At 6am I’m never awake
From noon to 6 am I’ve been alert with the love light on.
I opened my eyes to 88 degree sunlight and
now I hear the earliest birds singing in cool darkness,
propped up on my elbow, punching these keys.
Stereo glow blinks like Christmas in my hot bedroom.
The ceiling fan doesn’t spin fast enough. I sit
with my legs spread open. I replay dusty memory
reels in my head. Old haircuts, the way things used to be
shaped and colored, thinking how life feels vintage to me
now. I strive to make the future old news, like I never used
to be a Toys R Us kid. I like to spoil my own fun. Paranoia
perhaps? Trying to dodge the cancer bug, but killing my cells
and feeding the surviving ones garbage. Eating like a greasy king
with a silly crown. I hate hats. The love light is so bright though.
Really, it is. It washes out the cancer bug with immense shine.
Who is death?
Fuck him!
He is real?
Still-
Fuck him in the ass!
The love light is now a sunrise at 10 to 7. The birds have began a chorus
with the squirrels and the frogs and the lizards.
What Gives?
Potato chips before bed-
Drinking from the carton-
Flickering flame on the floor-
Frigid as stone butcher shops-
Dream pop and whisky sleep together.
Why doesn’t she want to blaze and listen
to Aphex Twin,
in bed,
all day?
TERROR
WOMEN
ANGELS
NUNS
GOBLINS
TWANG
Little Skeletons
There’s little skeletons everywhere-
Happy valentines day-
Yesterday-
Lovely time slipper,
day sleeper, kill
the dragons.
Legs
I have beautiful legs.
They turn red in the sun &
I pour bottled water on
my pretty knees.
She has beautiful legs.
They turn dark in the sun
when she pisses down them
wearing skinny jeans.
Hours later,
my legs scream like
boiled lobsters when
I leave.
I put on high socks
that clench
my pretty legs
inches above
the ankle.
Hours later,
I am still wondering
about her shiny legs
and wet socks.
The 12 pack is $9.99 in this county
That means I am drunk.
That means I breathe through my nose heavily.
That means I’m thinking very hard about the past.
That means I’m letting the future head-butt my breaking brain.
That is what I’ve been doing for years and years and years and years.
That means I have a wrecked personality.
That means I force feelings upon myself.
That means I rape myself.
That means I’m gay.
That means I need to fuck my girl.
That means she is at home, asleep, without me.
That means I’m on vacation.
That means $9.99 is a good price for a 12 pack.
I’ve replaced smoking weed with masturbation
My lungs have been cleaning themselves since I left.
I cough up dark phlegm every morning. Can’t smoke in Florida,
I don’t know any dealers. But pot isn’t like crack so, I’m breathing fresh
air.
What can I do instead of burn?
Find a fetish site
and beat it, all day, six times a day,
while the folks are gone, while
the folks are asleep, beat it, beat it,
beat it.
A self-rape hobby.
Getting nasty, alone. Digital
girls make messes and I need
to smoke a blunt.
Soggy cotton
fantasy, a kinky spoof
for dank thought.
Cumming
into the carb of a bowl
piece like a condom.
Burning erections like leaves-
The fuck crop-
One outlet stripped,
another abused.
Blue
To mold you.
Brand new.
To scratch an untouched paint job is beautiful.
It becomes my paint job.
My blow job.
Mine to chip into a million pieces or keep shiny.
Curious thing
like a picked lock.
Curious about
my cock.
Amateur when you touched it.
Lovely, looking at it.
I’m blue now, I’ll be blue forever.
Unless, I change color
like glass bongs or raw meat or
bra straps.
Why blue?
I ask you.
“That’s the color I always thought it was.”
Too cute to be mute.
Blue is the new
blue.
I’ve done it
I nagged the right person.
I’ve done it.
It’s like I found the treasure at the end
of the rainbow.
All I could muster-
Making me blush.
I’ve done it!
I think I’m going mad because of it.
It’s wonderful!
I find it sexy,
cutting edge.
Like I’ve one up’d everyone,
a lottery winner.
Crashing and surviving and being the hero,
all at once.
I’ve fucking done it.
Go to my apartment, go ahead-
You won’t find me.
I’ve made off, with the girl, and
the money, and the record deal, and
the endless supply of grass on a
motorcycle with a bright red
leather jacket and my hair
grown long.
You fuck’n pricks, I’ve done it!
I’ve created a timeless memory!
I am invincible-
It’s time
to get
to work.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
unedited 2010-2011
MOTORFUHKN BUHLSCHT
The competition is water thin
Head stuck in a jar
Earache page turner novel
Spelling bee sting
Collapsible skeleton
Inflatable coffin cooler
Scarf fashion
Blackboard wallpaper
Sparkling bali shag
Final flash attack
Dumb dee dumb dee waahh
Tattoo scar
It’s not even worth it
Motorfuhk
Portable cd player- playin’ perfect playlists’
The needle goes in and out
Of your skin 100 times
Copper faces
Corn is in everything-
Calm like waves
God that saves
Concrete is paved
Motivated
to go out
in cold weather-
Cliff hanging shouter
shouting
yelling
screaming-
creature position
it makes you feel
horrible
dopamine flutters in-
the touch of her foot on yours
through your black socks,
the hit of the bong
lounging behind your eyes,
dulling the lingering
headache from the spliff,
making off with my brain cells
in a high volume police chase
through a lavender field
like a rated R action film
surrounded in butter
salted, wounded, making
love,
that
is
the
high.
Blow for blow
A gamble
21
no card games
23
life age
20
love cage
more fire- as usual
I’m slow
slower than most-
slower than you
to control
a lot
of things
outside
my power.
Win
Life smells like piss
disappointment
cutting my fingers off
permanent hang ten
Tribute
it seems.
Haven’t written
in a month
no poems
no stories
no glory
sad story
of my own
fault.
Un-nessesscery Roughness
Messy thoughts that
don’t require investigation
clenched by aches and chains-
Un-natural resources like alien liquor
slowing inner debate-
leaving clarity in dark mud-
punching my own nose
with overwhelming political disinterest-
Running Now- Running to tired safe
houses- Grab me by the throat-
Choke my dreams into gasps-
I woke up today, I am still a real boy
My body is not composed of titanium alloy.
I’m not composed- Lazy in a uranium cradle-
curled up next to Ginsberg
But I warn him not to pull
any gay shit. Empire- Monster like Contra-
Hate me all over- Hide me like a lochness
Bigfoot- Fake ass lie!
