mojo swinia

I saw the picture of your new
girlfriend.
the one in the pighat.

aw.
isn't she cute.
and you wrote
on it in polish.
my pig.
aw.

how is it
fucking a pig?
does she
oink
in enjoyment?
I bet
you take that
bacon from the back

boo.ya.
damn
she's hot,
big shot.
hittin' that
pig twat.

I bet you're
licking that
pig clit
as I write this.
legit.

pink is really your color.

goodbye

so I guess I was your toilet paper.
there to clean up the shit
and tossed in the toilet
with your cigarette.
and you shit on the ashes
to ensure
they
flush.

so I guess that whole thing
was a lie.
you aren't the nice guy.
and you used me
for sex
and booze
and to sooth your
bruises.

so I guess we're done
here.
after three years
of chocolates on
mondays
your breath on my neck
kissing on the carpet
and falling off the bed.

I left myself
on your doormat.

frigid

I check his fridge for other bitches.
Ketchup
Busch. The cheap shit, naturally.
Strawberry jelly.
An egg.
And vodka.
He is a tequila man, and this bottle of razz is half empty.
I allow the silver door to clash into his eggshell wall and gash a chasm.
He is absorbing the news at a volume that I’ve labeled, “geriatric enjoyment.” We are still invading Iraq and shit. I wonder who he’s been invading.
“Why do you have vodka?” the liquid sloshes as I clench the red razz neck and wish it were his.
He buys a second. “Huh?” an ass-scratch of an answer. Asshole.
“The vodka. You never drink vodka. Why do you have it?” Hands on hips. Typical chick stance; bitch bordered by triangled limbs.
His toes wriggle inside his polyester work socks with the gold tips. They remind me of Achilles. Except Mr. Vodka sells his weakness with his feet. I wish I were his weak heel. A tender tendon.
“Got it at the grocery store.”
In my mind I have committed vodka homicide; a razz attack that splits his limbs with glass shards and alleys of alcohol that erode an acid passage and boil every cell. He has a real big red razz stain on his shit shag rug in the shape of his fucking Bacardi buzz.
“That’s real fuckin’ funny.” I sidle my eyes icily into his.
“What?”
I’m thinking the jail time might be worth the swift demolition of his jaw. He makes me wish men couldn’t talk.
“You know what I mean. Why do you have a fucking bottle of raspberry vodka? You don’t drink this chick shit. And isn’t this over your Busch budget?”
I imagine his new bush budget. She probably has this 90’s trash tramp stamp of some fucking Chinese symbol that she thinks says, “river,” or “strength.” And Lucite shoes she wears to show off her French pedicure. I’ve given hotdogs better blow jobs than her nasty-ass gap tooth could handle.
“It’s really not that big a deal.”
I wonder if I should look for hairs of hers. Some long blond curls. They would probably glitter. And smell like TRESemmé. Shit, they probably sing country music.
He has assigned himself to the television dutifully. Truck crash in expressway construction. Egg recall. New studies show benefits of red wine.
The vodka bottle clinks against the black marble countertop as I set it aside; the sound of resignation.
My eyes trace his checkered kitchen tiles as I force the slow burn of hate. I meditate on the waste he’s made of me. The small taste he gave me, and the wait he made me.
I am in his fridge shelves of shit. I am his leftovers. I am his rottens. I am his forgottens.
I close his fridge and hope all that shit poisons him.

un

I am the peach
pit.
But not slick.
Wasted.
Licked
And tossed.

I was ripe
For a bit
Bitten
Dripped
Slurped
And deserted.

I have no fruit

moving on

And how is that other bitch?
Is her twat
as tight as mine?
Does she wine
When you twist
Your cock clockwine
In her cunt?
Does she grunt
Does she scream
Does she make you
Feel big,
Wrinkle dick?

Are her tits huge
And does her ass
Have gravity?
Is her skin smooth
And do her thighs
Touch?

Is she everything
I’m not?
Is she hot?
Is she thin
Are her fingers
Dainty
Does she smell
Like lily
Are her
Arms less
Hairy?

Did she leave
A pink thong
For you to
Smell
Is her
Wet spot
In your
Mattress
Does her
Hair smell
Like your
Marlboros
And does she
Bum a smoke
And stroke
Your manhood
Manwood.

And when you
Look at her

Do you think of me?

