Monday, January 31, 2011

My poetry chapbook Windex We Can has been published by the good folks from Wheelchair Party. It's available as a free e-book at the bottom of their site page and will be sold in hard format at AWP and soon online.

All necessities are here.

Thanks for the look.

Sunday, January 30, 2011


The lubricated bat tickles her own decomposition. My master is that bat. Vending machines in skies in splinters.

My cock with eyes and God. My fingers harvested for nets. Carving stations pink as sleep. Trespassers yeast.

A cave made of ants hot in my mind. Comets swallow the lubricated black. Lobsters on cars and windows.


Sitting and sleeping is something so raw. Like horny hamburger. A rat lid. Liberty and bridges.

Face of nipples tucked where knees orgasm. A mustache waxed onto green semen. A wing once it's meatloaf elected by the people. 


Horned paw, snouted jaw using an impressive pencil. Flat paw plaster snout. Horn a dying jaw.

One dollar battery smells the taste of earwax pop-eyed witches save. That's right, 99 cent twelve-year-old testicles buttfucking nailclippers.

Air on the sun. Mothball sun. Blown-off heads form a rival sun raining eyelids. I won't know its name. Wine is passed. 


I pull bats into my lungs.
I pull lungs out of my teeth.
There is a stomach caught in a fishnet.
Foam of double yellow eyelids hiding my boat.
I place a chick with a dick.
I'm embraced.
Bats have dicks on their teeth.
Bats have eyelids for their lungs.
Poles of blubber and barf,
Strange even to the 
I erase my teeth.
I drink my lungs.
My womb is a gun.
My twat is a fart.
My cock is a mothball.
Fart butter has a skeleton.
Barf steals my boat.
Quilt and pillow.


Yelena tries my cock. She sucks it with a butter knife. Love is whack. Spring.

A neon larvae from the pit spits hot dogs after swimming. Dragon with a freaky biblical pussy crucifies paperclips. Centipedes are all cushion odor twitch.

My love is hanging by covers. Autosuggestion. The absence of cottage cheese over a bloody helicopter. 


Tonsil avenue goat carcass tricky stick light from the logo tonsil carcasses mole shelters sperm trick solstice audio silhouette digesting elbow hair new moles goat bird cushion carcass tire juice euthanized orange bun

Thursday, January 27, 2011


When my waist-high boots sway like they're gunmen
It's time we have a threesome
With the riddle of planet Nibiru.

A talking toilet commends me on my TV body.
E. coli is seriously jacking a 
Raspberry driver's seat shaved during some guerrilla war.

Nothing inside the toilet cares
That I've come to talk bone loss.
It's great weather for a wet t-shirt contest.

Jugulars rumble back to condominiums and crossbreed
Four-digit-codes, otherwise
Recessions are cute.


Hairy pies are so stressful.
I want to ravage them but always after one slurp I realize again
I'm only alive to ponder 

Crayfish, talking crayfish,
Clawing at a moonwalking fart.
No balls is my cock.

Walls grow seasons and rabbits.
Knock knocks
A refrigerator full of bones.
Bile alone clouds for cures.


Gravestones, hairdryer buyers

Styes on a lawnmower shower
Chips and salsa come ashore.


A skyline of stomach-lining cells. Never washed rapist clothes desire sun and I seduce statues concealing their genital piercings. Nice tanks never wash a decomposed body. So useless to them is how used to the smell of fruit I am. My woman says this means I'm ready for a banana up my ass. Perhaps a skyline of bananas. Like a dirty omen direct from the Iliad. 


Edible fields toot out of a cow's udder. I wake up sealed in honey and remember fries and steaks blown up in some plane with people inside. How God tears condoms and loves the crocodile.

My prick shoots off the pink part of this poem. Debit card receipts going to get milky underneath. This is the part of the poem where my prick's been shot off. God bleeds semen through teal crocodiles. 


Hearse sunrise sticky-hot.
Fleas and lice enjoy their silent piss.
Five violent leopards pray to that.

I'm just five violent days 
Jailed in an upright melon.
Moats a demon tiptoes
Pile in my thoughts once I eventually die I thought.

Finish my mind before a
Next line with nothing better to do.
Bulletproof glass is lip-syncing I'm a lesbian. 

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Monday, January 17, 2011

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

3 Poems


Grisly thermometers coat
Castrated computer corkscrews.
A virus meant by
Taking a shower and putting on a suit.

Loose testicles plunge into my eyes
A flock of bleeps.
Skyscrapers thick-skinned
For a day of fun and practice.

The illegible occurs
When corpses do best burger headstands.
Digitally harvesting bacon's illegitimate red,
The Greys are coming.


I fill the Internet with backhanded dread.
Once unplugged, I'm like a garbage can penetrating a melted cat.
Airpockets around the world stay online to grow rats.
They are hoping that eventually they'll grow the ghosts of their children.

Usually what's happening is I'm smiling because I'm alive.
A boy pulled in two from the ruins splashed on newspaper front pages
Sings his ghostly song while my joy cries.
Before, a 9-year-old, too, died.

Rat-proof garbage cans penetrate cats capable of gnawing through subway squeezes.
I use the oracle beneath where the tunnels fall to draw dark eyes
On newspaper front pages scared all the time.
I expect them to gaze long across long-tailed concrete.

The ghost of a 9-year-old is smiling because
Blood may be weened off the pants of a paramedic at night.
Anyhow now, mountains of trash grow up coffins with huggable hangers for arms.
Tons of bathers buried in an airpocket of rubble roast gingerbread penises.


I grab a magazine after I pull into the meat department. No one inside saying anything is as gruesome as things can get. The magazine empties first franchises. Chairs and meat are not the same as they used to be. Going down on my phone, I think it's the right way to center overeating handbags followed by cameras through a malignancy. A black metal gate has feeling in 12 of its teeth. I grab my meat and stuff it with the insides of a magazine. One black metal tooth sucks at boo-bruises on my cheek. Unused magazines phone more cameras followed by malignant tissues that stuff the first franchise shooting. Grinding down to one black metal chair, I empty my meat and ever since have developed a fear of the outdoors.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Tuesday, January 4, 2011