Month: October 2010

inertiatic (roulette produces cicatrices + widows)

i’ll k-keep the fires warmm
in th-the alc-cove of your mminnd while
while you sh-shiver out the blood loss
while you c-cover all you find out there i’ll
keep the f-fires wa rm i’ll m-make your bed and
we’re gonna twisst ourselves a t-tapestry of muted
song and sin

r-rhythm call the steps for us
you do the dance sssowell and just
keep m-moving he won’t get us
she won’t get us if we never ever stop

if we never s t o p

oh never mind the flayed flesh
or the child who slurps his veins
never mind the one electrocuted in the rain
on the pavement, untended undefended
on the black pavement
never mind

just keep m-moving he won’t get us
she won’t get us if we if we if
we never ever stop

i’ll keep the firess warm, my lungs
are sufficient bellows to pressure flame
from dead coals j-just don’t stop moving
dance your bones to death
just don’t stop moving

he won’t get us

i’ll tiptoe like a dancer
i’ll scurry like a rat
i’ll slink, a red-eyed fox in early morning
to the hearth

(i’ll keep the fires warm)

step lightly to the brick
tiptoe over it and slip silky sensuous and
loyal to the bone into the fires
and they’ll blaze and if i scream
don’t stop moving

she won’t get us
they won’t get us

he can’t get us if you don’t
moving; never mind


inexperience is a bitch

you should have been cold fire in my cunt,
molten silver rivers in the veins of my thighs
and you should have been the shimmer on my hipbones
of moonlight and that led zeppelin song that was playing;
you should have been the fire which made mist of skin moist
with sex-liquor
i should have been drunk on your love

instead i’ve been sober from the first time you touched me
and darling, i don’t like it so much

i’ve always dreamed of junkies with crumpled paper wings
and satin eyelids purpled with inebriation
sandpaper tongues caressing the crude silk of my lungs,
my throat, my flesh
and you should have been the drug to drain me. you should have
made the stars like pricks in a tin can to the blaze of your body on mine
but you didn’t.

and all i keep thinking is sex isn’t what it’s cracked up to be
and wonder if maybe it wasn’t you that dulled things to embers,
but me.

tonight is numb fingers and weird semi-metaphors and it’s 3AM, not 2

when i become a cancer vampire
transliterated using the alphabet of curling smoke
i am almost a god– my voice drops and smooths itself
into sensuality and brooding,
my posture is casual, my pose quizzical.
i wax prolific.

philosophy and sexual chemistry
become my favorite topics,
because i am suddenly excellent at intellectual conversation
and everyone wants to hear what i’ve got to say

and all my discourses on me, me, me
are of the utmost importance to
whatever rapt audience i’ve chosen as the night’s victim.

cancer vampires are magnetic that way
and there’s nothing like breathing fire for five minutes
with a pretty boy hanging on your words like suicide jumpers
with changed minds–

until the last drag, when i press a butt into the rail
or crush it like cowboys beneath my boot
and go inside, myself once again
(now caped in carbon monoxide trails).

transient friction

i wasn’t really a giggling faggot fanboy for you
because you were beautiful
i mean you were but that’s not the point
you had such a stereotypically aristocratic british face
and long fingers like a poet should and
your mustache got on my nerves
(i remember grousing about it) and oh god your eyes
but that wasn’t it.

you were an older man and me just a silly girl
an angry boy with a mouthful of glass and ash
i wanted to consume and destroy you
but it wasn’t because you were
an unwilling mr. rochester to my jane.

it was that accent i hated,
the way your words are unrolled
snapped a few times and released
to fall in crisp sheets of snowfall syllables
on my shoulders and in my thick hair

they made me shiver so much–
i would have frozen forever on your cold shoulder
to wade in those letter-drifts
to bask in the winter of your words

but then you summered away

my throat is raw from never speaking my heart

i’m closing your scent inside this box
and pushing it beneath my cousin’s bed
so haphazard clothing and old candy wrappers
some unfinished homework, half a sandwich
and a few roach motels can collect
over weeks and months
till the next time my cousin cleans her room
(whatever millenium that’ll be in)
and brings me the box with a questioning look
and i take it from her in cryptic silence
carry it to another dark place
eye it briefly and then
shove it away a second time and forget
that i was going to say i loved you
until you told me the reason you weren’t answering my calls
was because you were with him.

rae’s rhapsodizin

blood in my ears blood
in my arms to my chest to
my cunt to my legs feet toes
wiggling piggies

it’s raining and
john mayer’s mouthing to me and
my scent is soap and cigarette smoke
mouth wash and freshly baked bread
screaming mutely for olfactory nerves
to clutch and burn an imprint on
for skin to tattoo
for clothes to sink into and
sheets to fragrance i’m

sosleepy; put me to bed
&slip in beside me and
fit me to your bones
(cut off unnecessaries) nd
carry me to sleep

but don’t call the cops just yet

you do-gooder assholes who vomit
all these fucking anti-suicide mantras
piss me off more than the attention whores
shouting self-inflicted death from rooftops
and bad rock music.

shove your platitudes up your ass,
and if you want to quote maya angelou
and tell me someone survived before me
i’ll tell you something else–
someone committed suicide before me too.