Michelin Guide

Your words eat my words.
Suck their marrow and spit out gristle and sweetbreads.
Lick the bile and dab away with napkins at the corners of gashed mouths.
I'd cry for the loss of my children, but the cuisine.

Vertigo Afternoon

Each corner lunges towards my eye’s corner
Every step shimmers, then rushes up to meet me
Both eyes strain to focus, then falls back to wavering air
Each cell is heavy and longing to separate

The snow falling as it stops suspended
May clear my puzzled mind with rational chill
Or it may only fall again and fill my head
With rolls of woolen, blank exhaustion

-LIS (written February 09)

The Unlikely Friend

You disappear as sure as a ghost
To reappear two bottles in hand.
Which we disappear in a silent competition.
It's all smoke and mirrors and little illusions.

Love VI

Holding my palm over the spike.
I spit threats and take shots.
While you laugh and lick his neck.

Witchburning

It feels like jumping into flames intentionally,
Without suicide.
I can smell the fat on the soles burning,
And taste the stench of hair off hobbit insteps.
So at peace with pain and passing.
Would that we could feel like this without dying.

Writing Poems

It is always like a picture
Sometimes grotesque, sometimes gorgeous
Can be the curve of her hips, or the red lips of the wound.
Some flight of gossamer fated urbanity
Or the ancient gnarls of arboreality
So real that my skin feels wind and rain
I take the hurts and touch the skin

For Ian

Quicksilver wit
Standing in the summer twilight
We hear silence in place of your words

Sea History

Laid out along the sea-rot docks,
Fish fillets in great lots.
The open sores of sailors mingled with their sweat.
Blacksmith hammers banging, the shouts of a bet.
Children with sticky fingers and raptor eyes
Tracking down coins and up woman thighs.
Scraps of chip wrappers and broken ale
Nights lit by the death of the whale.

Little Kitty

In this little alley
All full of piss
Buried in the nebula of cellophane wrapping,
A little kitten
Manged up and all scrawny bone
Eyes outsized from hunger
Gnaws away at something
Chews a hole in your soul.

Red

Wicked red flower
Soft petals in voluptuous cup
A scent as soft and subtle
Like kissing in a dream

Owen II

When I think of you.
Candles burning.
Incense drying out my eyes.
Tears form.
For words and a dead man.
Long killed on the mud of France.

Dis....

I hate cutsie fucking rhymes
And clever couplets
I can't stand your screen printed words
On your ass like a billboard
Hate isn't really the right word
I don't hate much. Maybe nothing.
'Cept a couple of things that remain nameless.

I don't like how you seem to just grin and bear me.
It reminds me too much how I am of myself
With myself
Confused, 48 ounces of coke dancing powdery jig inside my sinus
While the captain sails in the vast ocean of my belly.
Reminds me of my uncontrolled imitation, allen ginsburg, stover, traviss, clancy
I was born to be a ghost writer.

Br

My hands aim to touch you
To hang on your hip bones
Like I am falling from a building
And the villain is stepping on my fingers
One by one
I aim to touch your lips with mine
Like I want to torch the collected works of Mme. Coulter
I think lips inspire more passion
Confusion, like a man standing alone in the park naked and drunk
Asking himself, why does my ass hurt?
I aim for that too.
So you read these poems and judge and criticize
Which I don't mind.
Just think less, live more.

T

If you want to play games
Let's play games.
I like games.
Childhood fucking games
I want to be angry, but I'm not.
So odd.

C

If I said, that,
Sex,
Bores,
Me,
Snore.
Make her cum, but I want to sleep.
Would you believe it?
Male mechanical, like using a wrench or hammer
Up down up down
Rinse and repeat
Always rinse.
Settle in for hair in mouth
Tastes like coconut.

I

Big balloon
Helium and methadone
Seated in corners
Orgasms in your vein

D(2)

Red bullets
Stacked on the desk
Little targets
Dead bullets

D

Burning bills
In the candle light
You are my love
The only one that keeps her mouth
Shut long enough
For me to think.

A

If it isn't endless.
I am unhappy.
If it does not hurt.
What is the point?
There are no wounds to bleed from,
and I am so afraid.