weed

I love weed and weed loves me
maybe weed doesn't love me but I
love weed we fell in love together

Sometimes weed and me fight and sometimes
weed says i'm fat and I cry
and I beg weed to not leave

weed and I are in love together
weed only lets me see him but
I sometimes thinks that is rude but

I really love weed he says that
I should give him a blow job
and he cums immediately when we fuck

one day me and weed will be
t o g e t h e r, he pushed me in the fence
because he loves me, i cry anyway

weed throws a suitcase at my head
and tells me to fuck him but
i'm crying but he makes me fuck

in my ass it hurts plead no
weed love me after he cums alot
weed and i are in love together

the boys club, yacht club

The Boys Club, Yacht Club
wears all green ONLY
because they smoke sick WEED

The Boys Club, Yacht Club
fucks around with H
rotten peaches on their DICKS

The Boys Club, Yacht Club
call themselves FUCK BOYS
their dicks reek of ANAL

The Boys Club, Yacht Club
love to love DRUGS
and girls who hate DAD

The Boys Club, Yacht Club
have fuck dads, MOMS
who snort dope PAIN KILLERS

The Boys Club, Yacht Club
dad buys their SEMEN
and they fuck mom HARD

Old V

I drove home pretty drunk off a 40 of Old E.
I don't want to ever drink a 40 of anything but Malt Liquor

Old E's never let me down but Old V has done
The tired humming of the inadequate mouse left running on the rusty wheel
THERE is NO cheEse, I SAY, There is no mAzE, true

Old E's never let me down but Old V has done

says, Old V again, to old V, again

Maybe I can tranquilize the mouse with a nug of weed
I rather grind my teeth on the gnawed hair of a fancy cock
than
  deal
     with
         the
            mouse's
                feet
Old E's never let me down but Old V has done
I'm going to snort some white (d/c)ream until the mouse FUCKS off, true
the chEEse smell is IntoXXicating & so i drink OLD E.

says, Old V again, to old V, again.

August 20th 2011

Weaved hair of the indentured servant Bastard child
THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU,
The queen of Hearts since crashed the waved
wire from his head flu

A Blank Slate, but the Chesire cat smiles
DON'T LISTEN TO THEM ALICE,
but the tea didn't consent and the wet
rod frayed on the surface

The mad hatter's hat lays dormant in Bastard
IS THERE ANYTHING TO SAY?
no, the plantation man led us to here
the white rabbit left gray

cubed realism

Let's make it clear Pablo,
we both know why we're here
you speak only in thirds of glass

jagged but in three-dimensional cubes
you scratch and jab at skin
Silly! But no, really it was wanted

Let's make it clear Pablo,
the concrete that hides on Bleecker
won't keep George away from the moth

sexual assault

clawed pig skin
my flesh no longer flesh
red blood drips
but the red sea parts

but grandma says
in the name of Jesus
drag my body
into the Roman's favorite goldmine

on the 3rd day
He died in Jerusalem's bedroom
my corpse bleeds
onto Belzebub's wine soaked lap

dor fantasma

lay the gravestone but the ghost ache won't leave
human jesus
his webs draped in the color of brazillian coffee
beautiful, beautiful
Pariah stuffs our sins inside Him like a piñata
human jesus
His sternum lies crooked from carrying our bloated sins 
he asks
the mother to sharpen His rusted knife but the 
Pariah's sternum 
stays broken because of Padre Pio's mistakes and although
Pariah's tongue
still tastes like Portugual His skin breathes of stigmata
human jesus
bury yourself in the rainforest, but you won't rise in 
Vatican City 

new york city transplants

Momoun's peaks are green but
they donot match the yarn between
her legs

The prince cries across the
pyramid that separates them but the
cow boy

tightens his lasso in Montanna
the desert slaves step lightly on
the green

tail with satin slippers Momoun
drapes herself in grain from Africa
and weeps

clandestine

at some point the past will
catch up with you, an ailment
harder than you ever did sister

maybe i'm just a ruler measurement
but a few more lumps of
cyanide will keep the father away

fwd: let me know if the
sickened cow sleeps or if the
lowly brother bursts in his exaltation

it's better to speak in tongues,
as long as i will rot
for men the highest mother rises

