i did bad things to you
and like a poor abused puppy
you keep trying to warm up to me
but I am the hand that hit you
that is trying to feed you again
Tag: alternative
pu$$y Power
I have dead and stale insides
liver rotting from
too much drink
my blood is black clotting
circulation has ceased
my lungs collapsed from the smoke
breath rings out in
broken gasps laughing at the
sick joke
my glorious pussy
it keeps me going
the lines of fertility and sex
my sparkling symbol of femininity
my pink palace of
life or death
the punch line got lost in
falsehoods and pride
I want to press my sticky fingers
consensually inside
until they stop laughing and
realize
the girls are getting sick
realize
there is no one to blame
if they keep passing left
it will eventually come back
feast
her heart wasn’t steady
a ship in a storm
your constant tugging of doubt
porcelain in versace heels
shining and talking politely
medication and daddy issues
is this what could have been?
dress never wrinkled
reasonably educated
a muse for your artistic endeavours
manic
pixie
dream
girl
shes falling and
grasping on bodies and trying to get back up
tripping and slipping and
holding onto the warmth of blood to blood
spaced out
close to death
close to pain
raw throat
wishing she could go back to those times
slamming on the cement
in the bathroom you are trying to stop her
knuckles bruised
bleeding and blacking out and bleeding
not back there
she cannot go back there
you wont have it
matters are tough
and feelings are sharp
shallow pangs
you feel nothing
she is rotting
flies on the meat
swirling and feasting
Holy Bedroom
The hungry bed waits for you,
with its sheets twisting and its pillows stiff.
Just take a bite of the apple,
let the juice run down,
dripping and sticky.
Warm milk in a plastic cup,
Just like grandma gave me.
The perfect temperature,
no bubbles or steam.
The bed is restless,
it wants to be full.
I cut the poached eggs
you watched the yolk spill out,
beading in small yellow drops.
Dribbling onto a spongy bed of rye.
Sleep my little angel,
tell your mom you are in good hands.
The bed has you now,
twisting its cotton sheets around you,
like little tricky snakes.
My Neck, mY bacK
And without a word they touched their bare bellies together,
Making slurping sounds.
Anna, with a drink in her hand said,
“It just made sense”.
“It just did” she repeated.
A ritual? A greeting?
Who knows.
Pink Noise
I stare at you and light a cigarette,
Beginning our repetitive toxic duet.
Fully knowing I will never move on,
Rightfully hoping we could just get along.
Hot and wet are my streaming tears,
Paranoid and irrational are my fears.
We get past our problems with looming doubt,
We carve out our future with promised drought.
But who could I possibly destroy next,
Who could I torment to death?
This is negative and greyscale thinking.
Smoking, fighting, and sinking.
Plantasia
And my neigbours are old but they are up later than me.
My spelling is bad, yet I still write poetry.
Personality, personality, writing needs depth,
No rhyme scheme no syllable counts no breath.
My bare calloused hands killing flies,
With sheets of polyester, pizza boxes and zip ties.
That line was hard to swallow,
Like cum and medicine and pills and sorrow.
Chivalry
He bought her 100 McChickens.
Only to show his love,
Kosher.
And, she only ate four.
She left him sitting,
In the middle of his parents bed.
With ninety six leftover sandwiches,
And no one to share them with.
Starrfishing 