I crawl- I crawl- I crawl- and
Drool- Spit the fuck up-
settle down into my
own pool of slime
and sulk until the internet
connection can rub me into
artificial romantic explosion-
Raggity staggering
haircut laughing at childhood
cartoons- Fuck today- Where
is my promising tommarrow?
Sticky amplifier feedback
ringing my ear- shoot me down
stand me up- put me in a tin
garbage can covered in snow-
leave me there for 3 days-
boredom will infect my wounds-
let me throw my head around
violently- let the lights flicker
faster- let very difficult
processes flood and see
themselves through- money
is limiting limitless- It smudges
my mind Sludges my smile- I’ve
gone swimming- Catch me in a fishing
net with four lonely dolphins-
let THEM teach me
things.
The competition is water thin
Head stuck in a jar
Earache page turner novel
Spelling bee sting
Collapsible skeleton
Inflatable coffin cooler
Scarf fashion
Blackboard wallpaper
Sparkling bali shag
Final flash attack
Dumb dee dumb dee waahh
Tattoo scar
It’s not even worth it
Motorfuhk
Portable cd player- playin’ perfect playlists’
The needle goes in and out
Of your skin 100 times
Copper faces
Corn is in everything-
Calm like waves
God that saves
Concrete is paved
Motivated
to go out
in cold weather-
Cliff hanging shouter
shouting
yelling
screaming-
creature position
it makes you feel
horrible
dopamine flutters in-
the touch of her foot on yours
through your black socks,
the hit of the bong
lounging behind your eyes,
dulling the lingering
headache from the spliff,
making off with my brain cells
in a high volume police chase
through a lavender field
like a rated R action film
surrounded in butter
salted, wounded, making
love,
that
is
the
high.
Blow for blow
A gamble
21
no card games
23
life age
20
love cage
more fire- as usual
I’m slow
slower than most-
slower than you
to control
a lot
of things
outside
my power.
Win
Life smells like piss
disappointment
cutting my fingers off
permanent hang ten
Tribute
it seems.
Haven’t written
in a month
no poems
no stories
no glory
sad story
of my own
fault.
Un-nessesscery Roughness
Messy thoughts that
don’t require investigation
clenched by aches and chains-
Un-natural resources like alien liquor
slowing inner debate-
leaving clarity in dark mud-
punching my own nose
with overwhelming political disinterest-
Running Now- Running to tired safe
houses- Grab me by the throat-
Choke my dreams into gasps-
I woke up today, I am still a real boy
My body is not composed of titanium alloy.
I’m not composed- Lazy in a uranium cradle-
curled up next to Ginsberg
But I warn him not to pull
any gay shit. Empire- Monster like Contra-
Hate me all over- Hide me like a lochness
Bigfoot- Fake ass lie!
I crawl- I crawl- I crawl- and
Drool- Spit the fuck up-
settle down into my
own pool of slime
and sulk until the internet
connection can rub me into
artificial romantic explosion-
Raggity staggering
haircut laughing at childhood
cartoons- Fuck today- Where
is my promising tommarrow?
Sticky amplifier feedback
ringing my ear- shoot me down
stand me up- put me in a tin
garbage can covered in snow-
leave me there for 3 days-
boredom will infect my wounds-
let me throw my head around
violently- let the lights flicker
faster- let very difficult
processes flood and see
themselves through- money
is limiting limitless- It smudges
my mind Sludges my smile- I’ve
gone swimming- Catch me in a fishing
net with four lonely dolphins-
let THEM teach me
things.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
spawn-tane-E-us.
skunks breath?
it was.
we better move the girl.
set the mood with
the lighting.
skins and colts?
i never know-
mad people, lucky we got the table.
Hyped.
sleeping on the floor, leaping from the
windows.
is it me?
if you're coming home tonight- wake me up? ok?
breaking beer bottles all night,
leaving glass on the floor-
dead in 2 hours-
waiting for the word.
confessing everything,
closed my eyes here- woke up here.
whorn out.
when we saw him in the parking lot he had bottles of champagne,
but the girls weren't into it, they
wanted to make jewelry and spin art.
sand art.
how many bowl pieces do we go through?
its not a miracle.
everybody came out of it alive.
you cause quite a scare, lets talk
face to
face.
it was.
we better move the girl.
set the mood with
the lighting.
skins and colts?
i never know-
mad people, lucky we got the table.
Hyped.
sleeping on the floor, leaping from the
windows.
is it me?
if you're coming home tonight- wake me up? ok?
breaking beer bottles all night,
leaving glass on the floor-
dead in 2 hours-
waiting for the word.
confessing everything,
closed my eyes here- woke up here.
whorn out.
when we saw him in the parking lot he had bottles of champagne,
but the girls weren't into it, they
wanted to make jewelry and spin art.
sand art.
how many bowl pieces do we go through?
its not a miracle.
everybody came out of it alive.
you cause quite a scare, lets talk
face to
face.
Friday, October 15, 2010
NEW POEMS FALL 2010
brain bleed
k domus
bobbing and weaving
the slap boxer
im tired of these things, but
I’ll go and do it the next day-
This one chick man, she was the first bitch I ever saw get high-
Mental wounds
Out of control, even for you-
Or me?
Minds working crazy at a fast pace,
Sweating a lot,
Brain bleed-
Leech, doesn’t know when it’s time to leave.
The 15th chapter
i burned til i was out-
not like i havent before-
its like i know about the sunset
and the dirty socks
and the vendors
and the girls with hoops in their noses
its like i know
one day
it will be like i never did-
all the knowledge in the world
about never knowing,
a profession made of never asking,
kiss me. Run, lick a frog
her bottom lip is mush from my molars.
i sprint up the stairs in the summer solar.
we lick frogs,
fucked up,
it's funny for hours.
you pop quiz me
in the library naked, then we
ding dong ditch the deaf girls house,
lick a toad, make love on the couch.
now she’s red-
now she’s purple-
and im flashing like snow strobe’
Great, Big, Mondo City
There is no cure for the craters
on the moons face, just
like there is no cure for my tombstone
brain.
Vacuum eyes take the sidewalk in-
Draining judgment, exhausted by gaudy punk
girls.
Seeing them is like a thrash pop movement displayed
in a museum- Me watching with my skyscraper
dick.
Big canvas, followed to a tourist trap door-
There is no cure for smog or the road made of
garbage, just like there is no antidote for the dog
walker.
