New Kitteh! I really need to know what to name her!

Veneralia 2009

Venus' tears drop from above
Her design perverted by violent desire.

Immortal diamonds evaporate
on hot blooming bruises,
and flesh, so recently glorified,
drips with musky shame.

 Marred ivory, ensnared by splinted floor boards,
was intended to be draped in myrtle.

 The debased blossom-
anchored raw throbbing.

happy fucking saint patrick's day.

if it were my tits, I could just wipe it off,
and i heard that the protiens are good for your face, so I wouldn’t have even been that mad.
but why did you have to come in my hair?

your molten little soldiers, singing their swan song in my mane

and as you laid there, sleeping off the great toll the past four minutes of pleasure had taken on you,
i swear i can feel them squirming,
damn this congealing mass on the side of my head.

my wild mermaid hair was at the peak of insanity,
but the wavy stands got sucked into the whirlpool of remorse.

i never even got off.

well, you looked pretty fucking pleased with yourself.

in the morning
i forced myself on the packed 57 bus back to kenmore square,
and the metallic, sweaty scent seeped from my locks,
like canned ocean air mixed with drunken lust.

i look around
and everyone knows,
because your few (and i mean few) moments of pleasure
formed a clump of regret that screamed in neon lights
I’M A WHORE

but i guess that’s what happens when you drink tequilla on saint patrick’s day

Interstate 75, March 14th

the sun in
our eyes
deep fried
our arms--


we wrapped
them in a tiger
towel and Bolles.



Goodbye
turquoise water,
hello lazy gators.

I Wish You Would Have Just Gotten Diagnosed

I
His voice used to roll through the open house,
From his office it would bounce off the walls, into the den.
The deep vibrato shook my spine.
Now he just speaks in broken whispers.


II
I poured Kettle One into his favorite square glass,
“The only medicine I need.” Fuck L-dopa.
His massive hands griped the sweaty vessel,
And his shaking made the ice cubes rattle
While vodka splashed from the brim.


III
He had been shouting for help for hours,
I was late for our weekly visit.
I found him limp, naked and cold on the bathroom floor.
He stopped shaking.

Well shit.

I'm not really sure what this has become.

I'm not really sure what I have become.

I've just been stuck in a rut, but I don't know if it is a rut or I just don't have anything else to say.

I may have just become one of those people that say they are an artist but nothing to show for it.


That's not who I am.... I just need to produce produce produce.

I'm going to screenprint on saturday. (FOR REAL) and after the reading at 28th street I want to write more.

But it's one thing to want to do something, and another to stop plopping down in front of the computer and actualy make something worth while.


Maybe I'll write poems about The Wire, that seems to be the only thing holding my intrest lately....