Coffee Porn

She licks red lipstick off her coffee cup. Then looks up.
He thinks she was giving a blowjob to her cup of caffeine. Please. Who pleases caffeine? Coffee is its own semen. A dream. A wonder machine. A love liquid that quilts a lilting lust through her gut. A steamy libation penetration.
She is wrestling her pink tongue into the cup’s lid that has an unflinchingly small opening. Her taste buds scratch at the plastic like a desperate cat.
She is at it again.
Her unconscious caffeine routine gathered an audience: He, who rather liked the obscene.
He wore jeans. And a dark roast cashmere sweater. His skin was breve.
“I’m Joe”
Maybe she could blow coffee.

Matter

His breath is lit cigarettes. He doesn’t know the bitch beside him. His head spins sins and he has no sheets and no box spring on the mattress that just shits on the unfinished floorboards.
Holes in his Hanes. Frayed seams. Seems ‘fraid.
Pale legs swim with black kinks clog his drain sink. He melts in showers. His skin smoulders. Hunched shoulders. Failed shoulds. Failed woulds. Fuming wounds.
The air is empty. The air is cold.
His nails grow. Too long. Baked with dirt. Frayed. ‘fraid.

Swirl

He might as well have swirled me with his finger like chamomile tea because that’s how I always felt. And I always made sure his fingers were near mine.
“Can I have this?” I pose his skin to sin with mine. Nestle our fingers a love nest. And carve a cradle of his chest.
His face is happy with my arrangement.
It is another season of colored lights. Orange, I think. Our shoddy bar is dim and our drinks are downed.
And the air is a clean crisp that cuts our lungs before we breathe each other.
We will swirl together before he has to go home to his wife.

Some thoughts on a smooth breakup

Broken hearts!
And shit
And cupid
And red.
And the smell of sex rotting my bed.
And the pretty girls.
All of them
Like, everywhere.
With their fairytale hair. Why is there always a breeze to make them look beautiful?

I’ve eaten better bratwurst than your penis
And those screams were for want of better meat
And mustard.
Oh, and a poppy seeded bun.

I take back all the babes
I babbled your way.
And there might be sugar in your gas tank.
And you always said I was so sweet.

Just to be nice, I’ll name my next bratwurst after you.

breakfast and religious shit

Mary
stares at me
through silhouetted
crumby
wondertoast.

I am holy,
she boasts.

She is brown
and begs for butter.

confess your sins
at breakfast;
leave your secrets
within my crusts.

though
i don't know
if I can trust
this
holy dough

or if
i should talk
to toast

She seems sad
beneath a smear
of cream cheese

The early bird

Bitches watched a blue swallow tattoo
needle ink into her
neck
after she nearly drunk herself to death.
birds, bimbos, and blowjobs belong.
neck and neck.
next to gold Jesus
outstretched.
welcomes
ejaculate.
wet.
and milky
with a million
that die on her chest

late at night

alone
and smell like
smoke.
blond marlboro
and owned
by emotion.

lonely wind
combs
my skin
reminds me
what I've
missed.

some loss
of innocence.
sex in sand.
powders.
flowers
& something to
call
ours.

hands on
my breasts
while I scrub
dishes.

I wish my
sheets smelled
like sex
and not
tide.
I wish I could
wake up
and not cry,
eat eggs
and sleep again
and wake up
vile
with a
crooked smile
and aisles
of ache.

I feel like
a mile
of mistakes.
miss takes
a walking
earthquake
and a sick
inner bitch
I can't
shake.

I want
to rid
all of it.

my one true love

tryst's definition
is
with.

and sometimes
there's secrets.

why are all
these miles
on my car

is that new
perfume?
lipstick?
skirt?
and since when
did I
learn
to flirt.

there's a mirror
in my purse now
and I blast my music
a little
louder.

he is my
secret meeting.
my on switch
my tryst
with.

he doesn't know
I wrote this.

I have other
trysts.

Should I slow it down for you?

I cry,
ok?
Let me be
and let me have
my salty
sprinkles
drift across
my cheeks.

it isn't weakness,
crass ass.
and stop asking
why this happens.

this isn't my solution
I don't have loose leaks
I don't need pipes cleaned,
are you listening?

it's my outlet
my dead end outfit
my last luck
dumb struck
shit fuck
this sucks
bite the dust
reflex.

my
missed the last bus
duct flood.

does this process,
thick skull?

I recognize
your emotional
retardation
as a
severe
limitation
in your
maturation,
and your inability
for empathy
is evinced
by your
heart's
extrophy
or lack of
that
aforementioned
organ.

did you catch that?

Norma

She is
the
who's who.
the owl's hoot.
the late night booze.
the party crew.

She has these curly
Q's.
cute.

