Let the Words

There is hope swirling round neon Lights. Open says the window of Our desires ATM whispers sultry sticky sex Man stares. Unblinking. A need. A want that melts plastic. He won't Be Refused Spits twenties on his cock Come again soon, its beeping Laughter says. He smiles. Satisfaction Guaranteed Neon screams with excitement Flamboyant colors cast into Rainy nights. Pavement moans Eating this color Red sign. Sways on spider Monofilament line. Dances Gayly. A familiar friend Coke Brown is purity it says Waltzing all the while. Bubbly tricks and treats Beneath cold hard skin Black Bar-B-Que, smoldering Baby. A whimper echoes through Fluorescent  aisles. Marked down From thirty it shouts Food for the family in Summer Time sun. Tears on charcoal Evaporate fast Mommy begs the child, shitting Their pants, licking wrappers With pretty colors I am it. It is me. Plastic wrap around children's Faces. Candy for the masses This is where sweetness lives Mother whispers.  All abstraction. Gifts

There is nothing in this flowing Feather pillows ripped open Beaten against concrete walls They flutter and twitter, giddy In blankness It is not gray nor black I Dunk my head in buckets of  crude oil. Take thick hopeful  breaths Why won't it take me? Where is suffocation Amidst this emptiness? "Arise, son of destruction! Be not at rest in this hour Of End." It is hollowness in a void Standing, I let Black Trails slowly cascade Down my naked body Over concaved collar Bone. Across dark hard Nipples It is time. Strike goes the match. Crackle goes the phosphorus. Humm goes the flame. Nothingness burns.

Honey are these words They drip and slid slowly At the corners of her mouth. Sometimes It Seems Powder sugar sprinkles Light snow in a flurry Blown by Amaunet's fluttering Eyelashes Sometimes It Seems I lick my hands, trying To Remember sweetness, Osiris and Re smile under Willow trees Sometimes It Seems Pansy petals dizzy themselves,  whirling in cold clear streams Sekhmet sweats, fury and guilt Deflowering dreams Sometimes It Seems Rye stalks bow before harvest Purified into drinks of diamonds Bastet prances and whispers, moans Kissing me Sometimes It Seems Allusions are all I have.

Attempt 1: Punished. Purified. Panther. Haunting. Re-embrace. Forgotten. Daffodils. Drinking. Terra cotta. Soaked. Tapioca. Attempt 2: Where are colorful sappy words…in a river of rotting flesh? Who is praying, lost, and uncertain – with circling greedy flies? Are sinful saints singing? We drop in the eve, on our knees, shoving fist full’s of moist earth into our ocular cavities. Such music, truth. Spoon fed scornful fantasies. Precious jewels, like rain drops, pure, collected in a lead can. Attempt 3: Amorous bodies dance with naked nymphs. Sultry kittens masked under moonlight beg for candy. Dish. Dish. Dish. Empty silver bowls, lonely under orange street lights. Masked little boys have frightened them away. I wash memories of their haunts. Drink some bleach to wash filthy innards. Follow darkness, until I don’t feel like it anymore. Blanket. Sleep. By Panganga and Forest

Fuck that god damn Tulip. Flamboyant colorful whore that it is. So fragile, curvy, and petite. Screw Tulips and their many faces of beauty. I'll trust in my heartiness. Bitter as it is. There was a time when people believed in my golden radiance. When my sunshine locks, gave a sense of home to those that have traveled so far. Still, today, for as long as I can remember, children of all persuasions greedily smile at me. Rub their snotty hot noses in the cluster of my gold dust pollen, like flightless huge lumbering bumblebees. As usual, they will pluck me from the earth to wear as crowns. I anoint immature queens. Give them the glow of mature beauty and regal riches. Soon I will become the baby though, in a morbid sort of game. "Mama had a baby and its head popped off!" Zing. There goes my head. Before I've had a chance to sprout my own babies and cast them to the wind. I'm sure their parents have put them up to it. Ruthless bastards. Still, there is a bit of love

