Friday, April 29, 2011


We don’t all think, but unfortunately, we all are. Do you feel anxious when you hear someone sneeze too far away from you to say “bless you”? You could have saved them. I’ve got sores in my mouth and you look stunning today, commentary on sickness and consciousness, hooray!

Optimism is wasted on the prostitutes in all aspects, does anyone really ever change by the end? Delusion is evolution in one’s own head. You grow? Who grows? We end up as children who are simply dead. But then why do I waste this time in bed? Shouldn’t I work and tread to say what hasn’t been said? Instead I lay and work for unconscious lucidity, a waste of time for you, but not for me. Don’t you see the pride I invent for the sake of being lazy?

Flowers can be punk rock too, ask this Irish dame, she’ll tell you.
This is all an exercise for my fingers to maybe catch your eyes, this is all fiction, please question nothing, not worth mentioning this idle poisoning. I’ll hide some details with a purpose blind, or deaf perhaps, I forget my own lies; I’ll veil it all however I please, my gestures seems Roman, mythologize my deeds.
Artificial inquiries for the forward progression, but careful to mind the words of the literate premonition: ghostly spooks and lover too, picaresque tradition with a golden tooth.

Words are tricky things, ‘bang’ is good and bad? Babel’s still fucking us all in the ass.
Drawing characters on hands to scare attention to work, history is termed, educated and adored. Sit down in Paris and try to remember the globe, keep your questions short and only eat what you’ve grown: silly advice, perhaps out of place, but our idols are dead and we don’t belong in space. Can we not be gods and beasts on our own turf, doing what we need? I gave my own wrists to Satan’s crew, someone might find love in my blood so blue. They tell you a heart is a candy shape, in reality it’s an organ with disgusting tapes of confessions of process, of minute detail, you are hideous on the inside, male or female.

This world is a network of bricks and winds, current stigmata are treated like beestings, by flowers, dandelions, for real, believe what I say, my words can heal. The fabric of a city is sewn to death, there are a few strands left, use them for your health. Actors must tire of fiction in veins, they undress their lives, an address in Spain, d├ęcor like a whore with tangerine fingertips, fucked up colors paint a relationship.

Nudist writers sit at my feet, radio voices golden like fresh wheat. Helicopters interrupt gay pride education, sons beget someone, it’s a strange situation. Gender roles boil down to studious penetration, queens are frogs who read out of desperation.

Pieces of mirror and lentils replacing all these buildings made of metal, I now see myself and avoid healthy food, starving self portrait because I’m in the mood. Apples and cigarettes are a diet for few, not this man beside me, shamefully depicting Jews. A rabbi on the page is a balance you can’t keep, don’t fear me though, I’m awfully meek, though I still reflect what I can of myself throughout this city of numb disrespect.

This notion of totality bounces off of me, vicious thirsty community never leaving my poor feet. I hardly hear your words, the cement is listening, I do my best, but do mind my beestings.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Moments on a Filthy Blue Couch

Hello Paris, I come to you to cut my love into hopscotch Polaroids.
Oh, these moments on a filthy blue couch!
Flicker film prostitution, I watch my drunk lust set your divine back aflame
on rusted carpet; I kiss those scars today.

We dig for comfort in pillows and skin,
you leave me your hair like it is sin
but I instead weave a curtain.
Wrap my window with a decent view to the spectacle
of my life in bed with you.

Watching you shaping wings out of guillotines is my winter’s trade.
We’ve got the same veins as birds, we bleed and fly the same.
And, oh! Here are you caressing my chest like you were reading
erotic fiction in braille;
perhaps this is my future in literature!
Burn my poems and read me with your hands.

I hear you craft operas and once were in Japan:
action, fog, and memory for me to understand.
You are a map, my flower among men,
I follow the wine stains along your skin.
Now sleep and I will watch you as Luna watches me,
I’ll smoke and I will worry, but this you’ll never see.

Paris, now I ramble, I apologize, but must ask-
can a man who is his own victim maintain this tricky dance?
Guilty of the voyeur, our egos wet the fabric
of public rotting tobacco scented couches.
We conquer brick princes breathing cold absence like Saint Augustine,
cunning, we laugh confessing and muttering.

We lay here now marrying the gutter’s mud with thoughts of kings,
coal on our wings and under my tongue, bitter spit spent for our song to be sung.
A butcher in the dark room sets my photos adrift,
moments of our love drowning in the Seine’s lips.
Paris, let me thank you, you took the worn away,
this gold now shines brighter with every passing day.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Notes on Virtue

I love the world through you,
that’s delusional,
love is violent choosing like island politics.
I’ve been looking for someone to guide my hands,
asking questions on bathroom walls.
Aristotle might know a few things...

