in the last seven minutes
i have thought about you dead
i thought about the time
i finger fucked you while you slept
i thought about the real love that money,
immaturity and lies have taken from us
and now
i think about spending the rest of my life alone
i think about spending the rest of my life in the bars
i think about spending the rest of my life in the street
or i think about not spending it at all
this is not poetry
this is pain in my chest and in my gut
this is pain in my hands and in my head
you will never read this
and i will never write it again
you always hated my poetry anyway
and for that i love you
i'm sleeping for two
on a bed made of skin
and wet dreams
i have a partner now
i'm rarely alone
it's exciting and new
i caught myself with a
shit eating grin for all
the right reasons yesterday
and if i fuck myself tonight
it's because she is tired
not because i am alone
ten seventy something men screaming the same death
and i'm pissing on the flame of a 'first time virgin'
[being broken in]
[split and amused]
this all means nothing to me
white to raw and loss of hair in a matter of seconds
planting the seed of distress with one red lined hand
[shaken and leaking]
[stapled and confused]
this all means nothing to me
i bet you'd taste better after
the surgery of my left side heals
or
how i ripped thirteen sutures and
strangled every bird in flight
until my skin was pale enough to fuck
but
a jet black execution
stomachs more than we can chew
so i swallow everything whole
to right your wrongs
love,
miserable prick
it's hotter than hell outside
and the american dream is a black cock
inside of a white cunt
pissing or vomiting in a continuous line
while rehearsing the blues for the colorblind
and i'm on my fifth heart attack in three months
spit on me and spread your knife like legs
remind me that i'm your worst fuck ever
and leave me before the sun reveals my nude faults
I've seen them angels and the whores they become
glass stomachs and a fifty percent chance the child is yours
but I keep on drinking and gaining weight
bobby told me I stopped breathing in my sleep the other night
that was the best news I had heard all month
I celebrated by spending the extra three bucks for the good stuff
but the mornings have been more awkward lately
and I can't even stand the smell of myself anymore
if you can spare a dollar or two it's nice to meet you
from a second story fire escape
I watch the prostitutes waltz
to the cry of the car alarm symphony
the hum of this city is my warm orgasm
ripening, spreading and pulsating
concealing our worst fears that occupy these streets
kids setting their hands on fire
and coffee stained books leaking
into bent necks and modern dance
oh how we danced
oh how we fucked
deadbeats in debt
and our shoes are
only clean at funerals
THE EVENING NEWS DOESN'T CARE ABOUT US ANYMORE!
it's always global warming
or a dirty priest
a suicidal child actor
and an incurable disease
tell me about a cure for the:
madness
loneliness
empty pockets
empty beds
tell me where to get the cheapest drink in town
tell me where the cunts go when the sun goes down
tell me anything but the bullshit you've told me lately
I found myself asking the bums for change last night
we shared a bottle under the bridge and everything is a
queer foot on the brake and
I'm pissing the bed again, buk
there's two men in the street
yelling about a dead dog
I'm down to my last dollar
and last call was an hour ago
it's getting serious, buk