its me

i’m really here


I am mouth-dripping


more bat-shit than you


she’s ashy grey split ends

bearing long acrylic fingernails

that slide and tick along the tampered glass


it’s bare flesh



really-really stimulating



all burnt up

your pieces too jagged

for mind spinning sobriety

the hard shards blooming with flame


gagged with





it’s your amputated leg


a terminal diagnosis

the medical nightmare

that perches on your chest


acrylic nails break the skin

with lock jaw force

heart spilling blood into your body

it’s fast-fast-fast


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.