Subterranean Thoughts


Prodding dreamily at the space under

My chin. The space where the shotgun would fit

Snugly in. Thoughts that vaguely meander

As I rest under this gnarled tree’s bough. It

Seems that it would be no trouble at all

If I was to fall from this place and rest-

Lessly crawl on through. I just need to call

On that one moment’s decision; a guest

In no time of neck-snapping Death who yet,

As my host, ushers me beyond.

What remains; a whip lashed marionette,

Shattered and twitching, that will not respond.  

Twitching Rigid


A moist fuck

In the temple of taboo.

Siamese duck

Made into stew.

Suck drenched wet cunt

As, after dinner, grandparents

Ruttingly grunt

In their political tents.

The Marxist Ferret


Frying pan clam-shut cat

Drives me, distancing future from that

Future I planned on my vernal mat.

Torpor conquers my feverish terror

In a rigid battle to close the door.