Some Fink at a Downtown Dive


[jet-black sista from the ice parade
holds my tongue with velvet hips,
the aroma of burnt knuckle-hair on
her breath.

mr mime is on his street-corner,
being beaten by a man with no
try and mouth his prayer.]

hedonistic, sleep deprivation left anarchistic.
this indolent birth of wired synergy clinging
to throat, six-shooter remedy for a few
lousy kisses.

she’s off bartering for meds, hair tied
back and eyeliner dripping.
soiled honey wet and fierce.

insolent ophelia is an outlaw with
dreadful dialogue. she dodges bullets
for valentines, cigarette clenched
between teeth, screaming obscenities
at passing kings.

it works that way with
modern romance, there’s almost no
need for the dilapidated car crashes
of yesteryears.

part one: two-sword technique


sexless trees make you crave, and
post-coital sunspots are heavenly
when exhaling the first drag.

you’ll sleep, piercing genitals with thorns.
hindu gods packed in a suitcase, ready for
the next day’s potential fiction fight.
maybe liquor date.

no trust,
here we blow
prosthetic middle finger kisses when it rains
blues and reds. lipstick nosebleeds contagious
on chemical nights, morning buzz w/ electronic lux.

thin translucent        anaemic skin,
zirconia in hand, ready to cut class to catch
a beatin’.

brunette fishing with no bait.


this ain’t submissive, greek gods are dead.
the cop smoked ’em and cackled an evenin’ prayer.
this is industry and it ain’t fiction.

[it’s all a substitute for charred
stills. they were burnt in anger,
and buried somewhere i cannot
recall. a medicated holocaust.]

chapter’s end, the drunken priest and his dyslexic
mother in-law have moved out. fuck ’em, they
never played their music loud enough anyways.

the lorax will have its revenge.


strollin’ backwards, gripping shoulders, when
expression’s eyes are weak.

glancing admiration for the mannequins
in their agent uniforms
on nowhere street.

the protesters at the abortion clinic never
throw eggs in my general direction, but
on occasion paper rocks and blades of
scented grass. they can see i’m tied at
the neck, shirt creased.

brittle horses never cease to amaze, undressing
to flamenco sketches.

pack your bags shameless solitude, tonight we
leave for carelessness, leaving tender misgivings
of pain behind, graciously we decline the offer of
same abuse, and summer’s solemn complaints.

pretenders to cynical world, on the road to assurance.]


somebody’s cowling, now prone to fits.
we toppled howling crowds, both enriched,
on summer days like this.
too much has become apparent. kill the neophyte,

reconciling with lonely state, vengeance sister plagues
self with ignorance, her collection of death rattles held
tight. our questions have no need of answers,
sweet boredom.

[i met her at a bar, she was dressed in black.
we danced until dawn, resonating gravity like
a head trauma, then caught a cab back to her
place. there she ate me whole, after picking
my heart from her teeth with a cocktail stick.]

no gun, beth hangs with pins in her back,
a mock voodoo doll. tomorrow spent incognito,
a flick of ash to enamour disguise.

spines twist when you regurgitate.

red rose for girl in idle playground, numb from
intricate detail of self-woven fantasy, colliding
stars strapped to frame.

she’s awaiting december.]


we lynch strawberry brats and draw blood.
hoping chaos theories dull the infant’s minds
and swim inconsistent, sometimes stopping
to play chess in the park. 7 eyelashes short of
dominatrix, guts and
art, ivory tongues.

there’s familiar on fingertips, and a ring,
no other cinematic image. my ribcage
shatters after pulling ripcord, androgynous
autumn meandering.

perfected bodice,
daisy breath queen hangs joyful.
devil in black got me hooked.

the poor tree’s a sucker for cig butts, and viscosity
dwindles faster, tailgating vicious dirge. match-lit
diaries around the time of an opiate’s funeral…
too much of her
in me.
are you heart? city and all of the above?
poker face or not, lady luck’s a bitch. never can tell.
library card expired tuesday, stuck
in paperback mythology.

silicone sweat from the herd, quoting blake with polluted
authority, a dull suffocation of pollock’s wishful thinking.
another halo morning for dizzy cherub, still weightless
from last night’s love binge, adorning fairy wasteland with
her all.
“december stole my fear,” she mumbles to herself,
deafening a crowd of saviours.]


always a matter of deliverance, unsure but sweet.
desperate redemption can be visually powerful, but
not stunning enough, m’dear. i could never find that
perfect lie, my veins were sadistic.

someone stop the violin, the clown has
a berated frown, like a killing spree in
the name of photogenic cool.         belittle that stranger
for argument’s sake, it’s hereditary.

eventually tear open palms and
wonder if it’s simply delicacy or
a mother figure.

primal urges and idiosyncratic mauling, dionysus,
the creation ladder effect.

or sometimes just the scent of dragonflies on her collar,
stale as solvent         dead as disco.

she gave me a sketch once.
it resembled her.
she said it was a portrait of me.
i gave her a kiss.


i want to wake with cold-sweat, 180 degrees
to my right, with newspaper in my lap [front
page story: xanadu falls/kane sleeps].

orphaned sibling of delerium, rogue to
symphony of sarcasm, with her usual diet of
coffee & nictonie. on the 7th day we’ll meet,
final masse, and discuss the destruction of
ambient cell. maybe even listen to some jazz
and worship textures.

