Red #40

I’d rather have your blood
spilt on my rug than Red #40.
I won’t settle for fake.
And the less organic, the more it stains.

I want brains, not something staged.
A bleeding heart drained to empty
Is more nifty
than fast food fairy tale gooey syrup
in thumping styrofoam facades.

If I’ve a stain to clean, so help me god,
I want it whole, unprocessed, raw.

I’m not looking to make a mess, but I guess, in the event
it wrecks, splits, breaks and leaks
It will not have been all for a boob
made of plastic, silicone or saline.

No Pinocchio aspartame lying games
Cialis snoot fabricating into flames

A real boy, all flesh and truth,
Upright and stringless is good to choose
So if I’m born to lose
Make him the genuine article
Guaranteed to be
Hand born atoms, cornfed particles

It’s hard to count on a love that will last
But easier to move on
When armed with enzymes,
scrub brush and solutions that work fast.

Published in: on May 28, 2013 at 1:53 am  Comments (2)  
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I want to be smothered in blackberry and ivy in the inebriated drips of this honey thick heat,
Every barbed tendril puncturing my stifled body,
Oozing my sticky-sweet juice, slathering your whole.
Cover my all, take me in!
It seems all I ever learnt of love is how to succumb.


Published in: on August 2, 2012 at 12:34 am  Leave a Comment  
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What makes people tick?

We’re all unique in pulse, pattern
syncopated ticks
in cacophony,
wild metronomes
pushing blood around
to the sound
of thumps in the night
to slow the rhythm
we can’t manage,
clocks to give us unreachable regularity
at such a steady pace
that impairs our confident and independent stride.
Tame tempos that suit your temperament:
largo, presto, adagio, allegro.
You’ll grow in cadence,
with licks of ocean tides,
join the crickets,
find the choir bellowing
tones in your bpm,
dance with winds
that make barn doors rattle and clap,
laugh until you’re out of sync,
ride the brink of gasps
fluttering and trembling
your throbbing core.
That cardiac pause looms,
eternities of pendulums
hanging still like retired drumsticks,
eminent windless dark…
Time does not stop at death.
It endures without a beat
to move with,
a paralysis of pulses,
no sound
to measure
breaths drawn.
So at dawn, arise!
March to your drum,
inflect and step 
into your OWN time.
Published in: on February 29, 2012 at 12:27 am  Comments (2)  
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The Biggest Bang

What hot mass weighs on your heavy soul?

Does it burn clear through to the bottom

and free fall into that limbo-like stratosphere

where your heart hovers?

With a searing clinch

let me melt my hands

leaving, not finger prints,

but my touch, a gift of burnt skin

fused to your fiery surface.

I will trace my obscene confession in the sky

with blood and fire

and when next we meet,

our fervent union will become a blazing star

illuminating all the heavens

and we will detonate with such a thunderous blast

that a new era will dawn.

Published in: on December 7, 2009 at 2:07 am  Comments (2)  
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