Carnage

Now commence the acts of pleasure with which I christen this year.

A fresh red apple. It’s crisp and the skin bites between my teeth.

I chew and swallow, tasting the bright apple and the dark blood.

A glass tumbler with a smoky whisky, stirring the embers

In my stomach.

I’ll sing at the piano, if you’ll let me. Just this once.

Sing songs of murderous blues and amorous refrains.

Sing welcome, to this icy new year, snow trailing behind my feet.

Everything is new again. A first drink. A first kiss. A first bite.

A first fight.

A first fuck. Couples disappear discreetly from parties everywhere.

They leave the rest of the animals to prey in feverish peace.

The truth is--

This shit gets old.

And I get drunk,

And lie back on my pillows.

Advice

I tell myself

Get a job, you’re broke

You’ve got cold fingers from lingering

At the table in the café

The one by the door.

The businessmen come

In and out

With their take-away cups

Of liquid austerity.

The parents rock crying children

In colored strollers

That are grandly percussive,

Full of toys and crayons, and keys, no doubt.

I paid with change today.

It rattled away,

And the tall skeletal man at the register

Frowned at me.

“I like your hair.” He says as I count.

He tells me this every time I come in,

and watches as my lips curl.

Get a job today,

I tell myself,

And I sift the sandy leaves

At the bottom of my cup,

And hum to myself.

Audio recording available here:

http://www.mediafire.com/?pq4b43w46xbz931

New Year, Same Old Shit.

I just got drunkdialed by

A blond in a corvette

Parked on a hillside overlooking the sunset.

She said to me,

“Buy diamonds,”

But I’m broke.

She’s like champagne bubbles.

She’s softly flavored and

I like to imagine her

Drunkenly caressing the dashboard-

Leather, black and jet smooth.

There is a snowy crust

That runs along the sides of

My porch, my perch.

I am staring at the starburst

Explosion,

A veil of intoxicating chemicals,

falling over my face.

And I feel drunk like her too.

I want to buy her green diamonds cuffs,

To slip over her slim pink wrists.

And I’ll toss her around by them

And write manic novels dedicated to her.

Her gift to me is sentiment.

Mine to her I do not know,

But her voice murmers on,

And I imagine putting my cold hands

Against her warm skin.

This Again

It’s a dull ache in the front of my skull now.

There’s a perfectly good pumpkin pie outside,

Freezing on top of the little green vehicle

Which will be carried away before

Stringent, silent dawn.

The fire is just embers,

I’m drinking again.

Thinking again,

Staring myself in circles.

Stirring myself in hot circles.

I wear my hair

Loose down my back.

It curls up around my head,

Whispers of a happy home—

My hair, Medusa’s serpentine halo,

Betrays my most sumptuous secrets.

Rosy cheeks flush electric.

A single lock coiffed against my sticky cheek.

I miss giving you head,

Really good head.

The kind to make your head spin.

The slow, dizzy sparks of heat on my lower lip,

Pouting softly.

Everything about me soft,

Against the harshness of man.

The essential disinterested Mr. Darcy of Austen’s fancy

Does

Not

Exist.

A ticking clock against my tongue,

A beseeching whimper,

The arching of spines,

And the sudden loss of cabin pressure—

The sound of the door as you close it.

Passion

Dear Cunt,

There is a very good chance you will read this.

I don’t care, I’ll keep melting hot wax onto my arms.

Bitch

You are oh-too-fucking good

big-assed goddess all wide hips

And square cinnamon eyes.

The world is a joke

With a comic-book punchline.

I sit here drinking glass after glass

Of cold sweet scarlet

Rubies and diamonds

In my hands,

And wishing I knew how to light a fire.

Warm my hands,

And make ash to spread over the ground.

I wish you’d gotten just a little bit fatter

And that nobody had asked you out for a while.

Or just gained some goddamned modesty.

I don’t begrudge you your happiness, but,

Alas, I was not so fortunate as you.

Well, Shit.

I bet you went to summer music festivals.

Wearing ironic tshirts

And handmade necklaces like neon pink and green

Freckles.

On freeways in New Jersey

Smoking camel crushes and wearing bandanas

Like ten pound headdresses.

You might have been stoned

Or just terrified

Watching your boyfriend

His veins full of some kind of heaven

Do 85 all the way to the show

(you sat shotgun,

shotgunning three hours of startling

chaos, so bright

you saw a neon orange haze of

shit

flying past you.

You wanted to hurl.)

And I bet your hair isn’t really red

I bet it’s dyed red

But a brilliant red

Only achieved by blondes.

And I bet you were a little bit chubby

When you were in the second grade.

And it is my own suspicion

That you

Hung out in malls,

Eating ice cream with plastic spoons,

And buying ironic cartoon tshirts

(words didn’t show up til

two-thousand-and-two)

And had a lot of sleepovers

Where you might have kissed a

Girlfriend

But you can’t remember because of the hard lemonade.

(Now, Smirnoff ice).

You wanted a little danger in your life

So you gave out blowjobs in bathrooms

To your schoolboy companions,

And

Now

You’re all sultry smiles

And stoned giggles,

And Smirnoff ice

And soft girl-kisses like marascino cherries.

And I’m sure you’re occasionally to be seen in ironic t-shirts

Though much more often you’re to be seen in four inch heels

And sundresses.

And when you undress, the peachfuzz sheen comes off your body

Like the rays of some teenaged sun,

The curve of your lip like the

Warmth of your little cupcake breasts.

What a waste , I think, that I’m not in the mood.

Touch Me Gently And With A Tender Affection Because I Am A Goddess

I am a-

COCK-SLOT

PUSSY

CUNT

MUFF.

Don't be mistaken-

This is not some reverse psychology

feminist bullshit.

We are repossessing being sluts,

whores,

fuckholes with faces.

and we like it.

Wearing come in our hair

like a crown of thorns.