Category: semi-poetry

UNHINGED 

spit them out, these wasted days and wet-green nights rising up from your esophagus to greet against anyone’s will your
lovers and your sisters and your friends and your parents make them
worry for you but never too much just enough to catch a whiff of the smoldering
human brains on stone tiled floors where
the
cold gets in so easy feel it creeping up the carnage contaminated by the time
it grabs your feet and legs to drag you under
i’m okay, i’m okay — you’re shoveling shouting reaching out to grab hold of whatever’s in reach
creamy rose pink with green sparkles dribbles thick makes you feel
safe watching feel the grip slip this is how we
fight our wars with pink with glitter with ooze like
crying all that bile from your eyes the sticky
worms running playground drills up and down your throat
red rover, red rover, why don’t you come over?
red used to scare you always creeping in or up
more often out
that drip drip down your shaking knees that
seeping out the gashes in your stomach like a watermelon past its prime now just remember– don’t eat the seeds, you can’t afford for anything to grow inside you, and neither can the anything– that environment is uninhabitable
for living things

Advertisements

real men

only REAL MEN please

 

a REAL men:

-UniversidAd De La kAlLe

-into “butt stuff”

-can survive on pussy alone

-30min underwater breath-hold minimum

-can ask questions

-NOT allergic to shellfish

-SOMETIMES wears thongs

-ability to pivot right AND left

-does NOT use a pillow

-allergic to yogurt OK

-personality unimportant

A LA HORA DE SIESTA

A bus ride in Spain is just a bus ride. It’s not one of those hard throttling things barely keeping tires to the tracks through some muggy snake-infested jungle. You’re not fearing for your life every second. You know how the other worries tend to slip away when you’re afraid for your life? I find that soothing. Let’s do more of that.

Because a bus ride in Spain rolls from prim little pueblo to industrial complex-lookin little pueblo past little dump camp to same little pueblo again — and you’re panicked because you must have missed your stop and stayed on the bus all the way through its route but then you realize oh, no,
these towns are just one and the same.

The same baked brown and mucusy white like sins of the internal body smeared out on burning pavement. The whole place is a goddamn effigy in creamy neutrals, you can taste the virgin blood in the air but you musn’t speak of it. The grizzled little brown man that hangs out in the park speaks of it, y con ese no se habla.

Vaya, España: so much sun like a torch up my asshole. Searing. Such brutal and determined gazing: the blunt-eyed glare of a true and thorough Spaniard. The look of the town might once have been lovely but the dictator snuck in and graffitied the place with his budget cuts. you know what they say, no peace beneath the pomegranates.

Spain is the place the tourists come to hack off their jeans and undo their shirts another button. Spain is the last place you will ever be late. Spain is the sun when you really don’t want it though the natives are all walking round in scarves and jackets. Spain is dry sugar cane stock and agave and olive trees. The raw olives bleed red like cherries. Do not eat raw.

then the city oranges — at best those are naranjas pa’zumo, at worst they’re solid blocks of dry rancid sour mesh, thickly diseased. we no eat that. learned the hard way, as children and outsiders do.

rather eat the prickly pears. the kakis (a ripe kaki is like a swollen alien breast, savor the meat.) got lots o’ juniper, you like gin? well let’s make some. that’s why I’m here, anyway. a proper guiri is always wasted, and just look at me wasting away.

GROWTH

GROW A PAI R.

i want to
sha. ke you

GROW A PAIR.

I want to br eak that glass over your fac e

GROW A P AIR.

how much time you’re w a s t i n g

GROW A PAIR.

useless
thing just
standing

GROW A PAIR

knees jut ting in just

GRO W A PA
IR

there’s nowhere to run n ow

GROW

you know

GROW A PAIR.

I hate you more up
close

GROW A PAIR.

if you could
just

GROW

you stupid

GROW A PAIR

cunt, you

GROW A PAIR.

so  sick of   you

GROW

so s i c k
so

GROW A PAIR.

we accept the love

GROW A PAIR.

we
deserve

GROW A PAIR.

we think
we know

GROW A

pair of nothings

GROW

together

A PAIR

you and I

GROW

we

GROW

GROW

GROW

GROW

SAYONARA YOU LITTLE BITCH (1/2)

in the summer you said you didn’t want to be
another one of my guys that I write about
so let me keep this brief:
you have a horse mouth (neigh!)
and horrendous taste in music
you are small
yet the biggest coward I have ever known.
I could mention your pecs (I admit
they were nice)
or the way your half-assed chimney beard just
didn’t sit right on that horsey face (though
sitting on it was just fine)
or that awful tattoo you got when you gave up
all your dignity as a person (I guess)
but all that just makes for shit poetry.

actually though
just in general
you as a man, you make for shit poetry
not because you’re short or weird-looking or because you think it’s hot to shave
your entire body
“para que se ven mejor los músculos”
but because you’re boring and you just kind of
suck ass

oh
speaking of sucking ass:
you fucking gave me hemorroids with your mouth before I left
(one last gift, he said —
enjoy)

I will remember you always

especially for that

EL GRITO

i awake
entangled in a mess of hair and corded headphones and someone else’s blankets,
dreaming of my mother screaming spitting from the kitchen
cold knife of fear slicing open my guts as i lay in bed and clasp the hands of a friend there
with me, blink and swallow,
it’s only a matter of time.

i don’t often dream
of you this way,
nor do i dream of you really at all.

you told me once you used to have
recurring dreams of your own mother,
chasing you with a knife through a garage loaded with boxes,
and you tried to run, but you had a broken foot.

in my recurring dream you are
a gutteral scream from a neighboring room,
a roar in the hallway, a rumble of doors and broken footsteps approaching,
my gaze locked, one fixed point, a deep breath
then