creeps

your paint was pressed into me
what is 8-bit
asked someone in a cloak
baby
you’re too young to know
i said you’re too young to know
and I’m too old to still remember

the rumor is the cushion is impregnable
striking and green
grins for the slap i was going to gift you

underneath the rooftops and the cherry sky
whispers a couple as young as you and i
sugar messes from their heart
a pause in wealth, a dip in art
i took a caravan
more like a carriage

to the kingdom of creeps.

that’s where I went to see the creeps.

assault

strip of paper
irrevocable whip of platinum
he took her into the bloody night after saying

“you sure have a pretty mouth.

i’ve always wanted to bag one looks like you”

even through it all
all of september
wrists the color of a bruise rainbow with a pot of pain
she only remembers that he called her pretty.

i am

rubber weed wedged into nature’s cores
i am
simple kiss of the sharp angles of floral mercury
a spoon for you
goddesses in the purple upper pores of earth
heavy as wine
Stomach what you can care about
and speak for yourself
I break through as a stringy and faintly wet dermis
yellow like pleasure, hunger, and pain.
Sunflower.

i am

maple breath and whiskey taste
gone into town to see the beards
the new look, sponsored by the moon.
it slams, just like you used to
those beards looked good next to starshine
Starships
smart tricks to get you back on my side
the smell of watermelon skin
kinky feet and blushing members
of your lesser bodies
the wish for returning is real
the mountains
those are real
i am.

waste

a perfect way for saving grace
to swoop right in to save your place
she grabbed your life, she kissed your face
you begged for forgiveness (in this case)

“speak not”
-in her voice there was a trace
of rotten anise and candy lace
a giant swamp of inert, false praise
we give it all and then erase

to each his pleasure, to each his waste
to each his pleasure, to each his waste
swinging down the sugar polyps

to each his pleasure, to each his waste.

tub

bitter roasted ends of hair:
corrosive pleasures end up at the bottom of our
porcelain tub.

i had a problem with how many feet it had.

at once, you scowled and a tiny spider emerged from its
artificial hole, one that it thought it created.
the treachery of false thoughts and a forgotten creation

at its nucleus, the tub is a tyrant
once clean you must clean
a bitch slap to reality
turn its voice on- that ugly yellow and grey thread of smoke that
dyes my face and kills my guts.

one more celebratory growl for the tub
because at least we still fit in it.

wide

“quite the leap!” said Father Time
“from the front to the back as 10 does 9
it all creeps up slowly on us from behind.”
clocks run to speed and then unwind

the black of night and summer time
makes it otherworldly easy to refine
a blazing arson fire on the mind
a tool of greatness we need to find

and so we mock ourselves in line
a cup of mothballs to be tried
a lady like you dignified
to take the waste out on my pride

eternal sparks of red sunshine
a bowl of moonshine at your side
you’d said you’d had it, but you lied

two days later i saw you cry

i tried to match you in your stride
but my i-can’t-ness was amplified
i aimed to be the moon-led tide
blue and massive, both long and wide

I have success strories I need to hide.