Attempt 1: Uncle Sam rapes small children Stricken with obesity He's got a nefarious plan Wrote it down on a 10 Dollar Bill Buying Senators on Capitol Hill Who dance before the parents In flaccid pools of blood. Reflecting smiles Attempt 2: Inverted Convoluted. Hanky Danky child of Abraham Humorous pranks from God. Asking sacrifices Writes a thick cooking book with fancy spices ½ Cup of salt and a dash of sin (some lust, a lie, or a vain virgin) 2 Sticks of Absolution And television (mind pollution) A teaspoon of donkey dick piss Spit out from that prostitute's lips 6 pounds of meat! (cries dear Ruth) Attempt 3: Rotting apple cores left in the Garden Used, corrupted self-fertilized seeds Plant disfigured kings, lusting for sisters Who in turn lust for each other A twisted cycle of hateful love No Oedipus, no Freud These aren’t objective subjects Seed-core-sin, say it ten times fast And let your tongue drown in Forbidden fruit By Panganga and Forest

crimes. a rustling hustle. torn clothing and sweat. slickness like wine. a pounding. consumption. There the crowns of trees are aflame. Teeth catch, prod at supple flesh. disciples of tart fruit. crucified, martyred, juices. forgotten promises. dizzy dazzling waves. hushing heaves whispered into hurried ears. obsession that runs like water over rounded rocks. a suction of moment. pennies that are tossed to forgotten hopes. moss covered playgrounds for thrashings. nails driven deep into moist earth. cool rounded berries rubbing puffy lips. silky bones tumbling in muslin drapes. pools of acrylic paint spilling on perky breasts. drinking color. thick and warm. watermelons left in summer sun. blindness. imaginary fire flies. spinning. bodies thrown off steep cliffs. falling. gripping. flailing. fists of hair, burning hands. groans that wallow like steady rain. heat. unbearable. droplets of blood in the kitchen sink. pancake batter. flaccid rolling. muffled voices. cry on me. silence ar

Memory is water in a stainless steel bowl, we cannot carry it long without spilling. We slosh along, from place to place, from face to face, clumsily trying to refill it with fresh epiphanies and clear-cold declinations for our lives. We'll always find places to quench our thirst. We will wildly drink and spill until our deaths. We only hope our memory will trickle into another's bowl, mixing memories for some sort of advice on the things to come. * * * In Seldovia, mostly during the summer months, I developed a habit of frequenting the graveyard. The walk to the graveyard from my house, atop the hill with the Orthodox Church, is about a mile. The highly compact dirt and gravel road arches past Susan B. English School with its shabby baseball field. At the far end, a craggy rock face abruptly juts-out, ceasing the grassy field. Years ago someone climbed up its crumbling face and spray-painted a white bullseye. I've never seen anyone hit it yet, though plenty have claimed

Sitting, Sat Sartre.  Something Saturated  Sartre's Senses.  “Somebody's Shaking  Steps, Show Serrated Slopes!” Stupidity Surrounds Somber Squalls Squawking Sin.  Stabbing Sharp Swords Seeking Sinking Souls Smash Single Siblings “Surprise Snakes Suck Sizzling Sockets!” Sour Sacks Steeped Shallowly, Sell Stubborn Sisters “Sappy Shiny Stars Stifle Surrendering Salvation!” Sojourners Serve Supper's Supplication. Swerve Sultry Sobriety, Steal Silly Syringes! “Satan's Splendor Sands Spiteful Scythes!”  Smothering Said Something.  Sartre Squandered Seeing  So Simplicity Scored. So Sad.

Amadeus's tears tremble down his cheeks. He is going to die. Only on the verge of death do we realize the riches of experience. The trite treasure of knowledge. No one wins. Everyone suffers. * * * He'd come for a score. Looking for pussy. Tall and beautiful, with his tight white skin and dark eyes. I'd watched him come in, confident, witty, and crass. The only awkward note was his Austrian accent. Amadeus was a friend of a friend. An exchange student, bleeding for excitement. Joseph sat across from me. Steady cracks of beer and the tinkering of ice, heated up conversation about home and politics. He was short and brown. Sturdy from his years of stacking seines and hauling salmon. The past few years of swimming through law text books gave Joseph glasses and deep sophist understanding of hypocrisy. "It's time we moved on. This gets us nowhere." Joseph tips his 7-up and vodka to his lips. I drown some more beer. Hazy convictions. Complicated tho