Nine White Russians

            In slathered paper syntax

                        the Godspeech told me

                                    to end it all, John, end it

            with exquisite corpse drawings

                        depicting grotesque

                                    fellows, throbbing and erect.

            Leave them behind on napkins

                        to receive confused

                                    and sloppy reactions from

            pseudo-intellectuals;

                        they have read a book

                                    but do not know what to think

            when I vomit on their shoes,

                        murmuring violent

                                    obscenities at their feet.

I Hope They Will Laugh...

Hopefully she will continue

to cuddle with the diary

and not me tonight;

they thought

I was a sophomore

in high school.

My daddy taught me

to fight for respect;

that will never change!

I'm feeling it today!!

Feeling alive again;

working

the migraine look.

Jean's best friend's

daughter Maddie S.

is a pledge with you too;

you will make

a wonderful

Tri Delt!

I know I've been single for a while,

but I'm not that desperate;

gosh darn it people like me.

Freezing,

covered in mud,

very tired.

Goodnight.

Portrait of a Classy Lady

All of this empirical evidence gathering has led me to believe that I exist.

I am skeptical as to whether or not she does to, but that would mean that I

am alone in solipsistic universe. I hate being alone; it freaks me out, but

this philosophy makes too much sense for me to just abandon it

for some company.

If I seem a little detached, it's only because I'm trying to figure it all out;

am I really grabbing at her with my claws or are my five senses

untrustworthy?

I can sometimes

feel the colors,

see the sounds

of a synesthetic specter

who is loosely based

on visions and on

hallucinations.

What does that make her?

She is my mere fiction,

but I think the Woody Allen poodle

mistakes her for mother;

She's something else entirely.

Neurotic Alfie dog burrows

into her arm when frightened;

bitch barking bitch

can't help yelping.

She shares my interests in

glistening new wave, in

Bowie, in

women.

And we dance,

but I swear that when I run my fingers sloppily through her hair, I am not hitting on her.

I swear that the unflattering faces we do from across the room are just expressions of our

platonic love;

I guess we're both just trying to write some

gay ass poetry.

Bernest

We thought we broke him

when he shouted

torment and dissonance

into accepting tune trench.

He named his song

"Harmonica."

315 Bowery

i thought i was punk rock,

flaunting clenched teeth.

the straight-edge spirit,

smothered in pot smoke,

tripped

over

untied

converses.

my apathy

slapped some silly stickers

and drew on my bass;

i felt shame while playing it.

their seditious spiked mohawks

dysphorically strummed

during the sunday morning -

sermons seemed so surreptitious.

i sat cultivating

a wayward,

whimsical

afro.

in reading the anti-war novels,

i thought i was prepared for the ghastly

horrors of life, but the preacher's daughter

wearing her purple prom dress

never loved me;

i thought i was punk rock,

but I was really

just a sniveling boy.