Cannibalistic Merging

Weird Poetry

Seared flesh —

Caramelized on the outside,

Leaving my center juicy and still bloody,

The blood pooling under the mass of glistening muscle,

Still throbbing and twitching.

Scored skin —

Cross-hatched in my lust,

Slicing into all of my lost senses,

Lost yesterday,

Or an hour ago,

Or millennia ago,

Or not yet but soon.

Scarred sheath of hissing hot skin —

Marked in my carnal urges,

Inviting tooth and nail and tongue and groans,

And more devouring,

And slow slow savouring.

This edible parchment of mine is scratched

And seared and scored and scarred

In ink and blood

Not all mine

But yours too.

My succulent veins on skin paper

Waiting for your bone-cutting teeth

And sharp pen.

My blood burning lines across the pages of your chest,

Burning new whorls into the skin of your fingertips,

Pouring verse like cutting acid through your supple delectable flesh,

Cooking us up like a rapacious feast,

A feast of scorched words, crashed sentences, burnt pages and cannibalistic merging.




*** When you said you were a failure at being a vegan, you weren’t bullshitting, were you, Sugar Plum? ***

*** Nope. No B.S. My cravings for raw oysters and human flesh proved too strong to resist… alas…. ***

*** Honestly… it feels like I ate too much food tonight…. Not sure where any of this came from but what fun! ***

Some of my leaves are you-coloured

Weird Poetry

You ushered in the end

(the beginning, or a wave breaking on a beach, then receding to rebuild)

When I showed you all of the colours and the textures of my leaves —

The light and the dark ones,

The skeletal and the plump ones,

The ones parched of chlorophyll,

The ones left hanging on the wind,

And the ones doing somersaults along the increasingly contrasting gradients in between my dark and light…

And maybe in between yours as well.

But you were long gone the moment I showed you

Which leaf was


When you stopped seeing it

(Or decided to turn your cheek)

It faded

And bleached from exposure to the second sun.




*** Still complaining, eh, Sweet Cheeks? ***

*** Nah… I wrote this a couple of months ago on a PMS day, and completely forgot about it lol ***

*** I still have traces of chlorophyll in my blood. The fading will un-fade, fallen leaves always regrow, flowers continue to blossom. I feel like a flower in full bloom these days. ***

Infinite fractals under your shirt

Weird Poetry

I’m like these infinite little fractals


Under your shirt

Burrowing into you

And growing more complex

The deeper I go.

Just repeating

And getting closer and closer to

The non-end of my infinite comfort.

A Mandelbrot set embedded in you

Under your shirt

Under your skin

Etched in your bones

And your own equally infinitely fractaled soul.




Spiritual Awakening

Weird Poetry

After the darkest night of all

Eternities of the fucking things, actually

I unearthed single-second solipsisms

And solar systems

And holy soliloquys

Scattered about beneath the soil of my skin

By seismic stuttering

In my solitary soul

Now shattered by stupid synchronicities.




***Brought to you by the letter ‘S’. ***

*** πŸ™„ And spiritual awakenings… which are so silently violent…. ***

*** The most annoying part of a spiritual awakening is the fucking numbers… everywhere. ***


Weird Poetry

If you take a porous pumice stone

And hold it under water

At bath time,

You will notice tiny bubbles squiddling up to the surface.

When you lift it from its aqueous submergence,

You can hear little drips and drops,

And thread-thin streams of water

Twisting through the craters and crevasses inside the humble hand-held stone.

In slow succession,

Each drop of water patiently exits the bottom of the stone,

Pulled by gravity and belonging

To the liquid mother-store.


*** I smell a recent tryst with a thesaurus, Buttercup…. ***

*** And it was a sopping wet affair…. ***

Finger Bones

Weird Poetry

I feel your glossy gleaming granite finger bones

With their clattering phalanges

Encircle my frigid heartstone

Hard on hard

Nothing to melt

Nothing to thaw

Because cold things can’t make other cold things warm up.




*** Having a “Bah humbug” moment, Sugar Tits? ***

** Nah. It’s just that kind of damp cold that crawls inside your bones and moans out shivers through your pores. I wish I could curl up inside my bonfire.***

Paradoxical Insomnia

Weird Poetry

I thought I was sleeping last night,

But all of my eyes were open behind my two lids

And I could see and feel the room around me.

