Friday, March 23, 2012


When I'm unconscious
I'm happy, real world problems
float away from me.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

High School Chronicles: Switchblade Kiss

I used to love them,

the kisses of delusion,

the kisses of passion,

the caress of skin on silk,

knife against soul,

until the pain flooded in,

stabbing my mind until my mouth bled

with your lies from your fangs,

my eyes dark with the demon

you wanted in pleasure,

but now I'm here to cause you pain.

High School Chronicles: Speed

The scrape of skate and street,

better that scrape of skin on cement,

blood pumps more reliably

than any kiss has ever provided,

because the kiss of the wind never leaves,

never lets go,

never lies

Sweat swims down the face in heated pleasure,

and the wheels keep spinning........

Thursday, March 15, 2012

High School Chronicles: Absolute Beauty

So I guess a slight disclaimer is in order. I used to write poems at a site called (go there! you'll find some quality work in the featured poems section and submit some of your own if you feel so inclined). In searching out my own name on Google, I came upon a bunch of old poems from said site. Although these are embarrassing as hell, compared to some of the other work I've put up they are fairly tame. So without further ado:

Absolute Beauty

Her movements define grace.

Her features define beauty.

Her voice purrs with passionate song,

yet, I could never please her flawless existence.

And I now burn with icy pain;

Worse than the loss of white innocence,

to watch her admire one who does not deserve

the affection of heaven made flesh and sweet blood.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012


I eagerly hope
for contact without effort,
until then, I hide.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

The Gypsy's Night (2)

II. She, a vision.

Strolling up to her doorway
after a brief jaunt at a deli,
BLT crammed steadily into
my starving body crying slightly
from having Corona
shoved into it with
eager fists
ignoring the annoyed
grumble my stomach
gave, I made my way
inside her domain,
a first floor flat-like
place, framed around
her brightening face,

I again apologized for being late,
pulse beating heavy
at an alarming rate,
taking a breath I arrest
my resolve and hold
it close as I pull her
closer for a hug
she smiles
black top snug over
her braless torso
erasing the twinge
of sorrow and swallowed
apologies swimming around
in my gullet,
pushing me to gut it out
without worry,
confidence and Corona
in my veins now
mingling in a slurry
as we sit on her couch and talk.

Monday, March 5, 2012

The Sea (2)

Looking for my inner self
I knowingly submerged in
a sea of dirges,
I am Ahab searching,
a desperate mariner
muddled by madness,
this opaque ocean haunted
by ghosts of the past
who won't give me a pass.

I sank myself because
I feared loving myself,
so I drowned it in
heavy wet inadequacies
that seize my sight
and stir the fright
to take all the air
out of my sails,
for the sake of sanity
I must prevail.

The Gypsy's Night

I. The Rendezvous

It was an electric Friday,

crackling with party-hopping

restlessness across Bushwick,

throngs of people looking for

adventure amid the street lit apricot

streets as I attempted a feat

that had seen defeat on my last few tries,

to see a seemingly sweet girl

with hazel and green

eyes sigh pleasurably with me

sliding deep in between

her thighs,

I didn’t want to jump the gun,

fear of being under the thumb of

premature expectations,

the reverie of pregaming

with friends eased the pressure

as I watched myself mowed down

in a game of pool at a bar

like corn before the relentless thresher

I try to keep it cool on the

glacier-slow train ride to Bensonhurst

despite throbbing ventricles

beating out a force centrifugal

spinning in my gut,

I still feel a glut of nerves

clutched together shakily

as I step out of the station

hoping my lateness hasn’t

caused too much damage

on the designs of the night.

Friday, March 2, 2012


Shakespeare once wrote,
love is aught but a lust of the blood
and a permission of the will,
the Bard's favorite line of mine,
I often wonder what happens
when lust turns the blood into
a thin soup with bitter vinegar,
desire curdling away like a sickness,
chartreuse germ warfare assails simply,
arrows sharpened by base envy
nick pinpricks that fester into
embarrassing madness
in the limbs,
in the heart,
in the mind floundering
in the dark ichor
of crippled self-esteeem
hissing steadily like an
aggressive gas leak,
before you realize what is wrong
you are weak and then you
are the wanting dead shambling
in search of a fable,
a whimsical idea smoldering
in nervous flesh
whilst fictitious belles watch
uncomfortably from the wings
as you tear yourself apart
like Iago did Othello's life after he
uttered the line about the
lust of the blood,
often a heady drug burying
you deep in a hole you didn't
realize you've so meticulously dug.