On this sidewalk I see asses fat like the big
slice. Dollar slice is cheaper though-
Uncommonly, uncalmingly, like terrorist missiles,
More issues, to deal
with.
Lets hold hands in the cheap pub with the
Expensive jackets we bought, under the heated lights of the big
City.
Massage Chair
Longing, always
Longing- Someone squeeze me.
Bug out-
Freak out-
I need a super model to molest me, or
at least a little amateur doll to
punch me all over my back,
crush me everywhere,
crunch my nimble bone gears,
& drop cemetery knuckles
on my shoulders!
Motion touching, untying knots-
Muscles shriek & arms curl,
I feel the weight of a heavy girl
stand on my spine, jump & land holes in my torso,
I need a couple hits
of weed morso-
Blaze my eyes closed-
Open me up like a flower-
Now I can take a deep breath & deal with
all of this clutter.
JIZZY BUN
I started telling secrets to my pet like pom-pom,
she moves her mouth muscles around like elastic as she talks,
she grows a big jaw when I tell her what I hide from the world,
Like
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
I call her Jizzy Bun-
her loud friends do to.
Wah Oh Wah-
Sounds like a musical.
She likes pulling my arms out of their sockets-
Sounds- like an animal.
35 dollars for 2 weeks
the
job
pays
shit.
35 bucks left
on a cracked debit
card.
A dollar day- I say.
Fast food cheeseburger- nutri’grain bar- pieces of fruit-
The partying is done for, & the flask runs empty-
2 more weeks.
Imagine for a second that- I am made of money-
Sneeze fifty cents into my hands,
buy some chips,
another gumball prize.
The Breeze
Cheetah bra with her
knees up-
Sporting dripping leather shoes.
Human heart in a jar,
thrown into the ocean
after expired sessions.
Rips in the knees, now she feels the breeze.
College Girls
Desks connected to chairs make me stretch-
Over & Over.
My mind made of plastic like action figures-
College girls sweat iced coffee-
They have FAT asses, small faces, thin rimmed glasses &
leather jackets.
These chicks have restraining orders against me.
Mosh my way through lesson plans-
Leave the lesson tattooing an anarchy symbol on my forehead, pushing
scholars down escalators-
Break between classes-
Burn red candles in public bathrooms-
Let a rat free in the café, taking my lunch to go- Knowing
college girls don’t eat lunch at the café-
They consume iceberg lettuce, wearing tube socks in the park
across the avenue.
Who is be challenged here?
Wasn’t me.
Ring Around
Mortify-
Horrify-
BOMB the wi*fi air circuit!
Crickets playing punk soul
violins in the straw grass,
flabbergasting the ugly past.
Listening-
Drool around the lip line-
Ring around my joystick- Joyous leg locking lockjaw-
Cat paw tracks
leading to the dead castle.
Draw Bridge doors opening and shutting really fast like a fold up lady fan-
Can’t get/keep the box closed.
Stalling for time in my sleep with planets revolving around
me & you & everyone else in the
monster-size-wigwam.
Amongst spilt soda & kicked over beer, the corner store merchant still doesn’t remember me.
Damaging my hazy malt time travel clammer.
Coffin naptime blanket beach towel, shovel and pale to build the sand palace-
Magic carpet eye sockets chatting with old folks all day-
Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone-Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone-Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone.
Paddle
Couldn’t paddle up the river- Don’t tell anybody.
Holes in my tee shirt, up and down on both sides, moderation in the stretch jeans, small skull silk screened on the fabric, metal foot rests, moon bounce chest piece, she’s got tits, What difference does this sexual bulldozer make?
Slim fit discussion, repetitious formation of bone structure thanks to milk, Goopy McDonalds muzzle, premarital sex shack, shaky cheek bones, hippie weed brain, fuck protesting, give me a 20 dollar bill handshake, a dead skin meal wearing sweat cologne.
I shit credit into flushing bowls with no paddle.
Plural leaps of fate to take, waste balloon, half hour blow-jobs, motorized neck pain-
Who’s worthy?
You, you, and you.
Dumb down my head.
My bug bites are bright red.
I hate shoes that look too small.
I could get sick here, in a brown paper bag.
My schedules blank, I have no cash to burn in glass bongs.
Condoms are free- My girlfriend isn’t-
I rape my health all over-
Put my senses in a coma, bursting with grease and smoke.
Scholar, just getting by, Leeching on pavement, pillows, fake meat, and blonde nurses.
Does it cost anything to use that diving board?
May I dive?
Dangle
A stiff fedora is taken up by
the whirlwind breath.
Agonizing tears drag me home,
help me
chill out.
Worst haircut I’ve ever seen-
Not how I planned this.
What
I
needed
was
a
stuffed lobster and those
slutty fucked up
chicks from Georgia.
I hate performers who sing
over prerecorded vocals.
I like it to be deeper than that-
& then a cobweb dangles.
At Some Point
Tongue down the welfare girls throat,
tastes like money.
Dead in the reclining chair- Head stopped bopping.
Splintering heavy metal playing out on the deck,
breaking the windows, glass shattered in the front yard.
Chewing skin off my fingers; all around the nails, looking
like a train creep with a bazillion homeless dollars.
Girl across from me
wears no make-up
has big hair
all cut up weird.
The Stubborn Spiral
I make no bank
Roach life in the fast lane
Not blacked out- so everything’s fine or
fucked up.
Spiral wave I’m riding.
Whirlpool of unfamiliar faces-
Turn my I-pod off. Turn my
life vibe off. Turn off the blood pipes.
The roof party headache-
No one is safe from rage feelings in a plummet setting.
Water Lily
Silly feeling fleeting beating off-
Hair greasy teased beam POP*
Castles- Clouds-
Daily Roast
Immunity Boost
Whatever You Choose
gave up somewhere
hairs raising,
skin bubbling,
the girl named Angel singing.
money burning,
smoke circling,
the check has gone through.
head turning,
hand returning,
the license has expired.
music- violin- music- classical
formality- music- the color of envy in
envelopes.
Well- could have been. But- broke now.
Slam dancing on the mattress strings
Miles a minute-
My generation in a rush/
Pushing people over turnstiles/ Down stairs/
Under taxis and big trucks/
Mind blowing drool art oozes/ Unfathomed thought snoozes/
Uninterested/ Unlistened to.
Uncommon is the one with the pulled up boot straps/
You can only become God once or a few times/
At best/
UBER DICH (about you)
I can’t walk on my own. I see a big
pink eraser melting in my burning
college. Dopey, smacked to shit.
