Three Year Anniversary Poetry Dump

This blog has existed for three years now, and to celebrate, here are three previously unpublished works from my most recent collection of poetry. The title of this collection is The Digging Hymns, and much like my first collection (Slump) it is unpublished, unfinished, and really just a snapshot of my writing from the age of 22 forward. If either my bodies of unloved work had to have themes, Slump is all about melodrama, angst, and being a fucking wanker. The Digging Hymns is, if anything, just more pretentious. Enjoy, and thanks for spending time with us.

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Dog Head Impressions

(put on track as background noise, grab a microbrew, and read slow, please)


Blocked by a stand up bass,

A sickly, blue, purple and red impressionist dog head painting

Received no benefits from the skylights

and my fifth beer that midday.


A sickly, blue, purple and red impressionist dog head painting

Staring out over the conversations in Spanish,

And my fifth beer that midday

had the bubbled, copper scent of the river out back.


Staring out over the conversations in Spanish,

A mousy barmaid whose smile

Had the bubbled, copper scent of the river out back.

I caught a glimpse of the trumpet in her eyes.


A mousy barmaid whose smile

Received no benefits from the skylights,

I caught a glimpse of the trumpet in her eyes

And my fifth beer that midday.


Entry 11

(Author’s note – Sorry for the delay.)




Reggie was playing PS4 when Jackson opened the garage door. He looked ridiculous in his full black sweat suit and face paint, and Reggie couldn’t avoid making a jab at him.

“Did you pull off the heist, hamburglar?”


“Uh-huh. We got a plan now man, we are going to help Ethan and find out what happened to Maggie. Ms. Halverson might know something, and giant Todd too.”


“Pretty sure my mom’s new boyfriend and his pig friends will do that, but I suppose you guys have an equal chance of solving the case. That dumb motherfucker wants to vote for Trump. At least, I think. He seems like a republican, right?”


“Yea, yea, how was dinner man? That had to be awkward.”

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Countless grey entities enjoy dragging liquid flesh across my chest at random intervals in my life – I decided to be like Samson and never again cut my hair – Christmas Past and Present keep trying to tear me apart while Christmas Future offers me mangos and sex on the beach – I will look like a lion if I’m not careful – of my ghostly tormentors, the worst are the foxes – The beard is always the first to run the crucible, the awkward stages drawing in the razor’s edge – The biggest challenge was getting all those Philistines into my bathroom to watch the act – The bottle of wine helped guide Delilah’s hand along my ass of a mandible – The ghosts offer me honey and aftershave for this most excellent feat.

War Song (Sonnet)

I cried into the petals of a flower

On the bank of Echo’s lake.

The debris of my tower,

sundered by sour drake,


line my burial mound

and, how I long to lay down.

Please select the serpent you crowned

Gurgled the jester’s nervous breakdown


So I grabbed the incarnadine blade

Of the patron saint of drunk vomit,

A True renegade aimed for the stockade

Where children sing of the burning sodomite


And I began the trek to dragon’s lair

Curious about winning a intellectual post-mortem Croix de Guerre

Entry #10

The misshapen wooden steps in front of Delia Leonne’s trailer house sank into the mud under Todd’s weight as he ascended them. He took a moment to make sure he was properly balanced and then knocked on the brown plastic door.  As he waited he examined his surroundings and saw stacks of sun-faded milk crates and a pile of pallets leaning up against a crumbling burn-barrel. The air was grey and little drops of rain sputtered out of the sky, touching the various pools of water that speckled the muddy yard. Continue reading

soda pop sky

Now, I don’t want to seem hopeless…

I think the world is a very beautiful place.



I’m starting to think that children are taught

“Two wrongs don’t make a right”

Not out of adult-wisdom,

But out of some desperation.


Teachers stare

Into the hearts of children,

Giving them the best advice,

Because they know very well

That unless it’s taken to heart,

When they are adults they will become

Little intellectually-justified monsters.