Weird Poetry

It will be

An exorcism

By fire —

Burning inky black words


Charring countless pages —

Their dog-eared corners curling in the coals

And fuming with spent ghosts and emptied soul-hells

That aren’t even mine.

I am

No longer in possession

Of those words and pages.

They are as gone as my mind was

Before I struck the match

And threw it into the stove.




*** More fire, Sweet Cheeks? Not bored of it yet? ***

*** I think I am done with fire now… but not for long. Never for long…. ***

no more hundredmillion re-takes

Weird Poetry

hundreds thousands millions bajillions of countless moments

frozen still static paused

on screen

contortions of lust and want

and moaning inside my skin

screaming beyond my mouth

too many moments like that to count

moments of seeking

moments of angles and eye-rolls

moments of sweet jesus and writhing

moments of fuck and i hate myself

moments of love and caressing my own softness and kissing better the delicate

and re-takes

don’t forget the motherfucking re-takes

and re-takesretakesretakesretakes

and re-fucking-takes

it felt good sharing nudez in the middle of the forum

humiliation was a constant lover in all of this

one I crawled into willy nilly

but we broke up last night

— I destroyed it all —

all that remains is what you find left on the wall with the yellowing tape and what you’ve kept hidden in your back pocket since the beginning

I prefer to shed my clothes

and my skin

in words

now that you’ve all already seen my assymetrical tits

but I will show you all of my true asymmety

and a nakedness that rivals heartache




***Feels too good to burn things.***

Reset Button

Weird Poetry

I never wait for the right time to

reset rebuild renew re-write

I start yesterday

Because I’m more afraid of feeling stuck in my own muck and mire than I am of stripping in front of a crowd, and laughing like a lunatic under a full supermoon (or whatever lame ass name they have for a full moon coinciding with its perigee).

Sometimes I fall into holes and screech my self-pity into the walls with the blood under my nails. I act as curator of my own demise and the architect of my own dungeon of terror strewn with torn lingerie, melted wax, drained batteries and paint spatter. As well as a little blood and spit and cum for good measure.

I hate days like that. They always feel like they win… until the last minute.

But I never let them win.

Maybe I do for a second,

But I always sweep up my own ashes after a good self-burning.