VIII

dear my lovely expired

and all true nothings
congealed to nothings
a moonful dead like julius
and it was july

and i am dead like death
in little nothings
all true nothings
all death nothings

secrets a mouthful
dead like nothings

In The Ether

pieces
of warzone
and nails
and erotica
leering out

myself in a mirror fragment on the floor
tchaikovsky intrigued by gacy

i can turn my bike into a pipe bomb

i can emulate the waxing of the moon
and we can all fall
like ashes like plague

goddesses and assassination attempts

holding somethings hair back
as it vomits

and shakes

and dies from the arsenic

VII

there were letters to sentence to
paragraph

to my amazement
that you would give me
the time of day

i could almost feel you smiling
through your machine

your red curtain
an emerald city inversion

and i am dead already

but you disarm me
as you lead my body to the killing wall

Pissing Down The Garbage Chute

i urinated into
a garbage chute today
while doing my delivery driver job

no time to make any unscheduled stops

me in the garbage room
that was more like a closet
grabbing myself

debating

the hinges did not squeak
the brass was shiny and clean

certainly a very nice chute

but the opening
was perfect level to my waist

and me

ready to race
like a piss horse
and my bladder defying the odds

i urinated into the garbage chute
said "thank you" into the opening
slammed it shut
and then proceeded to room 209
where i made my delivery
complimenting the resident on her lavish apartment choice

the lady thanked me and agreed
that she did in fact enjoy the layout of her complex

but more so

how convenient having a garbage chute down the hallway is

...i concur

VI

you were beautiful when you smiled
and introduced yourself

you were beautiful when we held hands
strolling the pier in the night

and you were beautiful
even as you got in your car and drove away for the last time

but your beauty is just an instrument

to measure the hell i am in
these days

V

white spider
was a song
in sodium droplets

i was 27% burnt
pray i never live to be one hundred

i am fatigued
in ash of the sun

and we are
just a poem
in need of revisions

IV

her voice
painted a pair of doves
on the ceiling of his cranium

pretty
and special

eyes roll back to have a look

and they find
a pair of doves
on the ceiling of his cranium...

they're the last he'll ever see

proverbial debris
in the wishing well

strange rainbows
for salvage crews

he poured the gasoline all around himself
but misplaced the matchbook

failing comes naturally
and as an art form

he'll stop caring
love will devour itself
stars will rain down

and he will never have to make sense again