Kiss

The smoothest skin.
Where my lips rest.
On a lovely warm curve.
A perfect landscape.
That I need to explore.
Like Cortes.
And paint with fingers.

Death's Personal Ad

I like black hooded cloaks
And bile-covered desert boots.
Scythes from the gulag.
And the big bony hands.

Living Art

In the warm summer sun,
We can bask in your glow.
The beauty of this art.
Is that it walks on two legs.

Media Watch

I kill men in the street.
Piano wire and artery.
Drive time performance art
You can't help but watch.
I see the flash from your cell phone.
All over YouTube, I'm inciting violence.

Revol

People gonna talk about revolution.
About little mushroom clouds and chasing 'crats.
They'll raise their fists and dance.
Screaming how there ain't no television coverage.
While the helicopters circle.

Everyone feels the revolution
With the prick of a needle
And the discharging guns.
The rush of blood to the nethers.
Arching back to the sunset.

Taste the revolution!
Get your iron.
Lick the life from your fingers.
A little pepper, a little cumin.
Delicious.

"The people who are good at waging revolution are also the ones that you have to kill once the revolution is over."

Lovebreed

That feeling of illness a fog in your intestines.
Twisting your face in the mirror.
Where you see the scars, blemishes, and all the hairs you missed with the razor.
Brilliant pools of self-loathing reflected in the blood shed by blades on skin.
Perfection sought hand-in-hand with infection.
Stretch and scrape yourself back into the container.
Unfortunately shaped and mechanically awkward.