Monday, 22 November 2010


This...thing...between us...I don't know what it was...but it left me with a strange taste in my mouth. An indefinable yearning. It made me ache in weird, special places, especially the ones open to the world and raw and smarting. Like we should have met in another lifetime and now we're going to miss this chance again. I recognized your voice and had to...had to...cling.

 a growing doubt. a fear. a vague need.

To be held by you and believe that you'd be the one to make it all end. To make this recurring journey stop. Make it stop.

i don't know what you made me expect. i don't know if you're a ray of hope or a gun to my temple. oh, i know now. i want to be you. ngah. i really don't know what i'm talking about. i don't know you. but you're my hero. i don't even want to fuck you. what's this? like two white shafts of light colliding. yes right i wish, fucking is a smelly and dirty business.

But for you...for you i'd take pills, handfuls of pills and you'd let me lie by your side on your bed and you'd let me curl against you and wrap my hair around you and maybe you'd cradle me or my head and caress my neck and back while i'd slowly and peacefully drift to death.

i either wanted to be you -the boy with the beautiful words and erratic temper- or i wanted to die by your side wishing you'd find a way to keep me in your heart or bury me under your floor.

My corpse would be more of  a person than i am now. now i'm this vague blur this black hole you can fill with your need or anger or pain or abuse or lust or violence or affection or poison or sex or lies or hate. now i'm this vessel you can use to cum in, to piss in, to float in, to shit in, to puke in, to stomp in, to fuck in, to stab in, to bleed in. now i'm here this wound to infect with your imagination. now you don't know my smile or the colour of my eyes you don't know my birthmarks and freckles you don't know my sense of humour or if i have one you don't know what my face looks like when you make me cum you don't know my tears or laughter you don't know what books i like and what kind of music i listen to, and i know you wouldn't give a damn anyway or i'd make you bored after the fucking you'd see my ugliness you'd see my emptiness so i had to hide.

as a corpse, maybe you'd let me be your lover. maybe you'd know me then.

as a corpse, i'd wait for you under your bed. i'd smell and absorb the juices of your lovers. the boys and the men you fucked, the boys and men that fucked you. i'd be the awkward rancid smell that'd make them scrunch their noses, the dead smell that 'd permeat your bones, your skin, your dreams, your words. i'd be a warm nest of soft holes and inscets and pliant, decaying flesh to slip into after your big men and sugar daddies fukced you raw. i'd caress your insides with secret creatures born in my eyes and fermnted in my belly. I'd lay still and patient like the earth for you, around you, waiting.  

Thursday, 18 November 2010


i'm losing my lovers to my hired friends
i'm losing my friends to that boy that wants to be swathed in crispy white sheets
people come near to see me but won't talk to me
if they do, i just stare back cos i really don't know what to say that won't make me sound stupid or ridiculous
it's like a mirror breaking
and it's like a moon in the mirror
a thousand splinters a thousand rays that pierce my groin
and blood looks black in the night
i don't know if i'm bleeding or if you're playing games
i don't know know about no holes no hopes no hollows
just the hollow of your cheek
scary when i wrap myself around you i can feel you
your body is thumping against my chest
like a bird erratic being of tiny fast breath
i'm afraid i will crush you
your eyes bug out
oops, i'm thinking and squeeze tighter
i've lost my friends to my self's own enemy
i just wish i could do something beautiful
watching my friend being fucked by his boyfriend depresses me
i wish i could shoot at words
i wish i could shove a gun up their ass
and pull the fucking trigger
there's no reason i write this
i'm no poet
it's my way of saying, fuck off
or fuck me?

Tuesday, 16 November 2010

60. barbeque

Lying (here?there?) in a puddle of blood and of shit and of semen.
Watching his combat boots move around the room.
I want to lie here till the sunlight slivers into dark.
Into disappearance.
And then i will lie here some more. It's warm and sticky, here.
Until I disappear.
Only an ear pressed against splintering floorboard. Muffled and thud-thudding human steps of human beings in the other human cells. Faint zoom and whizz of human traffic outside the rectangle of pale purple.
His boots come and stand in front of me.
Boot tapping shoulder.
Boot digging at ribs.
Boot screwing itself into stomach
you alive
Crouching. I smell him. It's the scent of war and hearth encasing me into thick white smoke.
Hand on my shoulder shaking.
speak now
Diversion blown into wide open eyes and mouth and nostrils-it stings
talk to me
bitch you respond when i talk to ya
And then it's snowing
Flakes on my tongue which he holds out between index and thumb
The taste of war and hearth and sand and salt and ash
And then the bite of fire
Biting at my tongue saliva sizzling
Smoke rising
(i'm) a human bomb
not longer I but someone else something else
smoked meat on the grill
Charred flesh
and tears of gunsmoke.

61. hunger

                                                                      sudden wave of nausea

Eat something.
                                                                      i'm gonna puke

Too much liquid. Your belly is so soft. It's making wierd squishy noises. Like a water mattress.
                                                                      i don't know what's inside me

Like putting a sea shell against your ear, I can hear the sea.
Though it's probably gas.
                                                                     it's all dead, rotten, rotting

We could have some fun.

                                                                    no, no, i don't want to go, please

I wouldn't hurt you.


I rather like you. I want to make you feel good.

                                                                         please, no



One touch.


One kiss.


One little kiss.

                                                                     no tongue

So sweet. Yum.

