Wednesday, September 30, 2009

crawling through static

black caviar lungs. cocaine white skin. porn star red lips.

i am filling the void with you. 


the mother wolf of a starved suckling nation. 
our blue collar nooses don't satiate her
we need the TV static to drown out the moaned pleads of poverty to help us sleep
at night
and broad casted upper class lullabies
shaking in the sheets at the thought of a pixilated revolution
we expose human fallacy via single sentence updates 

Monday, September 28, 2009

theres some trouble in room 100



i want to spend valentines day in the room where sid vicious supposedly killed his girlfriend nancy spungen. The chelsea hotel in nyc, room 100. take me?






Thursday, September 24, 2009

fuck it

i feel completely naked, even with all these scars 

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

hell

they were draining me with their gorgeous faces and the way their body language begged to be fucked up. Turning me on the sniffling late 1980's street punk nose barely bleeding barely breathing. fucking intoxicated infatuated with the taste of whisky as the photographers fingers went deeper in me and as my eyes rolled back I fixed my eyes on a crack in the ceiling of this underground club and for a brief moment i could of sworn i was in hell

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

untitled

theres a girl in the corner becoming a black hole as everything about you consumes her.

Monday, September 7, 2009

home is where the drug dealer is.

with a doll headed sigh her dress was torn from his crown of thorns between her thighs

when everything falls up into place unto the shelf of memories gold plated plastic trophies of bad decisions past who had colgate smiles and drove SUV's to their lovers houses while their wives baked them apple pies and bought them anniversary sets of golf clubs and hallmark patented emotions.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

coldblood boiling

this nectar of fortune is yours to taste and figure out how to swallow. i hope it favors you
i am the animal
i yearn for the sinew and the lace, that composes your delicate frame. 

the ritual of defeat is to pray to your god.
but you
you dont breathe a word

i dream of fur matted with forest of blood i dream of waking you
we will never run together
a coward is isolated and destroyed