jakedenneypoetry said: I'm very much impressed by your poetry. You don't give a fuck what people think, which is miraculous.

Thank you so much! You made my week :)

woman seeking woman

I promise I look better in real life

I’m pretty funny, or at least I make myself laugh

I’m terrified of a lot, of spiders,
of open spaces, of bottomless sea

I have an interest in BDSM,
adult theaters, and voyeurism

lets meet up tonight for drinks
I don’t drink but I’d be content
watching you build a toxicity
while I think of ways I could die

I can’t understand the desire
for immortality, so many
headstones would pile up
scraping the innards of the skull

anyways,

I love horror flicks on mute

I don’t believe in astrology

but I will admit that sometimes
nomadic constellations can
still affect my mind

If I say I’m going to the river
you will need to search my
pockets for heavy rocks

keep me away from sharp objects
I can see the dotted lines that
are prompting blades to release
my DNA

if I’m hugging my knees it just
means that I am hearing the earth
scream and creatures are frothing
up out of the oceans

it’s no big deal, really

I want to cry in the Rothko Chapel
I want to die in Texas like all the
killers tend to do

racists are just loud cowards

I see the bald boy eyeballing me
nostrils wrinkled at a stench
with the swastika on his bicep
and the eagle groping his neck

taking in my pigment and the
river rapid curl to my hair
he won’t look me in my brown eyes
he won’t share the air I breathe

he’ll probably make up a story at
his next rally about how he beat
me into bone meal squealing German
and they’ll feel proud of him

like his parents weren’t

Be Nice To Me

lucille-berkowitz:

call me the mutt of greater Europe
call me the snake beneath the boot
call me the severed finger sobbing
still having memories of the hand

call it Eden
with its seraphim
fire wielding/walking/singing
throat songs from the heavens

call it the horsehead nebula,
with youngling stars
clutching its neck
sleeping in their nursery

call it a blood mist from a wrist
mixed with a barbiturate’s slow spit
collect it all with mop and bucket
kiss me, choke me, crush me, fuck it

Be Nice To Me

call me the mutt of greater Europe
call me the snake beneath the boot
call me the severed finger sobbing
still having memories of the hand

call it Eden
with its seraphim
fire wielding/walking/singing
throat songs from the heavens

call it the horsehead nebula,
with youngling stars
clutching its neck
sleeping in their nursery

call it a blood mist from a wrist
mixed with a barbiturate’s slow spit
collect it all with mop and bucket
kiss me, choke me, crush me, fuck it

the priestly line

let me build a shack in the
poison oak cluster behind
the city but before the farmland
gurgling with life that

doesn’t ponder existentialist theory
that has the wonder in its cells
simply by eating, sleeping, dying

and I’m dying in ways only doctors
would know, my brain won’t
agree with itself

these are razor cuts, not bramble bite

I’m scared of everything at once
so it feels like nothing even happens

a galaxy is fretting over the
black hole on its doorstep
and I’m just trying to button
up a shirt with my failing fingers

47 flavors

when I am forty seven I
will hurl myself from a window

half a cigarette
a full plunge

suddenly my writing will
be paraded through the streets
and statues will be bronzed
and documentaries will make millions

and everyone will say, “gosh, I wish
I had heard about her when she was
still alive”

and people who never read a poem
will post on their blogs: RIP you glorious goddess, you touched so many lives

and I will give my blood to
the concrete
instead of you fuckers

Meshugenah Vol.II

I.

I grow my locks for my G-d
separating darks & lights
for the rinse/wash/recycle
seeing the tremors in dark matter

II.

In the woods with scuttle and thrash
river rocks and spawning slithers
beings clothed in light-garb
funneling prayer through fire flue

III.

call me orthodox with my “un’s”
breathing to breathe, bleeding bulbs
rituals ripe with retardant rite
I kill my ills with tinsel tongue

IIII.

freakish, though leash-less
Arbus portrait Saint-ness
my nose a racial indicator
saving sun spots for my savior

Meshugenah Vol. 1

I.

I have a chronic stomach condition
it flares with every bit of tsuris
so you could call it a fibonacci wick
endless, a novelty birthday candle

II.

and my eating habits are zilch
I wring my stomach with thoughts
a tapeworm would be a refugee
inside my intestines eating itself

III.

I loathe my cells
they could have been a tree
or a purple nebula dying for centuries
but they chose to be this of all things

IIII.

An elderly woman lives inside me
her name is Diane, she only speaks yiddish
when she wakes I feel her fossils in my joints
I limp and know what G-d sounded like when He walked on the earth

thekidwasalright:

Nymphomaniac: Vol. I

thekidwasalright:

Nymphomaniac: Vol. I