III

1. your petals uneven from the ground after an earthquake
eyes, lips 
were missplaced and intertwined amongst matted hair parted in 
oil fluid
your jawline blended in with your stem beautifully but
your voice 
sang a song about nothing, which is what we 
were anyway

2. emeralds picked from the ground with no visible roots 
I can 
write a cat song about how you looked in 
the morning
after we threw our stolen chips into the ocean
the arabian 
Sea was parted but not before I left you
a ruby 
fish, but truthfully I'll never see you again anyway

3. I could try and write poetry about you but 
you're beyond 
blank phrases and similes I tongue in Brooklyn twang
hair popped 
like corn, a voice too blasé to be anything 
but a 
liberal art academic cheapened on Wittgenstein never connecting thought 
with emotion
Is easy for the son of the preacher's gospel 

Ruminations on things that should not be ruminated on

"Relationships have always made me anxious.  I am always afraid of a man finding the strength to leave me and as a result I have always left.  I know this most evidently when I think of my mother who could never cry enough and begged my father not to leave every time they fought.  He always did. On one particular occasion my father loaded up his car to leave late at night but not before my mother stopped him and shoved us in his face “if you are going to leave look at your children first!” She shouted, pleading, running down the steps of our semi-attached house with marble tiles. A small living space but always a lavish lining.  My father backed out of the drive way but not before my mother carried my brother in her arms, screaming at my sister and I to get outside, crying the entire time and telling us to say goodbye to our father.  I was not older than 6 but I knew what she was doing.  My father spoke sweetly to us and said he would be back in the morning.  I went to bed with my mother sobbing not knowing if I would ever see my father again.  The next day he returned.

The following years I grew up feeling detached from my father.  A classmate cried everyday in the 2nd grade and told everyone she hated her father. I said I do to.  I went home and told my mother I did not love my father.  I never saw him anyway.  He always worked.

I didn’t hate him.  But the rift never really went away like a dagger in each of our hearts or a river growing wider between us or before us.  It took many years to build a damn and we both know it’ll take many more.  Growing up the man who as my mother stated is “the reason we have clothes to wear and food to eat” never said I love you.  He never attended my softball games and every year the dagger grew stronger and the river grew deeper that seemed to nearly drown my mother.

As the years passed you grew softer. When I was 20 you tried to learn to be a father.  By then men who took your place were already too cruel than just an absentee father.  But I learned to let myself feel the love I had for you boil under the surface drying up the river that grew every year.  I will learn to erase the damage from the unblanketed nights you provided me with and the marks of the men who came after.  At 23 I will wipe the ocean up that bleeds too wide between me w/ a towel and I won’t stop until there’s a drought and the heat within me dries it faster than the inches of tears that piled higher than my mother could ever plead.  I was always my mother’s daughter."

.................................................................................................................................................................

"Each year the leaves grow thicker and the memory of grandmother grows more distant.  I can still see her picking the rich, velvet leaves in her garden and then soon later rolling them in her hands amongst cooked rice and lemon spices.  Her hands always looked so tired, her face always looking far elsewhere.  Perhaps she was thinking of my grandfather, a silent man who was rumored to have affairs with many women. I was 12 when he died.  The only recollection I have of him is his stone cold face, never speaking, sitting on the couch watching TV while my grandmother always looking off and rolling the picked velvet leaves and rice.  

My mother and my father worked a lot and as a result much of my time was caught in the pauses between my grandmother and grandfather's living room. I learned English with an accent.  My father learned from his father so it goes.  When I was in 6th, 5th, or 4th grade my aunt divorced my uncle with two black eyes.  No one hid the truth from me."