I could taste the cold tea in the chipped porcelain cup that I left on the book shelf;

I could sense the damp cold air slipping in through the open window,

And swaddle me like a blanket of wet gauze on my goose-bumped flesh (this happens when you are pulled out from under your sheets by unparalyzed writhing);

And I could smell the ashes of a spent joint and a scorched stick of frankincense.

My dreams were populated with moments of sleep just like this in which I wasn’t asleep

Or entirely awake.

Just an odd case of sleep state misperception,

Of obsessive wakeful mentation

About which state of sleep or wakefulness I am inhabiting.

Maybe sleep will become my waking life,

Or my waking life will be my new sleep.

Not sure if I will want to know

What’s up and what’s down

And either or which every neither way,

Just as long as I get to actually sleep

At some point.




*** Regulate your sleep patterns, Sweet Cheeks. That way you don’t have to write poetry about having weird sleeping situations. Man… you poem-writers create your own problems just so you can write about them. SMH…. ***

*** I would rather create my own problems than give that honour to someone else. I’m just being proactive. ***

*** Zzzzz… ***

Under Skin

Weird Poetry

I drew you in crowned moonlight and overcast sky

That night you slipped into my skin.

You painted me in swirling stars and ghostly auroras

That night I slipped out of your skin.

You moulded me from scalding ice and shattering fire

That night you bit into my skin.

I wrote you into my dreams of rusted earth and copper branches

That night I slept under your skin.




*** I was thinking so randomly about subdermal implants… like of shapes… to make raised designs on the skin. I don’t know why. Then started to think about if I could shrink myself and could burrow into a person. Then images, words, editing/revising, and the moon happened. Imagination is the only true freedom. ***

*** There is something very Silence of the Lambs-sy about this. ***

Poets Need Hecklers

Weird Poetry

Poets need more hecklers…

Or hecklers… period.

With baskets of rotten tomatoes

And scathing acid-kissed quips and truth-telling insults —

Like a Waldorf and Statler for our own pockets (that’s where I keep my own little hecklers… for humility’s sake).

Comedians and thespians shouldn’t have exclusive rights to being heckled in public.

I don’t say this because I dislike poetry —

I say this because

I love it.

And I love poets —

For all their visions and self-pitying compositions of lettered misery,

And for all of their (seemingly) unguarded hearts and souls.

But the air gets a little stuffy up here in the rafters of spontaneous overflow

And expression of heightened (often lunatic) emotions.

And the arrangement of feeling into an impossible but bravely attempted translation.

There is far too much solemnity in poetry,

And not nearly enough fun

And self-mockery

And downright tricksterism (there is an ambition… a trickster poet…).

This is why I feature my own set of hecklers at the bottom of almost every poem

In italics.

Because if I take myself too seriously,


And everyone else,

Will die of boredom.




*** So, is this my cue to continue making fun of you and your “poems”, Toots? ***

*** Whatever floats your boat or untangles your bodangles, old man! It’s open season for poet heckling. ***

All curled up….

Weird Poetry

Can you feel me

All curled up

Like a little fetal leaf not yet unfurled

Tucked away in the cozy dark of your shirt pocket,

The one directly over your heart?

Can you feel me

Wrapped tightly around your neck like a choker of blood-kissed rubies,

Rubies the colour of my lust mixed with yours,

And of double-sun-beating soul hauntings?

Can you feel me cached away in those labyrinthine chambers of echo,

Nuzzled deeply in the delicate helix of your outer ear…

The sweet little left one… the one spoken into by angels (maybe… you never know…)?

If you listen closely,

You will hear me audibly lick into your curls of cartilage

Last night’s de-worded choir of symphonic moans.




Heart Throb

Weird Poetry

When I press my fingers

Into my chest,

I can feel my heart

Right there,

A little ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum,

Right there

Beneath a layer of tissue thin skin.

I feel that area


Swelling like the salted sea

Almost imperceptibly

Like little ocean blooms under a new moon.

If I am quiet and still

I can feel my honey blood



Blazing (like the colour of red amber)

Through my cushioned veins.

I can feel

Its current

Its flow

Its effervescence

And I feel it going exactly where it needs to go

To find its purpose.

If I massage that place in my chest —

That place of raw pounding

Where once there was stabbing crimson ache,

I can feel my arteries expanding and contracting

Once again

With a full range of motion and freedom it never knew


Before this moment.




