Smashing your head on the punk rock

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.

Thank you for visiting my poetry blog!


Smashing your head on the punk rock

 
Punk rock is that pitcher of margaritas that you sucked down 

(Forgetting to leave a tip) With the bitter salt

That left you licking your lips and wanting more



Punk rock is the chip on your shoulder

It's the scab on your knee

It's the red horse that crashed Jesus' crucifixion party



It's the swollen bump on your tongue Begging you to run it over your teeth With the raw pain



Smudged all over your high school years

That mugged and raped you

In the beautiful foul stenched alley of hope.



Take no fucking prisoners

Trust no one

You will be tested on this material

Over and fucking over

Until you deep throat grandpa's gun

Music with no words

Gloves with no punch



Leading you right back to suburbia Pawning off your ole' punk rock

 escapades As a string of stories in your wild past 

Fuck you if you ever forget

                                                

Confessions of a shut in genius

I am so thrilled that so many people enjoy my work. But I need a favor of sorts. when you +1 can you please do it on my blog from now on and not on the google link? Only asking because my blog numbers are way lower than usual cause everyone is posting on Google where no one can see them. Also, If you have any old +1 around or in front of you, could please move it to my blog. Not trying to be bossy. Just trying to get all the +1s I get on my blog so the numbers are a correct number of the feedback I am getting. But I really just cannot thank you enough for all the support. Its what keeps me going! If you have any questions about this there is a place to send me an email on my page.
THANKS AGAIN!!!!

                                  
                                     

kill your television or it will...

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.

Welcome to my Poetry blog, thanks for stopping by.

Kill Your Television or it will...

If you spend enough time With the television on You will eventually

Become a homicidal maniac

Or perhaps, That’s just me.

                                                                         

                                                                                    

5 bucks on Micheline

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.

This poem was published in the Poems for All mini poems series.

                                            5 bucks on Micheline

Baby,

I'm glad you can still taste me on your lips... Can still smell my pussy on your fingers.

But I was in New Orleans with Jack Micheline He had some paintings

And I had a boom swagger boom Laying down some lines

That resembled webs

And we got a bet goin'

To see who the real hustler is

And, I'm feeling lucky....

So, could you use your fucking hands And let me go back to sleep?

                                                        

Ain't no Cure for Suicide

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.

Welcome to my poetry blog, thanks for stopping by!

Ain't No Cure For Suicide

Wondering

What’s inside a demons pocket

Or if Satan’s liver

Is bad,

The masses are waiting

For me to pen

The great spider web sonnet

But I blew my stamp money

On cyanide

And there

Ain’t no cure for suicide.

These

Pricks with needles

Send me head over heels,

Tripping over sunflowers

While

The Father and Holy Ghost

Have gone fishin’…

The son, left behind,

To wrap up the trilogy,

A traveling salesman

Nailed from the very beginning

Hustling soul protection

And hot crucifixes,

Busted

Tossing halos out

To the pure and the mean

Like some Mardi Gras

For the angelic scene

And every time I think of my calling

I cry

Because I sold out resurrection

And their aint no cure for suicide

                                                 

circus of a waste of my fucking time

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.


Welcome to my poetry blog, thanks for stopping by!

Circus of a waste of my fucking time

Boom swagger boom

When I move across a room

I take up space and make noise

I work the room like

By forcing myself upon them

Laying them down

They assume the position

And I have a proposition

Considering my condition…

I leave a trail of scales

On my way to you

I can hypnotize you with my eyes

And I can  hiss and meow

Simultaneously

I mark my territory

With piss and bile

The revolving door of men

Who travel thru my den

Like a goddamn freak circus

And I should have learned my lesson…

But I still have a thing

For swallowing the knife

                                                            

final words

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.

Thanks for stopping by my poetry blog!

Final Words

When the cops come in

Following the dogs

Locked onto my scent.

The following dialogue

Will be the final one spoken

In the same room

with my corpse in one piece

Ever again.

“This is so, so terribly sad”

“Yes,” turns off my stereo

which was on repeat.

“she went out listening to Emo”

                                                   

glimpses

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.

Welcome to my blog, new poem for you!

glimpses

I always draw my face

In longhand

Seagulls working on the chain gang

And singing in the yard

Their pouty bottom heavy lips

Frowning at the sun

And this morning when I was brushing

My jacked up teeth

I had this paranoid thought

That You’ve got it in for the animal in me.

Welcome to the Machine

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.

Welcome to the Machine

There's no time for chasing whiskey with shadows, when the cross is crooked and graffiti covers it like a hip hop totem pole. Territory marked with piss, Love is a card trick you see on the street corner, sex is fake currency and propaganda for the illuminate.

Self‐Absorbed and still leaking, I cut Joan of Arc's hair with an old rusty straight razor. I would strap on a chainsaw and take Wendy O' Williams right here on this floor. I would sit next to you on the porch swing if you'd tell me a story. Just remember I'm too old for fairy tales and I never believed in Santa Claus.

