i dare you

i dare you to shove the needles into your covered eyes
and fast forward your thoughts to futures
of the pretty life you THINK we had
for you, life is all just
shits and giggles at a big ass superstore
where you can buy gallons of ANYTHING
you'd better cover your face
i dare you to take a lighter with a big flame
and burn your tongue because
we wouldn't want anything intelligent and real coming out
except a mere moan
while she sucks you off
and you cum on your brand new loafers
shining them with guilt
or is it guilty pleasure?
i dare you to smash your head into the wall
so hard you bleed your pride
into a pink bucket of shame
filled with mudpiles
of tears i cried listening
to your wicked whispers
wax well wishers names
i dare you to gore your soul full of holes
so deep that they look like
massive pits of moaning valleys that shadow death
following traces of
what was left for
me, of me, or by me
was it meant to drive me
mad in my search for revival, re-entry, re-living?
i dare you to confess all injuries and
bleed until there is nothing left
in your cupboards to cook except wholeness
on charcoal dreams that
dot screams from inside
a bottle where i
spent too much time
how dare you take a knife
and carve out my heart
then hand it to me on a silver platter?
Carmina la Catullus)


Yeah, you are a professional
a first order ass-kisser
enjoying the same of course
enchanted by dykes and dies
with a vocation for fake originality
but at least
you have no manners either

while you
are an unprofessional spy
fooled by someone who fools herself too
skillful at reprogramming herself
because words can be like
software code, easily erased

how boring and predictable,
you could do with some clarity

I, just laugh


Ego onanism
won't do you any good
but vice can be tenacious
and even more so
the desire to escape
from oneself


You fatally dwindle
as you dwell
in your fiddling time.
And the puddle of riddles
doesn't make for depth:
is an easy swindle
easily spotted.
The gilt surface
shows the rust,
the diddle is lame
and shows the nothing underneath.


She loves her -
self projected in her,
caresses her -
self while
caressing her,
a constant mirror
reflecting the same image,
stringy sulky nostalgia.

you appear,
and this somehow
for a caress,
the more given
the less it seems demanded.

But the caress must come
from hands like yours
with the same smell
the consuming love
you have for yourself.


A glance was given long
long time ago
that made her feel special.
Then disappointment
for which there were no words,
a chasm of grief and rejection.
That's how it happened.


"A little kiss for you
for a little kiss for me"
and again
in proper doses
for the daily fix
of blandishing
and spreading of treacle.
The retching is controlled
the face remains unaltered,
prevalently innocent,
remarkably so:
it takes skill,
not to mention stamina.

The fixed shadow
in the bottom of the eye
is ignored,
for mutual agreement,
just like the expressionless
rigidity that precedes the mask
which lasts only an instant.

But how civil the smiles,
and fascinating the sullen looks,
and creative the fiddling,
and adorable, ah so ador-a-ble
this girlie-like sweetness!

When tired at night
you call this addiction,
and long for some rest,
for a bit at least.
But the interest is too strong,
to avoid the fear,
so again, please, you say,
"a little kiss for you
for a little kiss for me".
Joe London
crouched beneath the table knowing without seeing
the body above. white still-white delicate like a lilly around the fleshy parts and eyeballs staring at god. imagine it. i trembled until a hand fell. slid off the table reaching over the edge fingers in a half-clench a near fist i'd hit you if i could if i could reach. a trickle of blood ran down the length of the little finger and splashed onto the floor by my feet.