Tagged: nihilism


you are
you are
you are the
of bodies
and things

you are gone
from my skin
like a mist
or a phantom
you rose out
left some stains
nothing more

the clouds are red-black
and the wind
cools me down
i haven’t felt
the wind
in ages



hey nacho
send some more pics of your
stumpy pink dick while you
hold it at the base with your
unwashed sheets and empty
walls in the background and
the the tv tuned to some
sports channel that
shit gets me so
wet i just


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

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

I will remember you always

especially for that


heat rises. stay high.
be resourceful. fuck a
guy from a beach
town above the water
level but heed the
tide ye lunar whore

the seasons change all
over even if the
weather doesn’t and even
if you don’t. still
the dampness invades more
than just moldy bedding
and old walls. breathe
in. you will feel
it if you can
feel anything
at all.


Bukowski thought women were durable creatures who abstain from beer as it’s “bad for the figure.”

I’d better choose the seat facing out, I think, instead of hiding. Observe the white people.

The flock of shuffling girls all dolled up and traveling together, how fun, wonder if the fatter ones hate themselves compared to their friends, wonder how much envy is the meat of their relationship, then I lose interest, can’t care.

But those fucking red Starbucks cups.

I’m told not to tear other women down, it’s not right. We’ve got to build each other up. That’s probably true but it seems unfair to only tear down folks with dick. They were born idiots and there was never any hope. Women had hope once but chucked it out, cashed it in for red Starbucks cups and studded bags and Sorel boots to go grocery shopping in. I hate them all equally. I am no better, and so I hate myself.

I guess now I’ve reached an “attractive” stage of my life. It might be the way I look but I think more likely it’s the stench of my apathy. The men sense that I’d watch them crushed under the wheels of a Greyhound bus on the road to nowhere and would maybe smoke half a cigarette to calm the nerves hoping for a reasonably short delay, and they like that. I like that too. It’s sexy.

It happens a lot lately. People stare and stare. Men hold eye contact and my mother always notices. I give a light smile, I don’t necessarily mind the staring, though I should. I just want to do the same thing back. Brush my breast and I’ll honk your sack. Fuck mutual respect. We’re all dying anyway. So you undress me with your eyes and that means this “space” isn’t “safe”? I’ve got you nailed to a pole with a broom up your ass and a blindfold on. Your mouth is mine. There was never such a thing as safe space.