypted on daggers,
Evoke doves to sing in your choir.
I could recite a litany of my own sorrows,
or prayers kept in my head,
every night as veins throttle candles,
veins pumping through lead
A Poem for Wm Burroughs
you can’t cum
you can’t write
her sold shells
blown bitter shots
& half swollen
of golden burst
in the faint wind
the sky’s sclera
of 103rd & Broadway
benches worn smooth
by the eternal
blank as a fart
as old man balls
the cat on the pier
in the shade
the Harlem River
who was nodding
A Poem for Charlie Parker
Bird played his horn
for cows & man
blew that good
wailed from the bell
never chased no dragons
junk chased Charlie Parker
but could not keep pace
always moving forward
until he collapsed
& died laughing
The Dissertation of a Central Park Schizophrenic
"all you guys
Holding it in
For the next
The Volume of Silence
Yet silence echoes eternally
Fill volumes that go for decades
It’s like everything
Is scrawled on fragile parchment
In a language neither of us
The End of Daydreams
You’re too late!
The time for play is over.
Gone are the bats and gloves.
Away are the ice skates and hockey sticks,
Football is a memory now faded.
The sunshine has been put away.
You’ll find it in the closet,
above the box of weekends,
next to the bucket rainbows.
Your playmates have disappeared,
locked in their dungeons.
You stroll down the deserted avenues
with your hands in your pockets.
Then, with your army of one,
you capture your own flag.