What Kind of Hands Did The Monster Grow

What kind of hands did the monster grow. A royal flush, peaches and blush blooming epiphanies from the wrinkles in his palms, the desperate twitch of a boy sitting alone and naked in a cold bathtub swallowing soap and scraping food from his nails with loosened baby teeth, begging for his parents attention as they’re…

Proserpina

The blood of old idioms climb my suffering like ivy / feral words that slide from my mouth sound just like you, impersonating the vernacular of your curiosity which trigger how forcefully you squeeze your fingertips into my fossilized knees / you whispered my thighs once belonged to Proserpina I flee from your dirty hair,…

DAMOCLES.

You were born to be a Damocles. It’s in your name / you share the same snake-like entendre     you lure, into love and linger the sword of your lust, provoking strokes of luck into fire and your rotting teeth grind on spongy hearts like punch-drunk birds of prey At dusk, your hands spring into…

I am the l o v e r.

I am the lover that will consume you whole, just as you are, filled with lies and guilt, suckling the impressions of your esoteric past your lack of future your selfish present your ugly name and all its consonants, constantly breeding atop my tongue / I paint you in cells / I am the lover…

Two Cannibals in a Blackout

I am a mirror image of what is inside you. Violence and a bullseye – subliminal sacrifices being antagonized through ticker tape and cartographs, velvet Tourette’s and phobic of reactionaries, our fingers swell in the exact same way when our blood pressures rise and we sweat the same nonsense which makes our pores smell alike…

Henry VIII

How little do I speak – how quiet am I? I communicate in repetition but I deliver discourse in another language, my history does not connect to you and you lose the chemistry of my intention as you sleep, Sleep, every drop of alcohol in this house, Pass by me, as your ears fill with lavender…

H.M.T.H.Y.D.T.W

How many times have you died this week? Suddenly I saw it, midway down the street, seven shots of forget-me-nots bottled in his hands – I cannot convince you to delegate disaster, or divide us into two separate people, or prevent whatever is about to occur when I watch you snort electric Kool-Aid for the…

Blood Orange

His face is a fistful of oranges. I enter           an apostrophe where the curve of his nose should be – a swarm of flies from the blood pooling in his cupids bow, a hive of bees stealing glances from his pelvis, Why are you so honey? I ask him as if…

Six Stories

Your lung collapsed outside on the balcony, eleven cigarettes in seventeen hours – the mirrored bathroom that gave you anxiety had to be concealed by duct tape stolen from the sex bag of operatic role-play we carry with us to every hotel. You couldn’t look at your nose anymore, or feet     all deliberate…

Adonis, The Identity 

Adonis, I call you – in every poem where you are mentioned without name. Adonis, the heartbreak. Adonis, the trapezoid. Adonis. Adonis. Full force. Sticky fingers, Adonis, judgmental jubilee emancipated by scientific opera. Adonis, the unknown. Adonis of the Vikings. Adonis, and starving, estranged, enabling entropy with phallic dust and influencing Enoch with singular gasps….