I say
the things
you hate
to hear
because
I love you so much.

Sometimes I write
just to write
like a lover who fucks you
and forgets who you are.

A lover - if I dare
to call myself a lover
(I've got the flesh,
the sweat,
the cock,
the cum,
but not the passion, right?) -
can forget who you are.

But a poet - if I dare
to call myself a poet
(I've got the line breaks,
the economy of words,
the music,
the muse,
but not the rhyme, right?) -
cannot forget who you are.

Can he?

my mother
my mother
my mother
my mother said
you never really know anyone

but i know you
i used to be inside you
sucking your guts through my guts
i used to be outside you
sucking your tits through my mouth
i used to be miles from you
sucking your thoughts through my ears
i used to be next to you
sucking your body's heat with my body
but i know you

my mother
my mother
my mother
my mother said
you never really know anyone

It's hard enough
to walk in the dark
with your head turned back around.
Though I guess
if you try hard enough
you can make your way by sound.

We waste away
a little each day.
Soon, we'll be Nothing
again.

(from a work-in-progress)

The stars are dead
in a world that never lasts.
Surely you've better things to do
than live in the past.

It's so hard
not to tell you
how much I love you
every time we talk.

So when I'm alone,
I just whisper it
and hope you hear it
someday.

You make me say things
that are so embarrassing,
but if you'll continue to allow me
the privilege of knowing you,
then so shall it be,
so shall it be.

E.E.M. (2000)

All the things I said I didn't mean -
that's the way it should be.
I never said I loved you
because I did.
But two unspeakable loves
stood twisted between us,
each silent because of the other,
compromising one another,
like a child exposing his mother.
You're all I ever wanted, all I ever needed;
if only you or I were different in one way -
either from you or from me -
then the world would be a better place to be.

To a Prostitute (1992)

Tuesday night,
after hours of sex,
I took a shower
to wash you off me.

Arriving home late,
I was slapped in the face.
Yet again, I didn't wash
myself well enough.

To Brother (1992)

Years before, we two were scientists,
experimenting with forms of pleasure.
Hypotheses never existed on my behalf.
Although knowing the conclusion, I wanted
the result the procedure produced: orgasm.

(from a work-in-progress)

You bore me
Right through me
You gave me
This disease

(from a work-in-progress)

The mirror crack’d
When you looked in it,
As the hearts of men break
In the presence of God.

I open the window
at night
so the sirens
can rock me to sleep.

Dreams of you
are fleeting
and few
but I close my eyes anyway.

Sleep, sweet Sleep,
the River Lethe's
got nothing on me.

Look for me
- I know you won't -
and you'll find me
in my bed,
not asleep
but half-dead.

Empire (1992)

I sucked the dick of the Empire,
drained the marrow, its life-source,
from the wrinkled shaft and spit it out
onto cold concrete; it tasted bad.

The masses screamed like dying butterflies
when I began to slurp, my tongue darting,
my hands clawing for stability.
Their evil was leaving them; I was happy.

The orgasm left them weary but relieved.
Prejudice squirmed like a snake,
Hate throbbed like a dying heart,
and it all spewed from my mouth,
a fountain of Man's sins; it tasted bad.

Eyes were opened wide enough to watch
the ghastly mucous seep into the depths
of the Earth, on its way back to Hell.
Cries of joy abounded, men and women wept
and thanked me for Nothing; I was happy.

this might be the worst poem
youll ever read
if you manage
to make it
to the end
ah the end
the fucking end
thats what i want
the end
youll find no
beautiful language
intricate wordplay
insightful metaphors
not even
any punctuation
maybe a little selfpity
because poetrys supposed
to be honest
brutally
crushingly
honest
and sometimes
i feel sorry for myself
if only because nobody else will
but thats it
im going to terrorize
this art
twist it so badly
that al qaeda
will look like the virgins
that await them
that they fuck the shit out of
because im a miserable wreck
of a fucking person
suicides too good for me
i cant even write
a good poem
anymore

I was going to tell a story,
but I forgot what it was,
so I'll say something else.
I'm tired of being lonely.
Is there a place for us passionate ones
besides the hell of unfulfilled desires
and unrequited love?
Maybe there's a place -
yes, that's it, a place!
(I've said it three times now) -
we can go
where pain
is nothing
(nothing)
(no thing)
(NOTHING)
but just a slick knife across a throat
or a sly bullet through so many thoughts
that'll never see the day anyway.
Ah, but dreams are for fools,
so I'll shut my fucking mouth now
and go to sleep.

Never

I'm so in love with you,
and you're so not in love with me -
that's why the world
will never stop spinning
for us.

Hey, you , when you talked to God today,
Did He have anything interesting to say?
Maybe something you could share with me too?
Or was it just between Him and you?

Oh, we talked about saints and sinners,
The world's best losers and worst winners.
And we talked about Life and a little about Death too.
But no, we didn't talk about you.

Well, I was just wondering, if God had His way
Whether Life would be all work, Love, and play.
Or would He still make us cry, fight, and die too?
Tell me, did He say anything about this to you?

He'd just finished lunch and was looking ahead to dinner,
Maybe find a fresh of measure of Time and skin her,
Though He did say He had other things on His mind too.
Next time, my friend, we'll talk about you.

When you bit me
Out in the shade
of the apple tree,
I came
Harder
Than I’ve ever come.
Maybe it was your straight teeth
Or maybe it was my tough skin;
I don’t know
But I remember
Wanting you to do it again.
Will you follow me
Out there
Where you bit me
And made me come?
Or do you want
To bite me somewhere else,
Maybe another place
Out of reach of the sun?

I wish my Life
were a CD-
I'd find track 21,
hit REPEAT,
and listen
to all the dumb shit
I used to say:
proclamations of Empire
from the once-and-future king
of his own demise.
Insanity's never been a problem.
Lives, like songs, create themselves,
only to be discovered
by blubbering fools.
Why can't they end
the way they begin,
a sputtering,
The Big Bang,
perfect,
without a scratch
or skip,
mysteries for generations
to come to solve,
just before they push STOP?

I try so hard to say
something that hasn't been said before
that I say nothing at all.
Silence.
Silents.
A theater full of hats and gowns,
colored by black-and-white images,
reading words they'll never hear
but in their minds.
We can only do so much
with what we've got
that our tears don't mean anything anymore.
When the thought-
THE THOUGHT-
arises, grab it, shake it,
don't let go
till it's stood the test of time,
then watch it float away,
shrinking with distance
until another comes along.
I try so hard not to say
something that's been said before
that I say nothing at all.

Write your song
and leave out
all the important words