Ethics in volutio carry wine but not water

Macedonian nicomachia is a clever fettering fever-

I'm dosing drugs and sleeping in caves, 

my back hurts but you only hear me complain about my head.

A troll in the corner chimes in,

he's still ripening, but at least he's got options.

Age measures mothers who absorb flowers and philosophy.

Map by my scalp and spit in my mouth,

I'll taste your good, telos, now head south.


Humph I sigh, I’ve grown hairier,
and if you don’t believe that Aristotle was wrong,
look at the walls of my elementary school-
Feline finality is fate draped on Christ’s shoulders and I love myself instead.
My grandfather’s in a mousetrap like photo lens war vet professor,
his tail’s been around my neck for years,
and Aristotle’s off laughing in mutter by the wine jug.
Dreaming boys with little fists lick at windows,
and I’m still unpacking-
case with only that warmth in my ear to steam green eyes to blink,
these dry lips to bleed then love-
Someone’s beard is telling them all the answers,
but I’ve been thinking lately,
do I have enough habits?
because I’ve built a corner out of all mine.
And I’ll tell you, if a man is defined by the company he keeps-
I must be a pirate.
Broken boots on sneering meek feet, whiskey drunk and none to eat.
Princely paupers with golden filth teeth spitting venom, words, and beats.
Telos! Take me, I’ll be witty the whole way down.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Maps (Part 1)

To find love in the eyes of an undead sympathizer is
to let black cats live among the southern swamps of the apathetic heart.
Allow our coffin to be the purgatory of the road-
Here's to the Dewey decimal exits from Jersey to Louisiana:
(Oh, she likes it a little dirty)

The queen of New Orleans leads us to the land that makes her rule great-
there are eagles and pterodactyls in the bleeding golden sun.
The river has gators up there too;
below us they laugh and sharpen their teeth.
The sunset of my life, mirrored by Twain's pisswater.
Behind me, the etiquette of crackheads is addressed,
subtlety in beauty, of course.

Weeping branches scratch at my mermaid tail-
tunnels from here to you.
These streets have sleeping giraffes under majestic oaks,
elephant trunk ladders under pollution planted, graffiti painted skies-
Brad Pitt's wet dream.

Poor boy stomachs and a full tank of gas are what drive the French Quarter-
cigarettes are cheap too.
Hawks are drunk and screaming in our ears,
but the city is divine.

Bougie friends explain string theory wrapped up over
teenage pregnancy and the looming apocolypse,
all while a cigarette lit from the wrong end hangs from her lips.

Alabama carries handbag puppies and blueskygreenwater roads,
speed freak anemics here in Dante's taco hell.
Antique snowstorms and pickaninnies packing pepper-
miracles on the shore today! Flying fecal foliage-
walking on water is left for the clever lepers.

The night ahead is effigy of the sun in the west,
ask Mississippi and her factories,
they can tell you louder than me-
New York taught me volume is truth.

the relax inn

hard to sleep with a roof so freshly painted
amphetamine afternoon means starting novels in bathrooms
and purple toes
my book smokes and I watch it blow rings-
quietly as to not wake you, you a princess
in a king’s used mattress, pushing sheets off
like a graceful drowner
on the doormats of men to whom whiskey cures kidney pain
I read literature on the shitter
lid closed, no tongue to bite
useless hours, up in smoke
the shower’s clean, boy, take a look
balance is twisted, the pill’s in me
my tongue’s been hanged, but the cable’s free
ashtray bedrooms in a tortoise shell
have some sleep, man, help yourself
I’ll stay up, read some books
watch the lights, my eyes are shook
the floor’s real cold, my palms are wet
like a penguin being paid to sweat
bring the sun, and then the road
and I’ll have seen all that you have showed
you are no angel, my dear, they’re dead
you’re alive if I can see your legs
warm me darling, mutter and coo-
these cold hands, they beg for you
cotton lips bleeding through
do to me what you want to do
need my skin or pray, my voice
lose yourself in every choice
bite my teeth and call my name
nostalgia is vile to those strange sane
crack my bones, the marrow’s good
stay the night, I think you should
keep me up with smells and sounds
in love, in a bathroom, in this strange town
sunflower eyes, follow me, please do
I’m the light if you are the truth

Saturday, December 25, 2010

The Crown

To find divinity is-
to be in love with fooling yourself-
to romanticize subtle comforts,
please keep pouring the Southern Comfort,
and here I am in love.