FUCK THE RULE BOOK. I can’t
help but grovel at the feet of
overachievers. The way they dress
turns my eyes into strobe lights.
HEY. Give me a back scratch with
a pitchfork. Put on your Canal
Street handcuff jewelry. Speak
your native language. Tell the extra
terrestrials you were first on foot,
before cavemen and dinosaurs and
that you’re a billion years old and
carried youthful beauty with you.
I work on different days. We work
in different ways. You do what you
may. It’s hard for me to say.
k domus
bobbing and weaving
the slap boxer
im tired of these things, but
I’ll go and do it the next day-
This one chick man, she was the first bitch I ever saw get high-
Mental wounds
Out of control, even for you-
Or me?
Minds working crazy at a fast pace,
Sweating a lot,
Brain bleed-
Leech, doesn’t know when it’s time to leave.
The 15th chapter
i burned til i was out-
not like i havent before-
its like i know about the sunset
and the dirty socks
and the vendors
and the girls with hoops in their noses
its like i know
one day
it will be like i never did-
all the knowledge in the world
about never knowing,
a profession made of never asking,
kiss me. Run, lick a frog
her bottom lip is mush from my molars.
i sprint up the stairs in the summer solar.
we lick frogs,
fucked up,
it's funny for hours.
you pop quiz me
in the library naked, then we
ding dong ditch the deaf girls house,
lick a toad, make love on the couch.
now she’s red-
now she’s purple-
and im flashing like snow strobe’
Great, Big, Mondo City
There is no cure for the craters
on the moons face, just
like there is no cure for my tombstone
brain.
Vacuum eyes take the sidewalk in-
Draining judgment, exhausted by gaudy punk
girls.
Seeing them is like a thrash pop movement displayed
in a museum- Me watching with my skyscraper
dick.
Big canvas, followed to a tourist trap door-
There is no cure for smog or the road made of
garbage, just like there is no antidote for the dog
walker.
On this sidewalk I see asses fat like the big
slice. Dollar slice is cheaper though-
Uncommonly, uncalmingly, like terrorist missiles,
More issues, to deal
with.
Lets hold hands in the cheap pub with the
Expensive jackets we bought, under the heated lights of the big
City.
Massage Chair
Longing, always
Longing- Someone squeeze me.
Bug out-
Freak out-
I need a super model to molest me, or
at least a little amateur doll to
punch me all over my back,
crush me everywhere,
crunch my nimble bone gears,
& drop cemetery knuckles
on my shoulders!
Motion touching, untying knots-
Muscles shriek & arms curl,
I feel the weight of a heavy girl
stand on my spine, jump & land holes in my torso,
I need a couple hits
of weed morso-
Blaze my eyes closed-
Open me up like a flower-
Now I can take a deep breath & deal with
all of this clutter.
JIZZY BUN
I started telling secrets to my pet like pom-pom,
she moves her mouth muscles around like elastic as she talks,
she grows a big jaw when I tell her what I hide from the world,
Like
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
I call her Jizzy Bun-
her loud friends do to.
Wah Oh Wah-
Sounds like a musical.
She likes pulling my arms out of their sockets-
Sounds- like an animal.
35 dollars for 2 weeks
the
job
pays
shit.
35 bucks left
on a cracked debit
card.
A dollar day- I say.
Fast food cheeseburger- nutri’grain bar- pieces of fruit-
The partying is done for, & the flask runs empty-
2 more weeks.
Imagine for a second that- I am made of money-
Sneeze fifty cents into my hands,
buy some chips,
another gumball prize.
The Breeze
Cheetah bra with her
knees up-
Sporting dripping leather shoes.
Human heart in a jar,
thrown into the ocean
after expired sessions.
Rips in the knees, now she feels the breeze.
College Girls
Desks connected to chairs make me stretch-
Over & Over.
My mind made of plastic like action figures-
College girls sweat iced coffee-
They have FAT asses, small faces, thin rimmed glasses &
leather jackets.
These chicks have restraining orders against me.
Mosh my way through lesson plans-
Leave the lesson tattooing an anarchy symbol on my forehead, pushing
scholars down escalators-
Break between classes-
Burn red candles in public bathrooms-
Let a rat free in the café, taking my lunch to go- Knowing
college girls don’t eat lunch at the café-
They consume iceberg lettuce, wearing tube socks in the park
across the avenue.
Who is be challenged here?
Wasn’t me.
Ring Around
Mortify-
Horrify-
BOMB the wi*fi air circuit!
Crickets playing punk soul
violins in the straw grass,
flabbergasting the ugly past.
Listening-
Drool around the lip line-
Ring around my joystick- Joyous leg locking lockjaw-
Cat paw tracks
leading to the dead castle.
Draw Bridge doors opening and shutting really fast like a fold up lady fan-
Can’t get/keep the box closed.
Stalling for time in my sleep with planets revolving around
me & you & everyone else in the
monster-size-wigwam.
Amongst spilt soda & kicked over beer, the corner store merchant still doesn’t remember me.
Damaging my hazy malt time travel clammer.
Coffin naptime blanket beach towel, shovel and pale to build the sand palace-
Magic carpet eye sockets chatting with old folks all day-
Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone-Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone-Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone.
Paddle
Couldn’t paddle up the river- Don’t tell anybody.
Holes in my tee shirt, up and down on both sides, moderation in the stretch jeans, small skull silk screened on the fabric, metal foot rests, moon bounce chest piece, she’s got tits, What difference does this sexual bulldozer make?
Slim fit discussion, repetitious formation of bone structure thanks to milk, Goopy McDonalds muzzle, premarital sex shack, shaky cheek bones, hippie weed brain, fuck protesting, give me a 20 dollar bill handshake, a dead skin meal wearing sweat cologne.
I shit credit into flushing bowls with no paddle.
Plural leaps of fate to take, waste balloon, half hour blow-jobs, motorized neck pain-
Who’s worthy?
You, you, and you.
Dumb down my head.
My bug bites are bright red.
I hate shoes that look too small.
I could get sick here, in a brown paper bag.
My schedules blank, I have no cash to burn in glass bongs.
Condoms are free- My girlfriend isn’t-
I rape my health all over-
Put my senses in a coma, bursting with grease and smoke.
Scholar, just getting by, Leeching on pavement, pillows, fake meat, and blonde nurses.
Does it cost anything to use that diving board?
May I dive?
