a hole

the
unholy
pink
hole
that you
pump your
pompous pole
protrusion
into
promises
not
to get
unglued.

he's just
this
dude.

who

looks like
sex.
musk
and cigarettes.
a different
set
of
should
expects

are erect.

I reject
his
wrecked effects
and wretched
affections.
I switch
the subject
and interject
an
eject.

at this
junction
I jot
sexmusk mister
sinster
an obituary.
this bitch
buries
the
barely believable
lies
that reside
in skin
hammocks.

lower your
pole
and find
a new
hole.

ownership

what is this body to you,
dude?
skin to screw,
a boat
to float into
so
your balls
won't bounce
blue?

press that
sex
strained
face
skywards
and put me
on
me like
prom flowers

then
use up
my juice
and go junking.

dad digs through trash

father fracture figure
has embarrassed us
again.
He digs
through
garbage
to salvage
our trash;
rotted beef
and
things
he values
more than us.

climb in,
father.

enjoy the heap
of fetid
refuse
to which we've
tossed you,
useless
sewage.

while you
park
in our pile
of waste,
see if you
can find
the last
of our hopes
from
years ago.
did you find
the
thanks
for years
of adviseless
crisis
and the ass
you'd
rather pick at
than have
a family?

you disgrace me.
replaced
me.
and all the dreams
I placed on repeat
of the things you
could be
are gone
to the
garbage.

they weren't
worth
your
trash forage,
and only
my forgiveness
will get me
far
away
from you.

prayers

this faith based
escape tower
has yet to topple
so I thank
god
for the
beauty
that makes
me believe.

this is all
I have
at the end of my
day,
my mainstay
life frame
to which
I pray
for grace
and fewer gray
days.

Him
and my hope,
otherwise
I'm
alone

gravity

I breathe a
beating
bowling ball
that bludgeons
behind
my breasts.

I want to
tear it
from my
chest
to show
you
my inner
winter
sob fest
and what a
positive
pest
this pain can
persist.

I want my
bowling ball
burden
to blacken
eyes;
I want to share
the darkness
I hide
and hire
someone
to color
my insides
white
sunlight.

I'm tired
of this fight
with heavy things
and all the weight
blackness brings.
I'd roll this
sphere
from my chest
if I were
sure
it's ghost
wouldn't persist

home

I hate this
plaster place.
disaster
disgrace place.
confined to the
corroded
corners of my mind,
I pray to poetry
to placate
the pain,
an elective
embrace
of syllables
to zipper these
acid wounds.

god gives
gifts
through
this conscious;
a pandora's
box opera,
a pantheon
of syllabic
options
to
occupy
my
disquieted
mind
until
I have
an island
of my own.

I'll live
in language
until then.
A castle in
my conscience
of
lyrical
correspondence,
my self
and
my god.

mister

he is currency
for her emotional state.
a sad masturbate
waste of fate
flood gate

and the saltiest
tears
stream her face.

her tears
spear
angry arrows
to hollow
my heart
against her,
but all of this
is for him.

him:
mister invisible.
mister
makes her
miserable.

mister,
I didn't consider her.

all this water
work
wallowing
swallows us whole

and it is
mister
who wins.