Georgia O Keefe prints line the walls of my therapist's office

I saw the gift horse there once, but he kept his mouth shut because he didn't want anyone to see his rotting, slimy teeth.

Claustrophobic. We are both just using each other for one last breath. So sometimes when you are sleeping I put my lips on yours and inhale as much of you in as I can. I’m not sure who I’m trying to finish off, I only feel the approaching suffocation, and choking on wishes granted by shooting stars.

Pennies are still money

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.


Pennies Are Still Money

Every single slurred word

That leaks out of my snarled lips

Is like a familiar uncomfortable

Morning odor

Morning comes harder

When night literally falls

I put my bra in my purse

I take the change from your pockets

And that mug you keep by the door

And you

Are nothing but the wet spot

Left behind

From my dream

Of war.

Finally, thanks for vising my blog! I would LOVE feedback tell me what you hate and why. Tell me what you like and why. It really just helps me become a better writer which is what I strive to be. 

                                                     

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New Years Eve

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.

This poem is one of my favorites. I think it was published in Sex and Guts Magazine, not sure just came across it. I hope you like it as much as I do.

         New Year’s Eve

I called into work today because I am still drunk

We got kicked out of that bar last night for screaming and laughing My taxi driver kept trying to pick me up

I just kept telling him that my boyfriend was probably up waiting for me And getting worried, so we’d better drive fast, and I smiled when I told him Because I had almost convinced myself.

My boss will have my ass tomorrow And I don’t even think I can make rent.

Last night at the bar I was surrounded by people who spent hours in their Rat‐ infested

Roach‐ infested Faucet is dripping

Dirty dishes overflowing

Trash is full but there isn’t even a broom apartments

Putting on their nicest outfits so they could go out And feel interesting and important

A beautiful girl was kneeling on the bathroom floor In her sixty dollar pants

Throwing up her macaroni and cheese

While her beautiful friend held her hair out of the toilet

And we may all call ourselves by different names But it’s these primitive acts

That put us all right back down where we belong

ON OUR KNEES

And it’s so funny sometimes that I feel like crying

I saw you again last night

I was the one in the corner dying behind a cigarette, But I don’t think you noticed

And I won’t be like my mother Drinking to forget

Drinking to remember

I just went to that bar so I could merely stop thinking about it Just for a few hours

Stereo eating my tape Change the light bulb again

90 day payment plans

College graduations Suicides

Moldy bread

Lithium

All of the faces

None of the faces

And the days I played “Oliver’s Army” over and over but I Knew it would all come back.

When you’re shitting blood and throwing up in the sink

With your roommate pounding on the door to brush his teeth it all Comes back

When you’re riding the bus it all Comes back

When you wake up in the morning

It all comes back

When you swallow a bottle of pills it all Comes back.

And it makes me feel like screaming sometimes, but Nobody listens anymore…

Not even me

Besides,

I’ve got a sore throat already

And I’m afraid if I start screaming

I might never stop.

Cowboys and Indians

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.

Cowboys and Indians

When me and my sister were little.

We would pick berries in the field behind the house

And paint our faces with them

Like warriors

Young smiling faces with halos

singing red red songs of war

Everyone knew about Cowboys and Indians

And mostly people wanted to be the Cowboy.

I wanted to be the Indian

And so I think I was.

I’ve never slaughtered a bull and used its hide for warmth

But I’ve strangled the moon,

Shaking out words to hide under

I’ve killed plenty of cowboys though

And I can make my own weapons

From stone

Or from wood

Or from words

And I dance on their graves

Saying ancient chants

About taking back my land

It was all for play

And all make believe

Who would of thought every cowboy is carrying a gun

And The Indians with their war paint

Spend all day chanting for rain.

A flood would do us all in

And I should have eaten those poison berries

While there was still a happy ending

I am the Skeleton of Burroughs Bullet

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.

I am the skeleton of Burroughs’ bullet

I am the skeleton of Burroughs’ bullet.

I charged out of the chamber

And went for the quick exit

I knew what I was made for

Upon conception

And it still makes me sad that Joan went out

The same goddamn way Eve did. Nailed with an apple by a fruit.

Sometimes I wish I could go out the same way

  Or get hit by a train

Or to get struck by lightning

To get possessed by demons Abducted by aliens

A Mercy Killing

Whatever

But I always wake up.

I am the skeleton of Burroughs’ bullet

Going so fast I can’t see straight

I am the skeleton of Burroughs’ bullet

I was tucked in his pants While he was in Mexico Taking it up the ass

Because the needle

No longer put them all to sleep

They are restless

They are many

They look a lot like the ones I see

When the red dragons come for me

In my sleep

When my skeleton is put back together will you draw a red crayon heart on it?