At first, the unattainable one
whose drunk hand holding lent to forming
some pseudo-sordid solidity in blueorange acid trip rising sun.
Fingers still splintered from that bench by the ferry’s water
like ghosts of the first kisses that linger-
the birth of winter out of blanketed glimpses of the skyline,
and to think I thought, “If only I could win her.”

The housecat goes for walks and plays games,
but ultimately-
that warm nuzzle back
into soft familiarity feigning begged death-
smirking smile is no lie,
our found love like opiate is vile only
to those hounds who hound the stiff knees of misery.

We dreamily fall to the sway of addiction to touch-
skin melted to skin-
the evening’s poison,
let breathe on flesh be our sacrifice to health,
roam and tread now on this wealth,
golden poverty but with love in perspective.

Be mine like that damn parrot in the window
above my lamp where midnight Camel smoke drifts through,
his voice a reminder of my reality, of my weight,
never forgetting me-
dream of all we’ll never.

All I ask is that you don’t forget me
like modern cynics have forgotten that
there is still glowing charm in Christmastime-
let an apathetic Jew tell you-
the cold air that babbles of someone else’s innocent joy,
hope only that witty Klosterman sarcasm doesn’t rewrite that,
live to breathe that air, moan if you must.

Crown me this sad king with a palace and a palate,
my taste is of all you are, my kingdom all you have.
Love like moral hypochondriacs fear-
design desire and devour each hour,
only jewels are jaded when the past has faded
to the corpse of yesterday,
and we moan till hoarse, but of course,
we still have today.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Drunk Bitches

Let this not sound like impartial commentary-
I want so badly that these thoughts will live past tonight,
so make my words scream!

I’m leaving my goddamn trail,
my sack of memories through this impossible asshole time.
If I only feel accidentally that I’ve written that before, forgive me-
But fuck! I ask forgiveness of anyone!
Someone’s poet of a son is yelling:
“If one day I rot, I’ll rot spitefully!”
Hollering rats, literates can be scum too.

How do I know that I have a hold on those few that matter to me?
If they all fall to grey bits,
memories among dust,
old beer, and dead ants,
and I’m still here? That’s terrifying.

But yet?
How I am a perpetual slave
or better, smirking occupant to-
the alone.
Do I crave it or does it call to me?
Is she the siren or am I?
This sort of thinking is dangerous.

This warmth seems viral-

It’s strange validation through other peoples’ parents,
strange being of a generation when I try to poeticize the concept of the ‘drunk bitch’-

All these slamming doors and screaming fuckers!
GODDAMN! It’s all so exciting, really!
Laugh because nothing’s too late if you play at it right.

Monday, October 4, 2010

officers of the absurd

Consider us Prometheus
our livers are sacrificed-
we gave fire to no one
we do this out of spite.
If this life is a carnival
then there must be some games, no?
Let's play at this as it comes to us,
us officers of the absurd.
Sad to think our feet grow flat,
we much prefer crooked smiles and all that.
Professional children praying chiding remarks
marked by greasy soap scum crusted burning golden hearts.
We chase rain like pen scraping pain,
we grin and scream - the untamed sane.
Lizard tongue philosophy, no song unsung for inner peace-
comfort in general discomfort is our way, you see!
Romantic our bones and love's skeletal,
yet slaves to our skin - who only knows how we feel.
Flashing lights, smoking our might, this circus world is our night-
agents of chaos - the poets who bite
and taunt the heavens, begging a smite.
Our dirty feet are medals in war,
our scars mementos that life's no bore.
Perhaps our eyes translate more
to wicked gentlemen of lore,
to gods and beasts who moan and smirk-
we all prophets in homemade thrones.

Monday, September 13, 2010


Here's to the man with tongue chasing heart
Native quick warm venom is just how he starts-
Pantomime vagabond vibrating jazz
Louie's his darling, his voice the big band-
Cinema reel eyes flicker story woven clever
leather fingers shovel with a mind full of letters
Circus soul cemented on mossy serenity
and oh! his Mexican dreams!
Burro burrows in his texts of William S.
chasing whiskey with the love on his breath
Noble savage with a lag - grass and liquor have a kick,
tripping head askew beaver fever with a lick
Tobacco princes bow their necks
Neon prophets all take a rest
Let upstate's savior claim his throne
Biblical name, the world his home

Sunday, September 12, 2010


Think, for a moment, of all the time wasted by men and women throughout history attempting to articulate the concept of beauty. There’s Pythagoras in pre-Socratic Greece, and his theories of beauty aligning with the golden ratio; beautiful math. The Renaissance brought about a lot of concepts on beauty, human, natural, man-made. Modern society has its own niches of beauty: children, flowers, Hallmark card sunsets, and simple laughter. But beyond these grandiose concepts of universal beauty, there is personal beauty, that is, within the eye of the beholder, as it is said. Experiences, blips of time that provide inner appreciation and adoration, for seemingly no reason but that it just is. This is what leads to my tale of sheer and utter beauty, the night the sky bled.              

