Paris, 1789

Wisps of blue vapor waft out of the revolutionary’s starving stomach and are formulated into bars of revolt crafted by the crazed crab under the floorboards. He has been here for generations, reading his tomes, thumping his brain with his fist, waiting for the needle of opinion to sway his way. The masses need a…

Whiskey in Summer

The Whiskey poured clean down from the light-winking liter to the worn Gatorade bottle to the mouths of me and my friends. The copper vapors swirled lazily in the wide heat of August so we imbibed whether we touched our lips to the bottle or not. The sun was a universal melody that sung vibes…

Razor—a fuck-poem

  I’ll fuck you so dark it’ll all turn to light— blackholes sucking supernova-explosions driving into you pupils burrowing into your doorways— deeper than you’ve ever been spelunked deeper than I’ve ever plunged I’ll immerse you in me bend me in half and I’ll accept you into my orchid-and-thorn garden dark with thrushes of the…

Poetry is Purity

poetry is purity —not aligned with the plots and justifications of the short story But instead— The pure pump of blood Inky, flamingo-colored, without thought, vibing off the chemicals of the mind the streak! (write it, type it up) Whether the chemicals are in-born or huffed The pure gasoline screams —of Serotonin, endorphins, what-not (the…

The Horror and Beauty of Beds

The Darkcamp The 12 levels of the subworld Must look like a cross-section of ant tunnels I am reverse-birthed downwards every night, one choice at a time through the plasma womb into greater worlds —the haylight and the ocarina’s harmonies but the fanged proprietor makes me forget every morning— —the trick Down to level 11…