coming soon to a theatre near you,
like a sucker punch.

part two: one-armed swordsman


to rotate the third perspective, aligning machine’s orifice
with cables, not familiar, simply random cables:

descending liquid, anxious abortions. i die in those rivers,
but not in arrogant imaginings. there are maybe 25 torsos
down there, drowning. he uses them as stepping-stones to
my insides, it doesn’t hurt. there’s no continuity in our
language, it’s a stutter of break-beats.

my bed sheets are still warm,
and sometimes i lament gods for no other reason than habit.
lambs are easily lead around these parts, by letters in braille.

tomorrow i’m picking up two hitchhikers,
parker & longbaugh,

they’ll be preaching the end of the world.


the day spent teasing a mime,
reflecting his every movement.
finally, out of frustration, he
caved and revealed life’s
secrets to me.
“and how did you obtain this
information,” i asked.
“i spent six days days working
as a spy in heaven,” he replied.

“get the fuck outta here,” i

there are animals at the foot of my bed.
one of them, the lion, recites a journal from my childhood
with majesty and grace. another, the serpent, sings sad
love songs. though i laugh rather than cry at these, he has
a lisp you see.

and then
there’s the monkey who simply stares.


i was in love
with a talk-show host for a week, before realising the
electricity in my apartment had been cut off for over a
month. my television projects predators and poisonous
ink blots, gangrene in my third eye.

where are our heroes? the ones that sucked cock
for their highs. where are our heroes, sippin’ laudanum
at the rockerfeller, skimmin’ stones across banquet tables,
the outsiders?

it’s not another hollywood ending,
and this young man’s on heat, a
temperamental sense of raw incomplete.

these feelings are scientific, or maybe retro golgotha. the
general consensus is batman rocks and superman sucks,

couldn’t agree more.

[isn’t real.
perfect enemy: shelter from coma [umbilical pose],
reminiscent of city’s overdose, concealing hidden
agenda. an amphetamine fuelled machine.

i’m missing my partial blindness, animosity
for sin. lacerations to heart, body flawless.]


jean-michel and i gaze
upon SAMO©
in his youth, crowning
the city streets.         i’ve heard the pushers are playing bach
down there, more power to ’em. my girl
needs a hit. paint me a portrait, i’ll sell
myself for a dollar.

this year was tough, we almost diminished, no man’s land
seemed out of reach. last train leaves at midnight, i’ll meet
you on platform 4 with red rose in hand.
trust in me.

[q] “how much you need?”

[a] “three gram of madman, i got the itch.”

xi n

here and there on the mainline, there’s no other but dust,
to kick and scratch. miles have the upper hand in heaven,
it’s stuck in my head.

i knew this girl who sold sunflowers/rock star clichés
on street corners. her dream was to save up enough cash to
buy a trojan horse. she had this plan to invade mexico city,
the place where kerouac built his house of blues.

i don’t know why, but i miss those sunflowers.
i wonder if she ever made it.

[i smoke cigarettes
in high heels,
i am a golden god.]

pity merchants have no eyes, this talk is nonexistent.
we tread the streets of warsaw

[doesn’t exist.
chess in the park: bleak subterfuge to render this façade ethereal,
a panic war with scarred gravity, shedding confession as storm
fades home. she dances deliriously to the sound of rain and i feel
this resonance, bethany’s commitment to courage.

“it’s your move,” she whispers.]


glitter swallows rhythmic connect,
with endearing rabid taste,
heartbreak from pacifying dogma
days. carefully psychological, roses
are red,         violets are diseased.

paranoia sleeps tonight, after kisses we make love,
terrible moment speaking in tongues.

motive for murder: black coffee.
prepare electric chair, under keen eye
artist sleeps for a millennia,
tuxedo dream.

two spoons of sugar, razor blade hope, and pray for
substance again.

winter/farewell eye and fake moon/criminal blues.

overcome aroma, petal at a time, still scratching.
ignition signals temperament…

and it begins, no more milk no more pornography
book a hotel room date with pilate at midnight
need a shower teeth are rotten/bland/grey the jerk
kneels to beg shot-gun in hand 10 dollars the price
who spares simpleton? a thousand ballads in
constant reprisal know the date of heresy beth is
singing lullaby hours until dawn only once only
twice revolutions for apathy give me the third on
highway no strange lawyer to speak lies/riddles
hunting season go go go


[thom aged 5 had sugar high and
crack in spine, maybe laughing
too loud. i throw rocks at his
adolescence, tribute to ailments,
jazz, burn related incidents,
fickle sonnets, and you in your
black dress.]

collapsing world, time to start
stalking angels for autographs,

or call in a detective.

11: 22pm - a saucer of
whiskey was put out for
the electro-punk and his
ignorant business suit,
not the cat.

* * *

collar turned up,
inadequate midnight king
goes to work. first stop:
mr. mime.

pagan sands and a local déjà vu, slim
pickings from the coma patient. tonight’s a
hooded gun’s birth. i’m old. i know the punk’s
fakin’, just waiting for a violent wink.
but, he left his briefcase in purgatory,
he’s fucked. the backlit swan-dive was for

give me a break-beat, swollen glands are for
suckers, and this is just another mean jive.
practice makes perfect.

“sorry, kemosabe. the toll is 4 pints of crimson.”

beth, you is my woman now.]