One night in early summer, a few close friends and I took a trip to the beach. With fresh packs of cigarettes, a blanket, and heavy souls, we walked the cold sand down to the waterfront. We sat, and we talked. Our fears, our misery, our icy satisfaction in dissatisfaction all filling the air. And though the sea was black, out of spite it seemed, the need to brave it rose. How could we allow the natural world to conquer our torn hearts and minds?           

And so, we stood, men facing the horizon, lungs filled with sand, smoke, and adolescent determination. Some slowly, others face first, waded and dove in. The water a paradox: burning our skin. But as we walked out back to the sand, I felt something. Something that transcended the five senses. As my feet reached dry land, I started to understand just what had happened. My anxieties and vibrating worries were no more. My heart, my eyes, my being as a whole was cleansed. Reaffirmed within myself.              

And so we sat again. And talked again. Now our voices filled with optimism and hope. We looked back at the water, seeing our dark angst floating in the dark salty sea, our dread and panic drowning in the waters that had just saved us.                            

Maybe it was excitement, or my glasses just being caked in wet sand, but I took no notice of the moon the entire night. Luna and I have a bit of a relationship, her playing the role of the intellectual’s temptress, and I her stubborn love. So perhaps she grew jealous that I did not look for her at any point during my soul’s rebirth. She wanted my attention, and now she was willing to give more of herself than ever before. She pulled up her metaphoric dress a bit, flashing those metaphoric thighs in metaphoric lace.            

It started as a dot on the horizon. A tiny red scrap of light peeping out from the edge of the night. Before ten minutes had passed, the scrap had turned to the top of a burning disc. Another ten minutes, and we realized what we were watching. The moon, the color of a cigarette’s burning end and consuming a quarter of the horizon, was rising from the underworld, from underground. We sat, awestruck. No one could move, speak, and blinking quickly became a diminishing return. Alone on a beach in central New Jersey, rooted to the sand, watching seemingly innocent pale white Luna beam at us, burn at us, smirk at us.                    

As I attempted to articulate anything in that moment, it quickly became apparent of just how impossible that was. The night as a whole, every moment of it all, was pure beauty. My heart being lost in darkness, then finding light, and then seeing the natural world throw everything askew. My tongue, usually with the wit of a true scoundrel, was tied down. My soul was floating in the ether of amazement, my existence made worthwhile simply for the experience. That evening and its events are forever solidified as purely and utterly beautiful.

Thursday, September 9, 2010


Dope with the horses,
irish boy's drunk,
meltmeltmelt these spindly thoughts
hell boys here on earth
skeletal fingers scrape
...these wily smokey roots
prophets all us who stand
in vintage leather boots
here bricks, there dust
we waste this time
smoking fluorescents
always only waiting for the wine
strange it is,
hornet stings to the chest,
smokestack hilltop
in absurdity let us rest.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010


follow the man blowing smoke at waves
he's dancing with Luna, he's proving he's brave
scoundrels visit the beach only at night
your floor's our ceiling and that's alright
underground ain't underwater
we breathe your air and we smoke with your daughters
we watch the world and we watch you
we see all the stupid shit you can do
but we're sick you see, the fatal plague
of thought's in us, what a shame

here and there

One could pick men, boys, like us off a tree.
The saying goes a dime a dozen, no?
Strange to wake up drunk, having fallen asleep sober, somber-
Or maybe belligerence is a philosophy, a mindset, rather than a chemical result.
I’ve been a chemist for years, suicide driven science gets you far,
all in silent, babbling place.
It’s about time to pick my feet up and see what’s down the street,
here and there, here and there.
But for now? We’ll sit, ramble and light up our souls with empty fulfillment.
Hurrah for the underground, after all. Hurrah.

Paper Hearts

While he’s asking what’s inside her head,
he knows she’s told him too much he didn’t know.
And here I am, too sure of what’s in yours.
Even the birds can’t keep up with that tail-shaking,
how can I? My vision’s blurred by these sarcastic paper hearts,
spiteful mementos of a month ago. It seems longer,
sure, but we burned out quick. And now,
my chest is burning, whiskey instead of you.
Forever together is a nice notion, but a laugh is quicker to please.
Please me, please.