Samson

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

I wish I was born after pop-punk

It was the incestual bleating of banjos and the girls with daddy’s disappointment on their breath that brought me to this town – I wish I was born after pop-punk so my pseudo-sadomasochism meant something – do I self-deprecate myself? I self-deprecate myself – wanting to be useful, I made myself into a hammer and hid amongst the rust at the back of the shed – with a river for a cock I freeze each winter and let Spring’s breasts tame me into a child again – my kind are rotting, after years of salt water and blood – I only drink to wash out the taste of Pompeii – while the cool kids learned how to make it I just begged for forgiveness – something about jazz makes me wish I could just scream about how cold I am – If I died tonight my death rattle would sound like train cars locking, a yawp to blow the house down – The wind of my eyes sets fire to all the pine beetles, whose sour pincers have embedded in my tattoos – All burnt up, I stumbled into a community garden and spread myself over your mother’s artichokes –