19 June 2013

The General

lizard-skinned half-buzzed
head flesh glittering gold
in self-created holes black
boots spit-shined no bra
bars through star-lined
nipples The General is
the creep who shakes me
from sleep makes a slit
in my soul crawls straight
through the hole walks
around inside me operates
my limbs like a demolitionist
at the controls of a wrecking
ball takes charge of my
tongue and turns it silver
dips it in acid uses it on girls
in the bathrooms of dive bars
with no intention of calling
in the morning talks like
a Nazi shitshow charisma
oozing from every pore
she swells my glands with
the use of powder and
sick sick sweat spends my
hard-earned cash on hash
red-eyed nosebleed headaches
premature signs of aging
does my hair up in a style
that says this is the fun-loving
wrung before rockbottom
she marionnettes me
never lets me find a safe
hole to stay in she drags my
conscience from behind
the wheel by his heels so
she can drive me take me
for a joyride jump ship
split seconds before the
moment of impact and like
always leave me alone to
look on singed hair blistered
body smoking horrified

Crack the Spine Issue 68

Two of my pieces of microfiction ("Jinx before turning blue" and "May through December") appear in this issue of Crack the Spine! Check it out:
Crack the Spine, Issue 68

18 June 2013

pillowtalk

i love a man who makes
me a bed from his own
warm bones who lets me
lay up in his junkyard
arms with the breath
of a dying dog licking
at my neck until the day
has met its death in the
dumpster out back

when i leave my bed
of ruin barren to sleeptalk
to the tune of his halfrusted
organs settling like a
stormworn st. claude
shotgun my sleep is
garnished with visions
of the bluedress dead
girl hung from the doornail
the bloodstained hogfaced
butcher pumping his
accordion like a rifle
the corpulent green
corpse hollowed out
and used to serve
popcorn the most lifelike
babydolls with heads
that come unscrewed
and spray crimson when
they meet pavement

i love a man who reads
me back my dreams
in the daylight who
asks about the color of
the door the level of dust
on the frame the fabric
from which the hanging
woman's dress is stitched
the pattern of the blood
spattered on the pigman's
apron the expression on
each of their faces and
never once demands
to know the meaning

Crack The Spine: Issue Sixty-Eight Contributors

Crack The Spine: Issue Sixty-Eight Contributors: A little preview of our upcoming contributors...

Two of my pieces of microfiction will be published in the next issue of Crack the Spine! Stay tuned!