a Love Poem

i burn deep into the night like honey bees
killers at the swarming honey sloppily dripping
from lovers lips
onto to the velvet pillow covers
and crust formation of those times
won't wash out
no matter how fucking hard we scrub
them out
we can love each other
without having to say we love each other
like keeping it inside.
is holding your shit in day
after day
week after
week
until it hardens
and you can feel your intestines collapse
and form to the waste
in your veins
in your esophagus
and in your brain.
they recite night after night each time in bed
after they fuck and suck each other dry until their
crusted lips flake away
and saliva runs dry
wet hair pasted to forehead strands flowing down
lustful back
drinking late into the night, closing down the bars
and passing it back and forth on the bed
sloppily walking
sloppily kicking moaning and talking
being completely
and utterly
sloppy.
but our brains are twisted every which way
that somehow seeing ourselves at our worse
is the most beautiful thing
and over those glasses and bottles
he rants about nothing
and she vacates her mind
and he drowns
willingly
in her eyes.
leaning over as his breath carries her across
and says,
"you have the sexiest fucking spleen. i want to fuck your spleen."
and she laughs
cause she gets it.
at the end of it, you've got
 to laugh
laugh at being serious
laugh at trying
laugh at this writting
and
laugh at putting meaning
into any of this

This is Your Job

this is your job they say,
arthritic finger pointed bony and obsolete
lingering in the general air
and you think to  yourself
"do i really have a choice?"
the sad truth is
you don't.
this is your job they say,
as the man wraps his fingers around suspenders
chomping endlessly on cigar
nicotine stained teeth and fine whiskey breath
it's all too sad
to bear.
some don't.
this is your job they say,
to grow up and make money
get a house
pop out some kids
marry a no good woman
a dead woman
and be a necrophiliac
to sustain yourself with drinks
to block out the fact that they've got you.
pay your taxes
buy it all on credit
eat the manufactured food
fuck the manufactured woman
wear the manufactured clothes
sewn by some poor fuck
who makes less than $8 a day
in some country south of here
snort the coke
sorted by the children
and smuggled here in someones ass
is this sad for you?
is this too much truth for you?
yes.
but truth nonetheless
i don't want to fill my house with new furniture
gourmet food
fine art
electronics
candy bars
or whores
distractions
it's all distractions to keep you
from realizing
that they are fucking you in the ass
every seconds hour and minute
you're alive
they're fucking you now
fucking me now
i just want to know
who's behind me
with the cock
wrapped in dollar bills.