“Ode to Linger”

Berlin nights a watered bridge

still under church’s wolfs

bane remedy cure the

spark underneath a watered

bridge its occupants dressed

so overtly you’d think you

would of noticed them

a long time ago before

your eyelids painted hell

above your bed

where he scratched his

likeness with his tongue

over that watered, creaking

bridge and the light

found no solitude in what

it gave thee dead beauty

atop an almond vendor’s hat

traverse the watered bridge

with a purple orchid stuck

the belladonna stripped

under a black, Berlin sky.

“Half God Half Devil”

Your body stretches towards mine

ill flower

with roots as hands

but thorns growing on

the inside covered in sticky

red brine

born this way but

twisted into your own creation


I couldn’t help

but love

your throat covered in

the sins

you couldn’t save

I loved those too

your wrists awash in

good behavior

preached with

living torture

made with lines

drawn in the

sand of my favorite


made of you

misery marigold


I didn’t know

I was waiting for something

with two eyes and a grin

to swallow me up

Never spit me out.

I feel Not Myself

standing on a bulbous forked tongue.

Disheveled is a good word

I threw it in the river

with those fish who like to watch their own

suicides on live T.V.

I couldn’t find a note.

Someone’s mother was crying

in a Las Vegas hotel room

trapped by a bright red lotus

whose teeth I later sold.

I dreamed I was surgeon

operating on a Dead Man.



“A Grim Parlor”

The flames chatter to themselves in the fireplace, an eerie dialogue of insanity for any who walk near. Two armchairs, leather skin pulled tight over their flames, duel in silence. Each is precariously turned towards the other, foul words of a previous conversation hanging in the stale air.

But my calamity lies with the heads.

A line from a novel comes to me,

“We bear the grins of the smiling dead.”

So truthful a description, for a place such as this.

A macabre theatre of plaques and glass eyes, static veins and dull teeth. A glass of amber liquid – whiskey probably – sits on the coffee table, a buffer zone between the somber chairs.

It reflects the cruelty, the sourness, of this grim parlor.