Dangle
A stiff fedora is taken up by
the whirlwind breath.
Agonizing tears drag me home,
help me
chill out.
Worst haircut I’ve ever seen-
Not how I planned this.
What
I
needed
was
a
stuffed lobster and those
slutty fucked up
chicks from Georgia.
I hate performers who sing
over prerecorded vocals.
I like it to be deeper than that-
& then a cobweb dangles.
At Some Point
Tongue down the welfare girls throat,
tastes like money.
Dead in the reclining chair- Head stopped bopping.
Splintering heavy metal playing out on the deck,
breaking the windows, glass shattered in the front yard.
Chewing skin off my fingers; all around the nails, looking
like a train creep with a bazillion homeless dollars.
Girl across from me
wears no make-up
has big hair
all cut up weird.
The Stubborn Spiral
I make no bank
Roach life in the fast lane
Not blacked out- so everything’s fine or
fucked up.
Spiral wave I’m riding.
Whirlpool of unfamiliar faces-
Turn my I-pod off. Turn my
life vibe off. Turn off the blood pipes.
The roof party headache-
No one is safe from rage feelings in a plummet setting.
Water Lily
Silly feeling fleeting beating off-
Hair greasy teased beam POP*
Castles- Clouds-
Daily Roast
Immunity Boost
Whatever You Choose
gave up somewhere
hairs raising,
skin bubbling,
the girl named Angel singing.
money burning,
smoke circling,
the check has gone through.
head turning,
hand returning,
the license has expired.
music- violin- music- classical
formality- music- the color of envy in
envelopes.
Well- could have been. But- broke now.
Slam dancing on the mattress strings
Miles a minute-
My generation in a rush/
Pushing people over turnstiles/ Down stairs/
Under taxis and big trucks/
Mind blowing drool art oozes/ Unfathomed thought snoozes/
Uninterested/ Unlistened to.
Uncommon is the one with the pulled up boot straps/
You can only become God once or a few times/
At best/
UBER DICH (about you)
I can’t walk on my own. I see a big
pink eraser melting in my burning
college. Dopey, smacked to shit.
FUCK THE RULE BOOK. I can’t
help but grovel at the feet of
overachievers. The way they dress
turns my eyes into strobe lights.
HEY. Give me a back scratch with
a pitchfork. Put on your Canal
Street handcuff jewelry. Speak
your native language. Tell the extra
terrestrials you were first on foot,
before cavemen and dinosaurs and
that you’re a billion years old and
carried youthful beauty with you.
I work on different days. We work
in different ways. You do what you
may. It’s hard for me to say.
Friday, July 2, 2010
2010 poems
Bundle me
In the trails-
Behind my grandmothers West Virginian home,
made of wood-
I traipse about among the ticks,
& look out over a vast acre of tall green grass-
Pressed my notepad against a hollow tree which housed large black ants
& other insects with antenna-
Had to make a note about poison leaves & breeze-
Through out the trail there were big fields with grass only-
These fields reminded me of fucking my girl at purchase in the outskirts along the
campus, on top of a towel, with falls leftover foliage-
Sexual tongue shaker-
Love faker-
Undertaker-
I started to walk back toward the house-
Breaking old twigs in shaded movement-
I threw my cell-phone down a hill-
laughed-
Stared at the patches of dirt & the spiders with burgundy legs &
started feeling like the leaves with the holes chewed through by the butterflies with
now dried cocoons-
J______, please bundle me-
Just bundle me like firewood.
When You Get a Knock On The Door
“When Jesus knocks on your door”, she said.
Jesus is not at my door-
Well I actually don’t know. I’m on vacation at the moment-
I don’t really have a “HOME” with a steady door to knock on-
There’s my apartment in Manhattan- that I’ll be leaving when the lease is up, my moms beautiful house in the Port Jefferson Village, my dads place in Florida where I lived for most of my childhood…
Jesus and I have never met-
What residence would he be reaching me at?
He doesn’t have my cell phone number- or does he?
That- has changed a few times…
The freaks say people are jealous of Jesus. They say they can’t hear him when he speaks-
He is Jesus, no? He should have a 7g network or something like that.
If my cold body is consumed and travels helplessly down the river or
my inner systems swell and buckle with cancer, I still won’t be home and I still won’t know if Jesus was at my door or not.
Ladybug
How many spots did the ladybug have?
A lot, but it was dried and dead.
Age Limits
-4 months apart
a year older than you
19? No 21?
It’s all because of those cut off feet-
+ Are you going to the wedding?
-Ugh, I can’t stand them.
+ Who?
- Micky and Donna.
+ You don’t like Donna cause of her body. You’re very shallow.
- Shut up I’m resting. Move all this clutter off of the counter will you?
+ I feel kind of guilty.
- That’s because you are.
In the trails-
Behind my grandmothers West Virginian home,
made of wood-
I traipse about among the ticks,
& look out over a vast acre of tall green grass-
Pressed my notepad against a hollow tree which housed large black ants
& other insects with antenna-
Had to make a note about poison leaves & breeze-
Through out the trail there were big fields with grass only-
These fields reminded me of fucking my girl at purchase in the outskirts along the
campus, on top of a towel, with falls leftover foliage-
Sexual tongue shaker-
Love faker-
Undertaker-
I started to walk back toward the house-
Breaking old twigs in shaded movement-
I threw my cell-phone down a hill-
laughed-
Stared at the patches of dirt & the spiders with burgundy legs &
started feeling like the leaves with the holes chewed through by the butterflies with
now dried cocoons-
J______, please bundle me-
Just bundle me like firewood.
When You Get a Knock On The Door
“When Jesus knocks on your door”, she said.
Jesus is not at my door-
Well I actually don’t know. I’m on vacation at the moment-
I don’t really have a “HOME” with a steady door to knock on-
There’s my apartment in Manhattan- that I’ll be leaving when the lease is up, my moms beautiful house in the Port Jefferson Village, my dads place in Florida where I lived for most of my childhood…
Jesus and I have never met-
What residence would he be reaching me at?
He doesn’t have my cell phone number- or does he?
That- has changed a few times…
The freaks say people are jealous of Jesus. They say they can’t hear him when he speaks-
He is Jesus, no? He should have a 7g network or something like that.
If my cold body is consumed and travels helplessly down the river or
my inner systems swell and buckle with cancer, I still won’t be home and I still won’t know if Jesus was at my door or not.
Ladybug
How many spots did the ladybug have?
A lot, but it was dried and dead.
