be still

if you google “goth toasts” this blog is the second result. kinda warms the cockles, no?

a poem dedicated to me

rolling around Brooklyn on the Q train one evening, a little poem floated towards me. it came from a small gaggle of teenage boys and it went pretty much exactly like this:

i say to.meh.to, you say to.mah.to

i say po.teh.to, you say po.tah.to

i say man, you say woman

(and here comes my favourite line:)

i say dick, you say date

(but then it got mean…)

i say cut, you say “that shit off”

(in reference to my proverbial dick, i image)

to which I say…

let’s call the whole thing off?

srsly

a little much

you felt like is was a little much. right? the outfit. the hair. everything. the way he sauntered in, beeline for you. one fluid motion from the door to your ear. his lips butterfly wings flapping at every face along the way in feigned but extra showy interest. puckering up, smaking the air next to every cheek. finally he hovered at yours, pushed past the petals. no. it wasn’t the outifit that bothered you. and certainly not the hair. i mean, look at you. fabulous. love it! love you. so close to your ear you could smell it. did you hear right? a mint on his breathe. is that lip gloss? a little much.

they’re coming for your heart

photo: Tristan Brand, wolves: Johnny Forever

from the bowels

howling

whisperer

 

he sat whispering to the angels on either side of him. spritely. the almighty. it was difficult to follow his command. commandments. he was quite small. minded. he whispered to the angels. probably about how bad we were. how much we disgusted him. the angels nodded, took us in sidelong. we sat there, endured it. and began to believe about ourselves all of the things we imagined those whispers to contain.

Mama Boy Press

look at it:

http://mamaboypress.wordpress.com 

October 31st at the House of Faux Pas:

 

no one will ever be man enough for you

i can tell because:

i am your father.

flaming haystack

warming my heart on some cold Nowa Huta afternoon, these boys came into my life through the vortex. hay ablaze inside my grandmother’s closet.

tea for the goth, toast to the grieving

 

 

we have all died all of us. the tips of our fingernails are cracked and yellowed. everyday they sink a little deeper into the earth. it’s very funny for us to lie here. underground, in the heavy wet soil, with the fat worms. and the tiny red spider things that fascinate the living. look how small they are! they tickle us, too. 

 

we have all died all of us right here. out on the road and our bellies torn open by vultures gleam bright red in the sun. we are happy. look how beautiful we’ve become! we are happy because no one has killed us. we have died.

 

we have all died at some point, i think. on the point of some sword. my lover put his through my belly. it was an accident. he didn’t see me sneaking up on him.

 

humans sprouting up around us. they grow from seeds of ours. they are seedlings of ours. they have fallen near and farther from our rotting corpses…green like they were moss-covered. the beautiful dead like fallen trees warmed by the family lives of centipedes. worm hole, termite bite, and the prettiest red-orange wood-pulp flesh.