                                                                     you said...

Why can't you be more enthusiastic?

                                                                my mum keeps asking me


                                            i think she wants to kill me tear me apart make me happy

I want to make you happy.
Do you need to be dead to be happy?

                                                                   why ar you asking me these things i want to sleep

Want me to shoot you up?

                                                                  it makes me sick to my stomach

Give me your veins.

                                                                     mum's gonna kill me

I will keep your blood forever in this
little vial with your name on.

i carry a book with me always like a talisman
something to keep me safe from the world
my self
I love you. You're special.

                                                   i'm a stereotype and i want to go home and
                                                        i can't sleep i just stare dream
                                                                with my eyes open
                                    sometimes of someone who would love me so much
                                                               he'd tear me to pieces
                                                                and make me forget

This is my favorite switchblade.
Lick it.
I will make you forget.
I will remember you always.

Monday, 15 November 2010

62. satanic ritual

All hail the divine mockery of words!
All hail the sacrosanct act of thievery, blessed among poets and madmen, on a twisted path to erection!

I'm not as good as they come. I'm not suffieciently good. I'm not good at all.

I'm not even a person. I forgot how to be one. Who is a person, please stand up. Please, raise your hand.

Am I a stereotype or a thief of identity? A liar and a sinner, i lied my way through rehabilitation and psychological evaluation, and sinned through the slow and painful process of therapy and healing.

You know, the actual struggle begins now, child. You know, this is where it will get real tough.
gee, thanks for not putting any pressure on, doc.
You'll be fine. You're strong.

I just nod because i want you to like me. I'd say and do and agree to anything for you to really like me. Maybe enough to pat my head or squeeze my shoulder. Just don't say you love me because that's a lie. Just don't touch me, not too much anyway.

One step at a time, dear. One day at a time.

          the new morning is poison. it's damnation. one more day. (10-9-2010). sitting on the toilet and taking an insignificant shit. never has my surface been so clean, so immaculate, so clinically deterged. shit smelling of flowers and all. how am i gonna make it through one more fucking day. i think of god and how i'd love him to help me but it's not like i really believe in his existence so i'm just sitting here insides clenching, anus discharging manure. i mean, one more day. fuck.

      this is going to get all weird soon. i know it. i can feel it. it's like a  sickness in my bones.    

satanicritualize me.

I want to slip down to my basic essence. I want to look in the mirror and see me. I want to strip layer after layer after layer -off! Even the bones wear a snicker, a wariness, impassiveness that drives you out of your mind. The strongest bleach and scrub won't reveal me.

                                                                                        i know you have tried to.

It wasn't so much the need to be loved as it was the need to be known. To be translated. To be figured out. To be given a name and a meaning. To be given a narrative and a narration. To be given a circle of friends and comrades and a category. oh the blessedness of falling under categories. 

                                                         i know you have tried to pry open that can of worms which is my stomach and my head. my mouth vomitted black pus because your incisions lacked the mastery and infected me. i lay in that bed for days screaming your name while you were out fucking some other gullible douchebag.

I told you i wanted to die because i just couldn't stand waiting for the day i would die. The waiting was fucking killing me. Seriously. It was just a matter of getting over with it. Also, I would express my allegiance to you.

i heard you fuck and i swear it was the sound of love. then you held his head and bashed it against the corner of the nightstand. there was a slight cracking sound, like when you poke at an eggshell. i stood there shaking. it should have been me. blood ran down that side of the furniture. the boy's hair stuck with blood on his face. it was like a yellow strawberry turban. it was so long you could choke him with it.

In the hospital I grew my hair long for you.

   degrade me into a hole in which you can shit in, piss in, cum in and throw your dead children in.

i'll digest everything. i'm strong.
i'm hallucinating.
take your pills. you'll be perfect tomorrow.

Friday, 12 November 2010


You deserve the world,
you said as you plucked a few stars from the sky and shoved them down my throat. Then you held my hair while i puked rainbows.

i walked around with a silly smile on my swollen mouth and the smell of your intestines on my paws and snout. This is the closest thing to love i've known.

Look; you unfolded your palm; my teeth were your blood diamonds.

Thursday, 11 November 2010


First thing: the soft crumbly touch of earth. I can feel it around my fingertips and chunky grime gathers beneath my fingernails. Dig, dogboy, dig your way through and out. I would really like to stay here forever in the nourishing soil and let it caress my eyelids and hum against my ears and I would like the earthworms to liven up my mouth with their eggs and incessant elegant wriggling. Life beneath the ground is robust and protective like a cocoon.

There's a call froma bove, a warning, a sign. A voice which commands me to revival. I never belonged up there with the air and the sun and the sounds of cars and drilling machines and laughter and the words coming out from people’s mouths and the light. No matter how dark it gets up there it’s never entirely and ultimately black. There’s no protective surrounding matter. There is no womb, no veil. The act of resurrection doesn't suit me.

My fingertips dig into the softness, they claw like little blind tired insects. Dirt keeps falling into my open mouth. I breathe the last breaths of safety and fear. I rise slowly. My eyelids blink some crumbs of matted earth away and the orbs of my eyes meet not the sky but the ceiling.

I don’t know who my parents are. What do they do for a living. What do they look like. Do they like me? Do they know I’m here? Do they know I sleep underground? Do they know my name? Do I know theirs? Do I know who I am? Do I know my name? Do I want to know?

Do you?