She's the
I love you boo
who runs from truth
and true blues.
daggers a hole
before
its possible
and destroys the seams
so no one
can sew.

it's too bad
there's booze and
beauty
to blunt
reality.
blur
the
sadtosees.

and she laughs a lot
to distract
the spot that
bleeds
the blackest.
twists insistence
ace bandaids
until the puddle
lessens.
but she still
buries the bullet.


erects a deflect
detour
with
flashing orange horses
and tries
to live something
less horrible.

those formative years never really go away

I am the fat chick.

the
splat
chick.

the
ditch our date on the 8th
chick.

the
plastic glasses
the
fantastic fat rolls
the
five chin folds
chick.

the
forget I'm fat funny girl
the
big boobed too soon boom across the room
chick.

she owns my soul.
she knits a net of regret that
touches my toes
and she
has the license
to drive
this shift.

she is all my shit
and scoffs
and the blonde
chick
I've become.

she knows my secrets
she inks them in eager
genes
that promise to repeat.

she is my evil
she is my vile
she lives.

what's the point

hey,
strange fruit,
you blew it.
you bruised it.
you refused it.

you
blackandblued
it.
spewed
God's gift
grace trace
those
pearly gates
all over
the
fucking
place.

what a waste
you were

sour grapes
spoiled faith
erased name

go away

pack your shit
and pretend
it never
existed.
embrace addictive
liquids
and
pills
& pack your
gills
with metallic
quills.

write yourself
off
ink
your life
in lies
lie next to
him
and cry

contemplate
exits
over breakfast
eggs
and spill salt
over your
toast

you never deserved
ripe fruit
anyway,
did you?

I love the sound of a popped cork

wine
is kind
to my mind.

grateful
grapes
grope at
my onus
and erase

it rolls
behind my eyes
and severs
stable ties:
gravity
depravity
and the things
I want to do
to the man
in front of me.

this
wine
unwinds
blinds
sighs
and sings.
it
gives me
wings
and
thinner thighs
almond eyes
and an ass
for guys.

it
grinds
my imperfect.
whispers
I'm worth it
and have some
more,
you deserve it.

it wins
without a fight.
it flies
without a flight.
it sees
without sight
it conquers
all my might
and eases
all my plights.

I'll have some more.
I deserve it

Cat

slick bitch
slithers
in.

swish

with an
alcohol
kiss

wet lips

and twists
in her hips.

assured eyes
tears dried
glitter liner
and perfume
behind her.

sniff.

she is
a Miss
with confidence
no nonsense
this bitch
is God's gift
awash
in ribbons
and rhythm
and rumplemintz.

she says
of course
duh
didn't you know
her shit
is a show
and she glows
with know.

and I don't.

I watch her
own.
I watch her
glow.
I watch her
no nonsense
shit show
and want my own.

I take notes
on her
confidence
that floats
boasts
and breathes.

I wish it could be me

Mean

I want to ruin marriages.
spit on carriages
and damage
families.

I abhor happy couples
fondling fingers
across tables.
Sharing shit
staring each other
into some poetic abyss.

Can I save them time
and piss on their future?

Quote divorce statistics
tell them their
daughters will be bulimic
and their sons will be expelled
for
pot
and cheating?

Honey, your husband
wants me
anyway,
any by the way,
he says I'm better
in the hay.

nobody can draw
a perfect circle.
diamonds are polished
rocks.
and when you die
your body digests itself.

you think you're loving but you don't love me

when you say my name
my heart squeaks
and
skips a beat.

and when you say
we
I free my
fingers of rings.


When I say
we
you squirm
wormy fingers.

you hide from my hands
and maneuver from my mouth

my ego
is bruised
and I am another
one
of your
stupids.

I never should
have moved
into you.
boozed
into you.
perfumed
for you.
sped
in icy
December
in cahoots
with
you.

and I
am
blackbruised

for you.

and I am now
who
without you.

He called to make sure we're still best friends

He knew I wanted it.
to suck his
dick.
to kiss
his skin.
to leave
my lips
on his
for
breathless
minutes.
to cup
his neck
between
my palms
and watch his
eyes
laser
across my face.

he hugs my
hips
into him,
hoping we
melt
together
this way
and stay.

he let it
be my way.
he let me
love him.
and he let me
stay.

it's called eye contact

excuse me, dude,
I'm
totally cute,
and don't you
know
it's rude
to have your eyes
unglued?

gather your
gluestick
and give it
a whack.
fantasize about
my back
side
and all
the shit
you want to
slide
against me.

it there a reason
for your visual
treason?
do you only
do
dudes?
or were you
just born rude?