Age Limits
-4 months apart
a year older than you
19? No 21?
It’s all because of those cut off feet-
+ Are you going to the wedding?
-Ugh, I can’t stand them.
+ Who?
- Micky and Donna.
+ You don’t like Donna cause of her body. You’re very shallow.
- Shut up I’m resting. Move all this clutter off of the counter will you?
+ I feel kind of guilty.
- That’s because you are.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
New Poems Fall 2009
Ointment
Ointment is intimate.
You or
somebody else rubs it
into the spots that raise
the dead.
I rub it on my throat to poison
a cough. Never works
right away.
It is sloppy wet on my neck-
Helping me breathe-
like life support.
I can feel it in my nose.
Everything else-
feels like television commercials.
EFS
This girl
Sits next to me in media class
Has this tattoo behind her right ear
Says EFS
It’s faded
It goes down the back of her head like this:
E
F
S
Everyone Fucking Sucks
Every Fading Second
Ecstatic Flustered Stunned
English French Spanish
Exorcism From Spirit
Easy Fuckable Sexy
Early Five PM Sunset
Ears Fear Saying
Eric Fucked Sarah
Emily Fingered Scott
Everything For Sale
I’ll never know.
Birds, Bees, Sparrows, Spiders
Those scared birds need to stop squawking. They are all so prude.
I ask about a sparrows favorite musical group.
Heavy Metal. Cornell’s voice. Rock n’ Roll.
I said she was a sparrow before, but she wants to adopt a seal, like a black family
adopting a Mexican girl. I am a spider. I don’t have antenna, to pick up her vibes, only poison to slow her down. A bird is a meaty catch for a spider. I spin a web in front of her, my mouth wide open, to look sexy. I spin silk. It twirls like prism batons.
She’s got healthy feathers and flutters the right one lightly, drinking.
My web is complete and I am high and drunk. The sparrow is not high, she is not waiting for me. Your web is very pretty, but I don’t understand it, she says. That’s really cute
you like seals, I say.
Ointment is intimate.
You or
somebody else rubs it
into the spots that raise
the dead.
I rub it on my throat to poison
a cough. Never works
right away.
It is sloppy wet on my neck-
Helping me breathe-
like life support.
I can feel it in my nose.
Everything else-
feels like television commercials.
EFS
This girl
Sits next to me in media class
Has this tattoo behind her right ear
Says EFS
It’s faded
It goes down the back of her head like this:
E
F
S
Everyone Fucking Sucks
Every Fading Second
Ecstatic Flustered Stunned
English French Spanish
Exorcism From Spirit
Easy Fuckable Sexy
Early Five PM Sunset
Ears Fear Saying
Eric Fucked Sarah
Emily Fingered Scott
Everything For Sale
I’ll never know.
Birds, Bees, Sparrows, Spiders
Those scared birds need to stop squawking. They are all so prude.
I ask about a sparrows favorite musical group.
Heavy Metal. Cornell’s voice. Rock n’ Roll.
I said she was a sparrow before, but she wants to adopt a seal, like a black family
adopting a Mexican girl. I am a spider. I don’t have antenna, to pick up her vibes, only poison to slow her down. A bird is a meaty catch for a spider. I spin a web in front of her, my mouth wide open, to look sexy. I spin silk. It twirls like prism batons.
She’s got healthy feathers and flutters the right one lightly, drinking.
My web is complete and I am high and drunk. The sparrow is not high, she is not waiting for me. Your web is very pretty, but I don’t understand it, she says. That’s really cute
you like seals, I say.
DEAD DEAD DEATH
(Dedicated to Steven and Seth)
The elevator dropped Greg lower and lower. Under the floors, occupied with the busy living, breathing souls. Down he went, tasting warm chocolate as he licked it off of his fingers, avoiding his white coat, feeling summery, having slept most of the day. He exited through a set of shiny metal doors and missed a garbage can throwing the wrapper. His hair was long but only in the back and it brushed the top of his shoulders like twenty inches of toothbrush bristle. Letting a fart creep into his pants, he pushed through some push-doors and saw Lenny reading an issue of a hunting magazine called “Ultra Lamping” with big bright orange lettering beaming on top of a camouflage background smothering the cover. Greg took over for Lenny and Lenny went home carrying a thermos and a pack of menthol cigarettes in a mint green box. Lenny left Greg four bodies.
Fred Fotelli, Maureen Goldberg, Brent Stayden, and Kelly Longtresh were all lying out on tables in front of Greg, covered by white sheets. He washed the chocolate from his hands in a deep sink, sanitized them, and looked over Fred Fotelli’s paperwork. Stabbed in the shoulder. Bar fight. Hit a main artery. Bled to death. He pulled the sheet from Maureen Goldberg’s head and tapped her on the nose. It was cold, Greg laughed and shook his finger at her. Brent Stayden had broken his neck in a football accident, his head was angled sideways, his eyes were also closed. Greg peeked at the body under the last sheet, which revealed a beauty much like the ones he had seen in his early college years. It reminded him of apple pie and ice cream, or the two mixed and jiggled around in a pair of cupped hands. She had a small ‘button’ nose. An all around tiny face with red-blonde hair and neatly snipped bangs. Greg pulled the sheet down further, pinched her right nipple and said, “Niiice”. These four bodies had healthy spirits all hovering against the ceiling above them. They were still and went unnoticed by Greg and all other living beings. Living souls remained inside the body and could not perceive ones that had passed on.
While Greg worked on Fred Fotelli’s body he noticed a tickle in his throat, like a small fly was caught inside, just kind of chilling and buzzing. The spirit hovering above Kelly put the fly there, using its third eye, something living souls have but can’t use. The small fly materialized on the backside of Greg’s Adams apple and flapped. He built up spit in his mouth, hiding it underneath his tongue and swallowed every time he felt it. There were three tubes that were to go inside Fred’s body, two of which were feeding his body different chemicals, one green and one blue, the other acting like a vacuum removing bodily waste. Each body was to eventually receive the three tubes but Fred was first and each body lasted a little over an hour with the tube process. Greg took the down time to get acquainted with the beauty under the last sheet.
He held her head up, “Oh Kelly,” he said, “where were you when I was eighteen?” Kelly laid limp against his hairy arm and didn’t say a word. Her spirit stretched along the ceiling and twitched. Greg swallowed more built up spit and stuck his middle finger in and out of his mouth. The white sheet was on the floor. Trying desperately to reach an itch deep inside of Kelly, Greg moved his middle finger much like one moves a q-tip around inside of an ear. Greg kissed Kelly, her lips were blue, his body was hot, radiating heat. Kelly made Greg feel like he had thrown back several shots of gin and had wheels on the bottoms of his shoes. The floor beneath the two lovers was all ramps, steep and narrow ramps.
