Tagged: junk

Share a Shake before the End.

Hanging Smoker

To see the world through a haze of smoke

To see the dirt, the hate and the H

Under hungry, haggard finger nail

he’s choking (in) the street

he’s lying (in)to the street.

They stand around

Insectile, rolling withdrawal

Like the turtle crushed the world

Between his shell and the concrete

like a sigh, head hung low

deeply and profoundly insulted

your proudest, deceased relative

that’s all it was

but they hungered for it

clawing off his skin

decaying

tenderloin rack

stripped from the bone

penetrate, barbed cone

slurping marrow marshlands

just to prove

that it was the genes

that’s what made the addict

and that’s what made him weak.

Fingertips cutting off the circulation

one cigarette at a time.

Could I reach the page end?

before gnat beating

unconscious aortic corridor

gives out

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Behind the Days Inn

In the cemetery of the youth
frantic junkies frisking
For the frequented fix

Body odor orgies
Wasteland ovaries
And spurting seed like
Northwestern rains

Motels rented by the hour
Where love can be
mimicked long enough
For neither to know
The cold reality

fairies
and Cinderella
are from stories
the desolate
create to delude
and lobotomize

But 12.50
a night
Is too costly

Crack rocks
Copulating in the dying grass
The same patch
On which
I was conceived

Hepatitis party favors
And needles passed around
Ancient family heirlooms
Tradition

We all shoot up with the same needle
That did in Grandpa
When he got wise
And noticed the hungry cats
In the corners of
Sterile hospital rooms
Doused in the gasoline of aging
Drifting from sappy faced reunions
Into the void

Love Seat

Junkie California coastals
Fuck on the tattered up
Couch on my porch

They don’t mind the light
From my burning cigarette
Or a hand down dirty denim

While they go at it
And at it
They cry out
To an impartial
Crescent moon

Sometimes I join in
They say that’s how I became
venereal vermin

But it was me
That did it to them

I’ve collected every disease
From the five corners of the world

I wait on a throne
Of the dead proletariat
the exclusive club
of people whose
genitals share the same rot

Meditation

Maybe Buddha is slouching over
A radioactive T.V. dinner.

Maybe you attain enlightenment
Through the meditative
Chewing of Styrofoam
That’s sustained you
For 8 years.

Maybe Jesus died
In the middle of an
Intravenous orgasm
Maybe the Dharma was carved
Into the bathroom stall
Of a whore house
Somewhere in limbo.