cedar ass

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wooden horse

See how the wooden horse enters the scene–
on a silent dolly from stage right it gallops
Do you fancy Montague or Capulet
The show goes on, ending when the star-crossed lovers die
Isn’t that beautiful, how the royal velvet curtains cradle the set
All hand-stitched by Venetian cobblers, who were bored out of their minds–
stringing mandolins with leather shoestrings
The stiff horse has seen better days
Its low-budget cedar ass is splintering
Someone hiding in the pit had to be mindful of costs
The wooden equine doesn’t even belong on this set
The driver missed his cue for Cinderella this morning
In her pink world, no one commits suicide–
except maybe the mice, upon learning they are no longer stallions–
and that their playhouse curtains are a machine-stitched polyblend

animated refuse

this character sketch reminds me of an ornery Shakespearean spirit, I couldn’t tell you why

 

I have been on earth already

“don’t even think about it”
why do we say this to children
think
think about it ALL
just like you and your thoughts
me and mine
leap into the mud puddle
don’t worry about your fucking shoes
I do not want to be held back, I want to think
despite this goddamn aging that pins me at every throw
why didn’t I figured this out when I had media looks
you know, the kind that get me liked
a lot more than just my words
it is over now
there are too many images
God, there are millions
all online, all available, all better
lots of bubbling skin, pouting thighs
can’t, won’t go there
feminism and all that
my brand keeps the flesh undiscovered
naked is nothing new
it’s biblical old
now it’s only words, those things that wreak havoc
trashing the outside to make interesting insides
my brain processes volcanic ash
dead and burnt
flowing just to make a matured point
down into the hole
I leap off the stage
beneath sweating red gels
aren’t you
the world yes, “a stage”
a fucking amphitheater
for the” bizarre” and the “normal”
still those hands reach out
I don’t want to be caught
I want to dive into a pit
stop catching me and making it look right
planned, staged
“don’t even think about it”
a body sails across floating hands
cigarette lighters flicker
for someone deserving of butane
your hands touch my flesh
groping and grappling
I squirm for release
I want to remain in the air
I never want to land
I have been on earth already
it is time for a thoughtless vampire genie
to grant my magical release
with selfish abandon
blue-genie-vamp

puppet masters

pear fingersit was a view with a room
a little bed for big people
we went in through an out door
our naked clothing
did nothing to conceal the thread of lies
weaving our blackout curtains
we weren’t supposed to be on stage
(oh)
a fortune cookie approved this union
it was all the validation two horny people needed
it began that way
for us
(lust) no intent of love
it was Paris
(not really)
we didn’t make it there
barely afforded the motel rooms
with bad prints of old fruit
acting French
or at least kissing that way
the only way lovers should kiss
is what got us into trouble
our wet mouths
proffered up Paris
(and trouble)
the kissing was sublime
better than eating Chinese noodles off each other
(we)
fell into the rice vat, lid shut
a bottomless pressure cooker
we required many strings
enough to fabricate thick blackout curtains
more to manipulate the fingered dowels
forcing our daytime mouths into slick sentences
we desperately needed to create a successful act
on this plastic puppeteer stage of ours

splintered stage

we pantomime the roles we are destined to play
iterations of our selves powdered with granules of age
we struggle to sparkle on each splintered stage
box the translucent director about the ears
we sob if swollen roses aren’t tossed at our aching feet
these theatrical lives we dress and primp for
our practiced actions and exaggerated thoughts
fill the numbered rows
passersby note the sheer breeze on perfectly presentable days
how grand the marquee introduces us 
until the night inevitably falls
a lingering effect of banner reviews
the shade pulls away the sun
among the threadbare seats

highlights are broken down
gels stop proffering hazy moon glow

the distressed set has sunk well below the orchestra pit
as we strip costumes and scrub away masks
in our disposable dressing rooms
a crystal decanter smiles and
in its bottomless grandeur we

search for that little drop of poison
to ease hellacious day into callous night
where no lights warm obsidian air
or hollow stories clap clogged memories
still the flashing sign stage left reminds us
we must soon exit

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