The sheet went back over Kelly’s head and Greg wiggled Fred Fotelli’s tubes. He picked up a number two pencil from a desk to check off things on Fred’s chart. When the pencil met his grip Kelly’s spirit snapped it and left several splinters in his middle finger. He screamed and dropped wooden debris on the floor. “Fuck-Fuck-Fuck”, He said. The splinters were lodged tight, sleeping underneath the skin. Using a pair of proper tweezers, Greg removed twenty-five long splinters from his finger. They were long and thin like straightened staples. He bled over the deep sink and secured the wound with gauze and medical tape from a first aid kit, in the top drawer of the desk. This passed some time and Maureen’s tubes were to be connected. Greg vigorously readied some more green and blue chemicals with his eyebrows scrunched.
Maureen received the green and blue treatment and Greg took the sheet off of Kelly again. This time he flipped her over, breasts on the metal, making her arms stretch outward and toward the floor. He tucked them back and ran his tongue along the right section of her buttocks. It was smooth and cold; Greg decided to nibble on it a bit. While nibbling, he massaged her unresponsive spine as if to remove a major knot. Her spirit twitched once more. He dreamt, alone in the morgue, of what she might have looked like in a holiday sweater and a pair of tight pants. It would have been nice if he were outside, he thought, some good loving, outside. He pulled her hair back and draped it over her shoulder to make her appear less thrown about. Then a noise sounded. Kkerrgg’ It was Kristof shuffling about with his mop, in the hallway. Greg decided to get another candy bar.
He and Kristof exchanged conversation about the cold weather, snowed in cars, and how it would get colder. Kristof suggested Greg get chips instead of a candy bar. He got a Snickers and went back into the room to greet Brent Stayden. The chocolate made the fly in Greg’s throat hyper, he made a bowl in his hands over the deep sink and drank water. Kelly’s spirit squinted its third eye and sent a dark wave through Greg’s forehead. Greg couldn’t taste the chocolate; the sweetness was paper, hot computer paper.
Dropping the rest of the candy bar in a wastebasket, he undid his belt. Behind the door was a hook, where Greg hung his white coat. With only a light blue button up shirt on, Greg laid on top of Kelly’s backside. She was very still. The spirit felt his weight. He closed his eyes. Lying on top of Kelly was soft and dreamy.
They fumbled about on the metal table no longer than ten minutes. Greg was in love. Kelly received it. When she was penetrated her healthy spirit became a poltergeist. It slammed into the far corner of the room and curled against the ceiling waiting for Greg to finish. He buttoned his pants and slid back into his white coat; winded and heated he pushed the sleeves up. Kisses were given to Kelly’s forehead and she was rolled over into her original position. He moved her eyelid open and looked into her eye, “It’s a shame your heart can’t beat”, he said in whispered tone. Leaving her without the sheet he spit out more of the paper chocolate taste.
As he wheeled Brent Stayden around the room, Kelly’s poltergeist watched him maneuver the metal table about the morgues floor. It lowered itself and passed through the air behind him. Greg was sweating through his clothing hard, his throat and tongue had become immensely dry. He stopped, coughed, and gagged. The poltergeist grabbed Greg around the stomach and slammed the end of his right hip into the sharp corner of a metal table. He spun around and howled in great pain.
“My God! Kistof!” he shouted for the man and his mop, “My side, agggg”, He gagged and held the hip. The poltergeist shrieked but Greg could not hear it, he pulled himself up only to find it very difficult to walk. His right leg felt a foot longer than his left and he banged into all metal things, tables, pans, and knives. This disproportion with Greg’s legs was an illusion cast by the poltergeist, which stalked Greg about slamming his hips into any jagged edge it could. He felt as if his body were a magnet attracting to the metal. This calamity urged him to shut his eyes tight as they tried to bulge from his skull.
Greg collapsed to the floor, crawled and dragged himself along a smooth marble plain, wailing and trailing speckled blood behind him. He made it into a closet and laid on the floor weeping with blood piddling above his pockets from his hips. They were both broken and he passed out from the shock. The poltergeist rose and floated back to the ceiling, hovering against it directly above Kelly, staring down at her. It would stay there until she was buried and then curl about the cemetery with other spirits in rousing flight.
***
The following morning Kristof followed the trail of blood to the closet and found Greg unconcious. The police were phoned, and Greg was hospitalized, the doctors removed Greg’s tongue and noted he had been paralyzed from the waste down. Communicating on paper he described not having control over his own body and that something else had injured him. He made no mention of Kelly or Fred or Maureen or Brent.
Lying alone in his hospital bed once all nurses and policemen were gone, Greg cried heavily until the medicine he had been given caused him to drift into dreamscapes. It was nightmares there, all nightmares.
The elevator dropped Greg lower and lower. Under the floors, occupied with the busy living, breathing souls. Down he went, tasting warm chocolate as he licked it off of his fingers, avoiding his white coat, feeling summery, having slept most of the day. He exited through a set of shiny metal doors and missed a garbage can throwing the wrapper. His hair was long but only in the back and it brushed the top of his shoulders like twenty inches of toothbrush bristle. Letting a fart creep into his pants, he pushed through some push-doors and saw Lenny reading an issue of a hunting magazine called “Ultra Lamping” with big bright orange lettering beaming on top of a camouflage background smothering the cover. Greg took over for Lenny and Lenny went home carrying a thermos and a pack of menthol cigarettes in a mint green box. Lenny left Greg four bodies.
Fred Fotelli, Maureen Goldberg, Brent Stayden, and Kelly Longtresh were all lying out on tables in front of Greg, covered by white sheets. He washed the chocolate from his hands in a deep sink, sanitized them, and looked over Fred Fotelli’s paperwork. Stabbed in the shoulder. Bar fight. Hit a main artery. Bled to death. He pulled the sheet from Maureen Goldberg’s head and tapped her on the nose. It was cold, Greg laughed and shook his finger at her. Brent Stayden had broken his neck in a football accident, his head was angled sideways, his eyes were also closed. Greg peeked at the body under the last sheet, which revealed a beauty much like the ones he had seen in his early college years. It reminded him of apple pie and ice cream, or the two mixed and jiggled around in a pair of cupped hands. She had a small ‘button’ nose. An all around tiny face with red-blonde hair and neatly snipped bangs. Greg pulled the sheet down further, pinched her right nipple and said, “Niiice”. These four bodies had healthy spirits all hovering against the ceiling above them. They were still and went unnoticed by Greg and all other living beings. Living souls remained inside the body and could not perceive ones that had passed on.
