in opulence

in opulence

we wither

in imperfect totality


without great crash or din

reality becomes too real

the threads that bind your mouth together feel splitting at the seams

you want to scream

but the screaming begins in Shokstakovich and ends in as of yet unwritten bedlam

that breaks you

cochlea boiling with hallucination

alleluia, kyrie eleison

the story becomes non-linear

and you're scared of what comes next.. or before?

so cold i

burned my shirt..

sorry, mother.

it wasn't enough

to go back

and pretend nothing had happened.

i watched him die there

and it scared me.

i need myself a spot

to drink and bleed this sorrow away

for five or ten years.

blackest bile in his eyes

i remember the face of oblivion underneath the stars

how the luminosity of millions d'étoiles could not bring light once more to his eyes

but what rends me with terror, more than all else

is to know that the face of oblivion is not more than that of a man's.


tentative masks adorn aptly adult function

as we rise from metal-framed beds to the tumult of synthetic clock chime

that marks the dawn of the working day.

hands callous as i reach for my alarm,

i can't quite get at it.

oh yeah, i now remember:

i was fired yesterday

"camels were magic cigarettes"

my mother stuffed five dollars into an empty fishbowl;

i knew the tooth fairy wasn't real.


i love those avian songsters;

the ones with lovely tufts of blue upon their little heads?

i wish i could befriend one, and that he would walk with me forever

and i would bury him in a cardboard and pykrete-fashioned frigate set ablaze upon the sea

when he died, of course

because all birds die.


courtyard cigarette smoking

i hate everyone here

except the old drunk


tracing my steps in the ward again

the paint chipping from the walls falls in familiar grace

a sick feeling.

my life is passing

i am going no-where...


people don't


how they're hurting people.

deprive a man of his freedom

with skilless elocution thus:

"it's for the best"

like a Stalin-era commissar

the indecorous americanery of them

with community college diplomas

are now the arbiter of one's fate

Jasmyne Kaye

smugly trading corner couplets

with their severed gestures and immaculate tubes

trade me just a drop, À boire!

but you leave me too parched in endless cul-de-sac daydreams,

sweat reeking of substituted cathinones

because nothing else was there for me to wake up to.

because the poetry is the only way i can speak to you.

we are vile creatures virtued in disguise

restless and without anodyne

summer fair

breathing fractals of orange lamplight cascade through the tree leaves to our bodies

performing their internecine death-duets.

outlander, recreant, païen!

basking in the simple profligacies of our living

fucking to insulate our sin from theirs,

from their inimical innuendoes

hiding away while love still burns in our innards and thighs

camber of your small breasts,

i'm eerily aware of your every breath,

at last, lust overflows into humid summer night.


i had a lucid dream last night

i flew and i fucked and it was better than living.

psych ward windows are tinted so you can't see through

what shit, they don't even let you look through a fucking window.