down in me

i let a stranger tongue my face
and ever since I feel like puking when I think
i let a stranger fondle my ass
on the outside of my little jean skirt
and ever since I feel like shitting my pants
i smell him like a wasp smells a bear
and my insides want to projectile through my nose
because when i say i let
i mean i invited
like in the movies, when you have to invite the vampire into your home
only it wasn’t a vampire
or a teenager
just a big man with a big boner
and me
with the perfect boner-shaped opening
overripe for the slaughter
and ever since i feel like dying when i think
or maybe living some more
i got his number in my phone
maybe i will call him
and listen to my ears bleed lubricant
let him fuck me, live inside me
while the walls melt
and in the morning
nothing happens
and i don’t smell him
while i continue charades
and i forget
how i was swollen
not with regret but with acceptance
how i was prodded
by a strange white cock
and inside my girl
there is nothing
and inside my woman
there is death
and inside
there is outside
and outside
there is nothing

I got up to pee. In the dark, I slipped on slippers and shuffled in the direction of the bathroom. It felt darker than usual for bedtime. I stepped out of my bedroom into what I thought was my hallway but was a dark void. I died. Then I remembered I still had to pee. I died with a full bladder. Did you know that when you die you retain your last bodily state? A sort of psychic photograph. I died while needing to pee and slightly sleepy. Nobody was waiting for me in the bathroom. I kept reaching up to rub my eyes but I had no hands. I wished to pee and go back to bed but I could no longer find the hallway. Or the toilet. Or the bed. Or the door. Or the lightswitch. Or the other door. Or the floor. Or the wall. Or my flat. Or my face.

A pretty brunette with eyes like late afternoon golden suns on a planet that has two suns set in a peachy expanse of heaven.

I came back to tell you how much I loved it but you were gone.

I spit disease.

I’m tired of propping you up like we’re in a shitty eighties movie.

I’m tired of thin-lipped brunettes waxing pretty and making me agitated.

They don’t know what they’re talking about.

I would spank myself, but I don’t like the feeling of my skin against my palm.

But I like the feeling of my palm against my skin.

And I like the feeling of almost too drunk.

But I don’t like the feeling that comes next.

Just kind of waiting, waiting. And sleep is the cut off of waiting for brief hours until you wake to wait again.

New literature from Ex Cathedra. A couple of new poems from me. They are about insecurity. Which is funny since I feel inadequate because my poems are only a few lines long. There are some poems that are three screens long. Someone tell me once and for all, does size matter? Or do I need a magic poem-lengthening cream? I am willing to undergo procedures.

There is a poem I really like by R.C. Miller, whom I’d not seen around before, so already this endeavor has paid off. There is also a gorgeous story by Barry Graham. It was dedicated to Nicolle Elizabeth. I have decided to change my name to Nicolle Elizabeth.

I love Vaughan Simons.

Sweet boy with mean streak for playmate to nice, lonely girl. Must be interested in knives, glitter, sex, music, philosophy and bubbles. Must write good bad poetry. Must not impregnate girl. Must be artistic with blood, semen and other bodily fluids. Must not beat girl at video games. May beat girl in bed. Responsibilities will include toenail-painting, asphyxiating, tickling, challenging, coddling, spanking, etc. Send sample poetry or artwork and short biographical note.

All this and more
could be yours if
your wheelbarrow
wheels over my
pretty pretty toes.
Harmful if swallowed
particularly at night.
Hey. Hey? Hey
don’t bogart the
nachos, dude.
My urethra has
swollen to the girth
of three octopus
tentacles.
Large purple ones.
Clean, teen scene,
serene. Obstacled.
Tentacled. And a
little bitty shitty we’ll
call Billy, that spits
his sputum, spurts
his semen, strains
his sternum, into the
basin after dark.

I am an aborted fetus, but that is not an indictment of my character or my looks; just on TWITTER666, new journal from cool cats, Sam Pink and Martin Wall.

Kill some time, kill some twitter, kill some children. Here are some of my favourites so far:

an_atm: Giving out money. Grudgingly.
a_big_sandwich: i want to go to africa and jump into a child’s mouth.
a_face_tattoo: am i fashionable?
creepy_old_man: if there’s a better way to spend your day than sleeping in a tube slide, well shit, i haven’t heard it.
fetus_aborted: listening to nirvana’s in utero album, feeling emotional
a_movie_extra: Practicing crying. At least I think I’m practicing.
lionelritchieCD: Those bastards are listening to Faith No More.