While Greg worked on Fred Fotelli’s body he noticed a tickle in his throat, like a small fly was caught inside, just kind of chilling and buzzing. The spirit hovering above Kelly put the fly there, using its third eye, something living souls have but can’t use. The small fly materialized on the backside of Greg’s Adams apple and flapped. He built up spit in his mouth, hiding it underneath his tongue and swallowed every time he felt it. There were three tubes that were to go inside Fred’s body, two of which were feeding his body different chemicals, one green and one blue, the other acting like a vacuum removing bodily waste. Each body was to eventually receive the three tubes but Fred was first and each body lasted a little over an hour with the tube process. Greg took the down time to get acquainted with the beauty under the last sheet.
He held her head up, “Oh Kelly,” he said, “where were you when I was eighteen?” Kelly laid limp against his hairy arm and didn’t say a word. Her spirit stretched along the ceiling and twitched. Greg swallowed more built up spit and stuck his middle finger in and out of his mouth. The white sheet was on the floor. Trying desperately to reach an itch deep inside of Kelly, Greg moved his middle finger much like one moves a q-tip around inside of an ear. Greg kissed Kelly, her lips were blue, his body was hot, radiating heat. Kelly made Greg feel like he had thrown back several shots of gin and had wheels on the bottoms of his shoes. The floor beneath the two lovers was all ramps, steep and narrow ramps.
The sheet went back over Kelly’s head and Greg wiggled Fred Fotelli’s tubes. He picked up a number two pencil from a desk to check off things on Fred’s chart. When the pencil met his grip Kelly’s spirit snapped it and left several splinters in his middle finger. He screamed and dropped wooden debris on the floor. “Fuck-Fuck-Fuck”, He said. The splinters were lodged tight, sleeping underneath the skin. Using a pair of proper tweezers, Greg removed twenty-five long splinters from his finger. They were long and thin like straightened staples. He bled over the deep sink and secured the wound with gauze and medical tape from a first aid kit, in the top drawer of the desk. This passed some time and Maureen’s tubes were to be connected. Greg vigorously readied some more green and blue chemicals with his eyebrows scrunched.
Maureen received the green and blue treatment and Greg took the sheet off of Kelly again. This time he flipped her over, breasts on the metal, making her arms stretch outward and toward the floor. He tucked them back and ran his tongue along the right section of her buttocks. It was smooth and cold; Greg decided to nibble on it a bit. While nibbling, he massaged her unresponsive spine as if to remove a major knot. Her spirit twitched once more. He dreamt, alone in the morgue, of what she might have looked like in a holiday sweater and a pair of tight pants. It would have been nice if he were outside, he thought, some good loving, outside. He pulled her hair back and draped it over her shoulder to make her appear less thrown about. Then a noise sounded. Kkerrgg’ It was Kristof shuffling about with his mop, in the hallway. Greg decided to get another candy bar.
He and Kristof exchanged conversation about the cold weather, snowed in cars, and how it would get colder. Kristof suggested Greg get chips instead of a candy bar. He got a Snickers and went back into the room to greet Brent Stayden. The chocolate made the fly in Greg’s throat hyper, he made a bowl in his hands over the deep sink and drank water. Kelly’s spirit squinted its third eye and sent a dark wave through Greg’s forehead. Greg couldn’t taste the chocolate; the sweetness was paper, hot computer paper.
Dropping the rest of the candy bar in a wastebasket, he undid his belt. Behind the door was a hook, where Greg hung his white coat. With only a light blue button up shirt on, Greg laid on top of Kelly’s backside. She was very still. The spirit felt his weight. He closed his eyes. Lying on top of Kelly was soft and dreamy.
They fumbled about on the metal table no longer than ten minutes. Greg was in love. Kelly received it. When she was penetrated her healthy spirit became a poltergeist. It slammed into the far corner of the room and curled against the ceiling waiting for Greg to finish. He buttoned his pants and slid back into his white coat; winded and heated he pushed the sleeves up. Kisses were given to Kelly’s forehead and she was rolled over into her original position. He moved her eyelid open and looked into her eye, “It’s a shame your heart can’t beat”, he said in whispered tone. Leaving her without the sheet he spit out more of the paper chocolate taste.
As he wheeled Brent Stayden around the room, Kelly’s poltergeist watched him maneuver the metal table about the morgues floor. It lowered itself and passed through the air behind him. Greg was sweating through his clothing hard, his throat and tongue had become immensely dry. He stopped, coughed, and gagged. The poltergeist grabbed Greg around the stomach and slammed the end of his right hip into the sharp corner of a metal table. He spun around and howled in great pain.
“My God! Kistof!” he shouted for the man and his mop, “My side, agggg”, He gagged and held the hip. The poltergeist shrieked but Greg could not hear it, he pulled himself up only to find it very difficult to walk. His right leg felt a foot longer than his left and he banged into all metal things, tables, pans, and knives. This disproportion with Greg’s legs was an illusion cast by the poltergeist, which stalked Greg about slamming his hips into any jagged edge it could. He felt as if his body were a magnet attracting to the metal. This calamity urged him to shut his eyes tight as they tried to bulge from his skull.
Greg collapsed to the floor, crawled and dragged himself along a smooth marble plain, wailing and trailing speckled blood behind him. He made it into a closet and laid on the floor weeping with blood piddling above his pockets from his hips. They were both broken and he passed out from the shock. The poltergeist rose and floated back to the ceiling, hovering against it directly above Kelly, staring down at her. It would stay there until she was buried and then curl about the cemetery with other spirits in rousing flight.
***
The following morning Kristof followed the trail of blood to the closet and found Greg unconcious. The police were phoned, and Greg was hospitalized, the doctors removed Greg’s tongue and noted he had been paralyzed from the waste down. Communicating on paper he described not having control over his own body and that something else had injured him. He made no mention of Kelly or Fred or Maureen or Brent.
Lying alone in his hospital bed once all nurses and policemen were gone, Greg cried heavily until the medicine he had been given caused him to drift into dreamscapes. It was nightmares there, all nightmares.
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