wasn’t great

A poem.


my counsellor told me to deal in certainties;
to stop worrying about things outside me;
to find my new identity,
stop living in the past and get with this century.

i don’t like movies anymore.

there was a time that finding
a new Oliver Reed film would excite me,
or rewatching something by Spike Jonze
or Paul Schrader could entice me
to stick my head out of the hole where no one could find me.
when watching Dirty Work for the dozenth time
or any Evil Dead would put me on cloud nine
when all i wanted to do was stop being alive.

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dick health

A poem.


porn stars champion against STDs;
their charters of rights & freedoms,
but what if it hurts to pee?
is that still statistically-considered a disease
if you’ve been yanking on your widget since you were thirteen,
and now you’re thirty-four
and when you stand over the bowl
you’re afraid you’ll shit your pants with how hard you extoll?

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wow

A poem.


just

wow.

damn girl

i love the way you wear those jeans –
you’re one thick-bootied jean-wearing machine!
didn’t someone stop you when you left the house this morning
to tell you that what you got going on ain’t boring?
the way you’re walking down the street
got my ice cold heart beating mean.
wow.

just
wow.

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i sit and dream

in repetitious themes

A poem.


always with my head in the clouds
thinking out loud
at work and on the couch.
sometimes i cry

but it’s only fleeting
when i remember in whose bed i’m sleeping.

even though the sheets are Gluckstein Gode,
the floor still feels good after i’ve shot my load –
every day, waiting to explode
then collapse into dark of the shared abode.
i can’t even watch Married With Children anymore.

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