I relish
watching
your next
attempt
turn into
a south pole
ignore.

weather change

I was his
and all
his
broken promises.

his
magic mistress
escape from
distress
his
dusk til dawn
chess pawn
princess.

I was his
business.
His draft
Guiness.
His eye glisten
His booze
breath
listen.
His loose
legs
vixen
His
miss fix it
his earth
spin.

and now
his needs
are
different.
His toes
face open
doors
& his
fingers
fold together
in fours
while my
hands are

cold.

girls can totally get blue balls

He says
no to sex.

Excuse my
protest,
have you grown
breasts?
Are there balls
bouncing
between your
legs?

There is a
vying vagina
in front of your
face,
do I need to
point to the place?

Do you need a
lighted strip
for your dick's
entrance?

I thought you
were born
to fuck
wet holes,
assholes.
What's with
this dude who refuses?

Your sexual
restraint
draws me blank.
Looks like your only
withdrawal
will be from
the bank

I'm not yours

I'll
never
be some
bisquick mistress
bitch for him.

Fuck pancakes
and stuff your
bellyaches.
Get your own
Jemima,
and no,
I won't be home
at five O'.

I'll wear heels
too tall
for you to kiss me
and wear colors you think
are disgusting.

I'll blow kisses
at other misters
and I won't miss you.

I'll use pen on scantrons
and spit at your promises.

There's a reason men won't
wear glistening karats across
their fingers.

I'd rather see him beg than cheat,
I'd rather see him leave than find my
secrets.

the cylcle of life

Bones are born to be buried
then unearthed,
I think,
as your buried boner squirts.

Was it God's plan
to create all dogs
to want a bone to bury
and to beg?

green

Jealousy
wrecks
the best of me.
It bitters my skin
& shrivels my cells.
It wedges itself
inner shelves
it stores
in my pores
and pours
unfortunate
into important
pristine
places.
My insides
long for
innocent luster
now dulled by
oxidized greens
flattened esteem
and the
brick
of mean.

I am unclean

You make me wish I broke my bic

I wish I hadn't shaved my legs for you.
You don't deserve this
smooth.
You don't deserve hairless curves
that occur across these stems.

And you paw at my privates
in pointless
pathetic
pursuit,
missing my more
seductive
spaces.

These things are for earning
and you are a broke banker.

Try to embrace the soft places
where sun can't caress,
and maybe I'll let you have a glance
at my rest.

you only said it cuz you're drunk

He loves me,
he says.

He is drunk
with skunk
breath.

I love you.

He stumbles
and mumbles
vodka bubbles.

His timing is a sixth
sense,
but I don't want
inebriated gifts.
I want him and his.
I want his imperfects
and our skin to touch
when we sleep.

You're so good to me.

His gaze is glazed
cake.

And I'm an asshole,
he adds.

His confessions
swing
between us.
A boozed breeze
sings off key.

Do I forgive this?

that man ass hat
sits
lopsided
atop his head
and I dread that his
is his best
attempt.

last night and every other night

the things he left:

his cigarettes
(and sex between my legs)

his vodka glass
(a hand print on my ass)

a black cotton sock
(the rocks he got off)

torn kleenex
(a salty wet)

a messed bed
a spinning head
of use
and dread.

I wonder
if he'll want
them burned
or
returned

burnt

I want to be
this
other girl.

She has rounder
curls
&
softer
skin
with invisible
pores.

I hate
this chick
I'm stuck with.
Stiff luck.
A slow growth fuck
that eggs my
insides.

They're all so
pretty.
Mini
Painted
Perfect.
And worth it.

And I am
a wormhole
of worthless.
all hurtful internal
and
full
of burn holes.

Spoons

I am
not
a sex
object,

he says,

and asks
to spoon
instead.

my tears
ink
the darkness.

this one woman
sex sweatshop
learned
to paint
so his place
could have
pictures.

this sex
user
brought him
chocolate
because he
hates
Mondays.

she wrote
him notes
and dumb jokes.

and
held his hand
as he watched
his broken life
shatter.

I thought
we were sacred.

I am just
naked
silverware,
I guess
and that
I use him
for
sex.

now what

what was I here for
what was all the beer for
and why did you say you loved me
before you slammed the car
door?

what was all we had
before?

the shit
we shot
for hours
in shoddy bars.

the sweaty
sex
in Decembered
cars.

the late restaurant
nights
alone

the stupid
jokes.
Sharks.
And America.

I wish
I could take back
the
chocolate.
And
you'd
forget
what life tastes like
without me.