Posts Listings

  • Abbadon


    Okay. I’m pretty drunk. Well, I’m not, like, wasted or anything, but buzzed enough to make the sidewalk feel like a boat rocking back and forth against easy waves and like there’s a warm cloth gently placed over my brain, like my head is a steaming sanna. It’s nice. But the girl next to me, she’s way gone. She’s crossing her feet over each other, criss-crossing and zig-zagging, and after every step it looks like her legs are going to give out. Her shirt is sticking to her thin body from long ago drink stains. That annoying laugh that I don’t find annoying at this very moment. It’s all very what-you’d-expect, more or less. Just some chick I picked up at the bar a couple hours ago because I was feeling lonely and hollow and I liked the way she was rolling her body to the tune on the jukebox in the corner of the bar, how she looked so lost inside herself and in euphoria with something so pointless. She’s young enough for me to think that there is still some innocence and naivete in her. I don’t know. What does that make me? I don’t know that either. I’m just a little drunk and lonely right now.

  • Lucky Day


    There once was an accountant who was having a pretty good day. Nice weather, the sun was out, the birds were chirping and all that; very idyllic, very hallmark. This accountant could afford the nice suits that he wore, and his wife loved him, as far as he could tell, and his children were doing well in school. He lived in a nice neighborhood where everyone mowed their lawns and drove fuel efficient luxury cars and carried themselves with good natured smiles. Nothing was wrong. It was around three-oh-clock in the afternoon, on a Saturday.

  • Living and Dying on a Merry Go-round


    There exists in me a primal longing

    For a state of mind and peace belonging

    In all men’s’ blood and the veins they travel

    That undoes the mind and our bodies unravel.

    It’s kind of strange how these become

  • Trough


    Picture this. It’s 1967. The sun glows in the sky, but its heat is deafening, lethal, killing you as if your sweat is your blood seeping out of you. You smell something pungent but you don’t know what it is. Something like gas, maybe. Something poisonous, you’re afraid that if someone lights a match, the air around you will combust. You’re standing on piss-puddled grass, all you see are heads with long hair and braids and glasses, and all you hear is acid rock moaning from speakers a mile away. Stand on your tiptoes, and you might be able to see the stagnant wave of bodies rolling over the hill towards the stage, where four twenty-somethings play indistinguishable notes, screaming sounds instead of words. Two people are on that piss-puddled ground, rolling in the mud, fucking, groaning—you’re just trying not to step on them. In fact, a lot of people are doing this. Everyone else stands there, feet stuck to the ground, their bodies waving in the nonexistent breeze, the killing heat, no room for anything else, fazed out, drugged up, and so are you.

  • Subway


    They say the city’s only half there. That one half is that condensed grid of wind-sucked streets and steam rising from the cracks and cries from open windows. Individual dramas in the bigger picture. The cars unmoving. Gridlock. People out there pretending not to see each other as they walk, trying to stay invisible, to not give away their presence. The city which becomes an entirely different place at night.  And the other half is the same except cleaner, more saturated with color and hope and people all smiley and willing to give you things as you walk by them. The dreamier, panoramic half, the one you wish to be true. The part of the city illustrated in postcards. I guess which half is there is up to the beholder. And who’s they? There is no they. They is me. They is how I imagine other people thinking, as if I could ever understand them. This is what I think, and maybe they think the same. But probably not. I’m the one who says there’s only half of what there ought to be.

  • No Good


    You have eyes on me, no matter what bar

    I find myself in.

    As I take swigs of brandy, your informers tell you

    I’m getting sloppy,

    and a boy’s fingertips along my waist earns me

    5 days of bitching.

  • Xenia Tornado of 1995


    My old family members whispered

    the things bible thumpers reserve for

    Atheists, homosexuals, and single mothers,

    when my mom made a quick exit

    from my great-grandmother’s funeral.

    I guess it’s not proper etiquette to go

  • Uncanny Valley


    Uncanny Valley

    We sit next to each other
    in different worlds.
    Your over-interpreted neo-network layers and layers
    over everything I love.
    Fixed neurons versus ripped paper,
    abstractions dominated by algorithms.
    Tell a computer to spit out
    anything you want it to
    as my pen spits out everything I don’t want it to.

  • Used



    You throw me in the dirt,
    sew my mouth shut,
    tear out each page to re-write my life.

    Apologies leak from my mouth like a broken faucet
    whenever I fail to please.
    Your yes-man,
    I promise to agree.
    Your yes-man
    is all that I will ever be.
    Trapped in a bottle
    until you need me
    to grant your wishes,
    for I am your genie.
    A rusted ladder
    pressed against the unfinished home
    You slither up my rusted rungs
    so that you can reach the top,
    and hiss with your many tongues.
    You know you won’t lose me
    so you use and abuse me.
    I need your approval –
    But all you need me for
    is you.

  • A Mourning at Morning


    As stars retreat and midnight turns to morn

    And as red flow’rs beneath my head are born,

    I wait for day to wake me, full of dread,

    And watch night turn to other people’s beds.

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