A bent waterspout and no condom

A light switch labeled "horny"

A cannibalistic desire with flat dulled teeth

Chains and locks and throbbing veins

Blood bubbling but not boiling

The crab skewered by the arrow

The sprite regurgitated the rainbow

The wood grain splintered by the ax

She spells my name in unraveled thread from the frays of my pants.

She falls from the balcony of the apartment building into a pit of cicada shells.

She screams my name on her way down.

Did I cum?

Did I bleed?

Is everything exactly the way it's supposed to be?

On the edge of abandonment

Cliff side crumbling

Endeavors delayed, on hold,

Hold fast, for hope 

Is gone. 

Unabashed to stay

And willing to say,

The things we love

We leave behind,

Never to find again—only in remorse, 

To realize what a great mistake. 

I hold you

behind glass. I gaze into your eye

by eye and cradle your hand in my lap. Your lips float like clouds and your breasts are mounted and perfect. On the wall

hangs a full-bodied picture of you

before jars.

You were mine

before you knew. I wrenched you away.

Detaching you from the rest of the world, I suspended you in time, as innocent and pure as a promise

that I would be with you forever

piece by piece.

(This poem could not be formatted to fit properly on Prose. See the picture to understand the proper line breaks)

The way you say hey

ties a knot in my stomach.

When you slide your sunglasses down your nose

and look my way

with those napalm eyes,

I could explode: heart & flesh & all.

I sit strapped in my seat, craving

that moment of impact.

My jaw hangs dead like a body in the closet

when you reveal

nothing

but black lace.

Your eyes fire pistols,

blasting bullets through my back.

You strangle my legs with yours,

and our lips crash together like a convertible into a hatchback.

My seat melts into a bed;

the molten vinyl and mangled metal surrounds

us like a crown.

As your eyelids unfasten my seat belt,

you peer into me

and I realize,

I just might die

before I can fuck you.

i see nothing, though my eyes are open.

The walls are so cold, they almost feel wet.

Morning? Evening? Monday or Thursday?

i've slept and woke forty-six times, though i know that may not be days.

There are sixteen steps in the staircase.

The staircase is twenty seven and a half paces from the furthest corner.

The earthy and musty stenches in the lateral corner no longer sicken me.

Sometimes i hum little tunes, but i mostly just graze my hand against the grain

of the concrete walls and think about my momma.

My eyes fly to the light like a moth as the door atop the staircase opens.

The shadow stands there, eclipsed in light, blowing smoke.

Another can

                    clunks

                              down

                                       the 

                                             stairs.

                                                       I ready my can-opener.

Green beans.

Fuck Poetry.

Me n' Shakespeare used to sit at the pub swapping sonnets over a pint.

Give me a funny-lookin' hat

with a feather in it,

then I can say: thou, whence, becomest, thereforehenceforth, and

honorificabilitudinitatibus.

I'll make you beautiful, Poetry.

I don't read poetry

in bars.

I want poetry

to be,

not to

not to be:

Epic and classic.

Battle and gore.

Sword and shield.

Heart and valor.

Love and loss.

Sometimes I just don't understand you, Poetry.

Dude,

ya know,

like,

seriously.

Is that poetry?

That is the question.

Yes.

God damn it, Poetry;

I misunderstood ya.

A poem needs not bide by recipes.

So take a sonnet and stir it up, add ice.

You drink it down and puke up poetry.

It can be anything, because poetry is about expressing yourself anyway you want to.

Poetry is not limited and never should be.

There is poetry in 

pumping

gasoline,

riding

a bike,

making love.

Poetry is war.

Poetry is conversation.

Poetry is obsessively organizing your sock drawer in color order.

Poetry is at the bottom of your glass,

bursting with every foamy bubble.

I look around

at what used to be nothing,

but now 

I see

something.

I see Shakespeare in a barstool and a glass of beer.

I see Poetry.