*** You’ll look for any excuse to fondle your own breasts, and say you’re touching your heart, wontcha, Sweet Cheeks? ***

*** Heart… breasts… all a part of the same me so… same difference either way, old man. ***

Superfluous Veins

Weird Poetry

It’s strange —

I used to think I needed you

Like my veins need blood to have purpose.

It took bleeding myself

To realize that I perhaps need you the way a body needs a second set of veins,

Superfluous veins

It doesn’t.




*** You sound bitchy, Little Missy. ***

*** I know. I don’t feel bitchy though. I feel kinda light. I know we all need people but why? Why can’t we want rather than need? I don’t want need. ***

Under the Stupid Bed

Weird Poetry

Some people wake up on the wrong side of the bed

Some mornings.

I have — too many times to count.

But today,

I woke up under my bed

Which has no frame;

The mattresses are one on top of the other,

Directly on the floor.

I never liked the bed frame concept; the floor is much more solid.


I woke up under that.

Feels like it at least.


My head is pounding,

My vision is blurry,

My womb is bleeding with weeping profusion

As my oceanic eyes well up with tears that fall straight down to my feet;

They aren’t about meandering or cascading today.

My eyelids are fighting to shutter out the world

As a pain swells and recedes within my chest like a little asshole wave that the moon will not release from its pull.

That pain…

I’m sure it originated in my heart,

And I can’t stop palpating the strained muscle beneath my skin.


I may have well awoken alone beneath my skin on a desolate planet in an alien solar system

Rather than under my frameless bed….

But in all honesty,

There is no damn difference.




*** You tired, Sweetums? That’s an impressive list of grievances… even for you. ***

*** [weeps] ***

*** I will be fine. I always am… in time. ***

Blood Dreams

Weird Poetry

My womb dreams

Of careening crimson ribbons,

Of bleeding ripe petals,

Of sloughing and sighing,

Of meandering streams of melodic melancholy.

My womb,

That sacred stitched space of fecund shadow and halcyon hell,

Dreams of shedding its skin of memory

And its gauzy forgettings.




*** Be careful with all of that blood loss, Angel Eyes.***

*** I never worry about blood loss…. ***

Reflected V-Formation

Weird Poetry

I watched a flock of geese

Flying in V-formation

Through the reflection of a distorted shop window.

They seemed to move through a wavey energy grid that made me think of a desert mirage.

(I know — how clichΓ©, but that is what I thought when I saw this deviation from the ordinary).

If I had just turned around,

I could have seen them as they appear in “reality”,

Rather than through an imperfectly manufactured pane of glass.

But I liked how the plexiglass changed the texture and the feel of the birds and the overcast sky and boney barren trees,

As well as the way I feel about flying,

And showed me how overrated perceived reality really is.

There was something extraordinary about the reflection

And how it made me realize how subjective it all really is,

And not nearly as stable as we believe.

I oddly take comfort in knowing this,

And look forward to the next reflected V-formation

That I spy by accident.





Weird Poetry


Smile wider.

Make time for me.

Do it now.

I need you

(Read my mind. You should know and meet all of my needs).

Stop being selfish.





Make time for me.

Focusing on YOU means that you’re..

That’s right…

You guessed it…

Altogether now…


You selfish using bitch.


Make time for me.

Make time for everyone.

Boundaries are for chumps.

Fuck you.

Make time for me.

And don’t forget to smile.


Keep working on you,

But not too hard, now.

And not too much.

Smile, bitch.

You’re too negative.

You’re just a user.

And you’re selfish too… did I mention





Make time for me.

I’m happy you’re working on YOU

And making time for YOU…








*** Going for some minimalism? Pressed for time, Sweet Thing? ***

*** Yes. Minimalism is my new rule but not necessarily within my art. But maybe every where else in my life. SMILE!!! ***

Hunger Strike

Weird Poetry

You famish me

And dehydrate me,

And make me feel like

I am waging a hunger strike

Against myself.

You starve me so effectively

That Cheetoh dust at the bottom of a crinkled bag

Fills me up

Like a 5-course meal —

Complete with white table linens,

A chocolate fondu fountain,

And an open bar.




*** They say when you lose weight, your stomach shrinks. So maybe… cheetoh dust can make you feel full, eh Sugar Lips? ***

*** Sometimes breadcrumbs or the dust left behind in a bag of cheetohs (or dill pickle chips… superiour to all chips), can feel like a lot. And sometimes a 5-course meal can make you feel empty and unfulfilled. Depends on the day, I guess. ***