I'll FLOOD GATES

A hambone and a hug,
a steak on a stick, a ratty old rug
doctor, depicting existence in
numbers and circled graphs,
circle jerks numbering nine,
circular reasoning wasting time
spent like dollar bills in g-strings
and coke machines, 8 balls aching
to pocket,
cash, misguided trophy wives splashing
in the jacuzzi, jack-off floozies bought cheap
and sold when the botox wears out, labias
sagging as the mascara runs a marathon
to parenthesize the mouth,
wasted hours of sucking sucked away
like the ratty old rug doctor and the ratty old rug
thrown away when the looks are soiled.


--

Feelings get hurt,
they're dropped like fruit.
calls left behind in the alley outside
in the snow, banks robbed of riches
double digits
do the dishes
I'll do you in the ditches
I'll ditch your dug-out in the riverboat
red murder she wrote, as she bled.

--

Whenever you're ready. I have spaghetti.
Where's your bowl?

--

Big ol' basset hound,
halt your howling
haunting, hounding
heed your haunches
feed your flaws
now bleed your bludgeoning
pigeons widgeting
ferrets fidgeting
fighting, fisting,
double discing.

--

Carve me in your temples
I'll shed on your carpet,
I'll feed from your fleas;

I'LL FLOOD GATES.

--

Kalli dog bore me from the vagina that she didn't have. somewhere between California and New Jersey.

I was a tiny little pearl inside a pea pod,
stretching and yawning the sun away into
my tiny palm,
engulfing the day time for a few year's night.

The morning was something that happened before the sun did.

It was a mourning dove in the giant fir next to my window --
cooing a greeting that I answered,
telling me that the tree was something that I would outlive and I didn't believe it, at first.

I lost consciousness once in the snow on the side of the house.

I miss that house already and it hasn't been sold.

Nobody will ever understand him, her. it better than us, I am sure of that.

I will be long dead before that happens.

But I know that I will never die, because I have never been dead, unless I am death.

--

Prosetry, pinky promise

Bicycle wheels,
      bisexual spiels,
       oil spills,
        giant clock gears.

A funeral rose
      an officer's nose
       a fist-fighter's knuckle
        and a seatbelt buckle.

A camera attached,
      Lego building all smashed
       up high in a cage
        this chick's all the rage.

I'm ready for fame,
      I Know it'll be lame.

I'll be misunderstood and overextended, but it's fitting that I'll have started how
     I've ended.

--

A tug boat insists
      on kissing your wrists.

Alice is proud,
      And the press is allowed.

There is no sin
      There is no sun
       throwing up at times
        while committing your crimes