I've Got A Feeling, Wearing My Favorite Fabric in the Afternoon.

J'aime le fabric.

It is silk.
Soft, against baby soft skin
and painful ingrown hairs.

The Japanese fabric
swirls and twirls
the creative mind around and around.

Circulating tiny war figures
colorfully through the brain.

-------------


I give my tears to the tiny warriors on my nightgown.

They flow poignantly down my cheeks, onto my bare chest,
where my tortured Catholic school girl soul shouts
into a blissful darkness
and my inner beast lingers,
waiting to pounce.

---------------


I quite like this silk Japanese fabric.

Protected under the thinnest, brightest fabric;
I feel emotionally sound.

Obviously.

Finger through the Hole

There is something to be done

                                               about the cosmic rhythm of love and sex.






        The mind confuses the two, more often
                                                                       than not.



                               Thank not.



                                                  

it's easy to call you mine.

your silhouette
under the thick jean comforter,
balled in the corner of my full sized bed.

strands of red hair stick out of the blanket,
even in the dark
one is able to see the greasy red mess
that lay hidden under
the treacherous mess.

i smile at you.

i climb into bed,
fully clothed-
jeans, wool socks, your Beatles cut off.
7:23 am.

laying next to you
in the darkness
all is just fine.

8:00 am.
glass of wine.

i'll call you mine.

Proceed

The mind goes plum with desire.
it quivers and curls
under a nuisance of squirming organs.
Wet,
not quite fully there.
The street lamp casts a shade of yellow
so dim,
it is more of a shadow.
There the pupil of sex lingers,
waiting,
desiring
a fix of the plump mind.
Darkness ensues all around,
nothing to be seen, but this
dim, dehydrated pee-colored light,
resting on the shoulders of this inconsequential
creature of plain and true lust.
All is quiet,
an eerie quiet giving away
the damned intentions of the soul.
Not a customer to be seen all night.
The plump mind does not deviate,
yet is steadfast to the job that must be done.
A look at the right hand,
a wink and glisten in the eye.
Three fingers in mouth,
pants down,
index first pushes up mildly
into the pink wet underbelly of this demonic undertaking.
Under the dreary yellow light,
a howl emerges.
Pleasure has dawned,
and the sun, oh the sun,
starts to climb up from the horizon.

Some Things Are Meant To Be Remembered (and are not)

What was that dream last night?

               It was foreboding, uncomfortable.


                          I need to remember, lest I forget.



         
                             "Lest we forget"



sweaty with urgency.
something was not right.

                                        Yet, mostly,
                                                            it was fine.





 What was that dream last night?

               Trashcans, people, sweat.


                           The cursor blinks violently on the computer screen.

                                        "I cannot remember, can't you see?!?"



                                                   




                                                                                                                 Blank.

                                                     

my secret pleasures arise alone.

lethargy grumbles from inside my molten stomach-

             pitiful.


                        ....no, not quite, pitiful...





                                                               ...more, lonesome than pitiful.








and lay,
             lay alone inside the fortress built of wood and love.




safe.
        alone.
                  content.

                               under the starlet of a single mind coursing through loneliness


              with pleasure. 

How Can She Keep Her Composure?

the constant agitator of corruption
nags and pulls
constantly at her shoulder.

turn to the liquor.
drink,
drunk,
corrupt.

sleep it off.
                   Dream it off.



the devil
runs after her,
kills her family,
murders the world.

                               All is Dark.

she keeps running,
for what seems like forever,
into the blank void.

those devilish goons,
with their swords
and skeletal bodies
chase,
scream,
overpower.


she is the only one left.
running,
running,
running.


             
            GASP !




composure is lost.
awake.
water.


the devil is on her shoulder.

hair is wet,
neck cold.


the monster has taken over. 

walled up

he entered my car,
unknowingly setting up
for failure.

I tried to be much obliged.

yet,
        that quickly fizzled.

nothing.


why do I even

try?

emotional wall,
left with nothing
to provide
except sex. 

Pussed Up

this writing of mine seems to be splashed with inartistic delights.

I have never had a talent.

I have never had a secret.

I am not mysterious.

I am straight-up.

I can not write worth a shit.
Thank you to every professor and teacher
I have ever had for pointing that out.

So, I am going to go on to write,
In my horrendous perspective
Giving all my readers a big 'ole
FUCK YOU
With my middle fingers,
the only two qualified fingers
To write this.




My pussy is wet and there is no dick.
I want no man. no woman inside me.
They all disappoint me more than I disappoint myself.
(And that is saying a lot).

Life is as dry as my infected throat.
And as wide open as my gums.

Mindless banter.
Mistakes.
Pills.
Pot.
I am sputtering out.

..More like pussing out.

Smelly
Infected
Revolting.


A train of poor immunity
Cut me open a while ago.

And now, I depress myself,
In my thwarted throat infection.

Although-
The pain will never be as great as that of a broken heart.

I am here for a high five, and a goodbye

I never end a poem correctly.

Nonsensical nonsense.


I need to breathe.
I need to live.
I need to be.
I need to create.
I need to not say no to me.

I need to say yes-
to love,
to health
to happiness.

Yet,
I cannot.

I am on a role.
like a mole,
driving myself down
down down
into the plush ground.

I am home.
I am comfortable.
I am happy for a moment.

And then it all ends
when soberness begins. 

Confessions

I take the blame


..

BLAME!


I'll take the check.


$10.00 !!!?!???!!

For ONE drink!?

What is wrong with this world?

I'll take it,
drink it,
drunker.


I NEED IT.

I WANT IT.


Because-
I want you.



I cannot speak.
I cannot think.
I need a drink.


Blame me.

BLLLAAAAMME.


Slur.
Spin.
Stur.



I hate you.
Because I hate me.

We are nothing.
Everything is nothing.
Everything is everything-
Because we make it so.

I think too much,
yet not enough when necessary.

Drink.
Cigarette.
Drink.



I may be O.K.
Most likely,
I shall drown in my
own poetry.

Unfettered.

It's All A Memory

As I look in the mirror

I see-
my swollen face,
beautifully shaped body
in need of a work out,
smeared makeup,
messy hair,
all through the eyes
of a drunken slur.

Where do I stand
in this world of awkward people,
and awful things?

I keep drinking
to keep my heart alive
or drowning,
in my own comfort.

Nothing makes sense
except my messy hair,
swollen face
and young body.

Where is my mind?
Lost in translation.
Quoting songs,
Quoting movie titles.

I see no further
than the bottle in my hand.

This is sad.

Am I sad?

More so

Depressed.

In the most possible
angelic
positive
way.

the word has gotten out , four years later.

numbness
grows for miles
under the grassy roots
pumping blood
irrevocably.

she looked away from herself--
turned her eyes
away from the one who knew her best.

numbness
grows through the vines
alive , yet
stagnant as a still fetus.