Foggy Night Before a Sixtieth Birthday

Nights are the hardest to survive alone.
Out in the moonlight she dances, beyond the fog,
Smiling with another man ripe in her memory's garden.
The wind rattles my window, a draft blows out my candle.
As the small hours wither into daylight she will haunt me;
Laughter and faded kisses in dusty gazebos at dusk,
Gin and candied apples on creaky piers before a storm.
In my cold bed my sober mind growls, my old limbs
Ache. I am too full of hate to forget those I loved.

Can Lonely Words Revive the Dead?

The dark wings of happiness flappeth like a wounded bat.
End these days with a cracked church bell whimpering.
Rain has drowned every parade that limped along this street.
Remind me of the one time that I smiled without fear.
On quiet days you can hear the gun shots like angry whispers.
Return to the glory days? Good one. Write a poem about it asshole.

Execution in a Rose Garden at Dawn

Masked intruders sliced the King's family into confetti.
Arch Bishops found with severed genitals in their mouths.
Yes. The answer to any incriminating question is yes.
Hotel bed sheets stained with red and set ablaze.
Emergency sirens stab the tepid air to death.
Melt the candle sticks into swords. Hand them out at church.

War Banners of the Finest Heathen Flesh

Carrion carried on black laquered wagons.
Return to your villages as blood-soaked heroes.
Untie the heathens when they've stopped breathing.
Sell their rotten teeth for goat meat in the market.
Ants eat corpse skin until they all look like brothers.
Dungeon rats gnaw on the ankles of the sleepless.
Eternal life is worth your ugly death, soldier.

Opera Cellist Pondering His Smallness

Trace the chalk outline in the orchestra pit with your lips.
Ruthless weaponry, these false confessions of love.
Another lifetime dedicated to misanthropy awaits me.
Go to the room where Juliette rests her dead limbs.
Entire villages liquidated in a jealous heartbeat.
Dust has settled on the battlefield. The bones gleam.
Yesterday's wounds will never scab over.

Rusty Badges and Sand-Clogged Throats

Carnivores snuggle with the sleeping sheep.
An abyss whistles between mountain ranges.
Certain tall tales seem less tall out here.
Train conductors found mummified in the sand.
Under a quiet sky streaked with blood and gold
So many animals dig for water in the desert.

Whisker'd Rogue Hunters Kill On High

Furred assassins navigate the dark corn fields,
Ears flat against their skulls. Silent claws.
Liquidator of eon-old enemies under sickle moons.
In the grip of slumber their tails whip violently.
Nos laus diabolus cattus, the hooded ones chant.
Entitled to the ancient crown; kill and sleep.

The Man With the Piano Wire Mustache

Vintage string instruments played a mournful dirge.
Another shit hole town full of dusty applause.
Under the newest laws the punishment for smiling is
Death. This also goes for smirking or any mouth twitch.
Entertainment went from baroque music to these
Vile acts of genital acrobatics and flatulence.
In the cobblestone street a mustached man groans.
Lithe pickpockets swarm the injured and inebriated.
Long nailed ragtime junkies polish their trombones.
Eyes smile slyly in the stomach of the darkness.

The Heiroglyphics of a Morning Homicide

Approval has rarely been achieved through dismemberment.
Ruminate on less lofty topics, you'll live longer, Doctor.
Connotations creep through my thoughts like tarantulas.
He saved us from sin with exquisite panache.
Explain again how gods and parasites are in my blood.
Testify to your darkest desires while we salivate.
Your fragments have gathered like bread crumbs under
Porch swings. Beneath the porch, opened graves.
Early chilling therapy sessions are now available on DVD.

Sharpened Cleats and Cloven Hooves

Gore slicked grey hair under a baseball cap.
Every time he's called a heartless bastard
Or an evil sonuvabitch he grins with glowing eyes.
Remember the game when he grounded to second,
Grew god damn wings of fire, and beat it out?
It rained scorpions after he addressed the crowd
And greeted them with a mouthful of fangs.

Perhaps time has altered the actual details.
Ember-red eyes in the shadow of his cap brim,
A corpse left at every base as he rounded them.
Could a demon be immortalized at Cooperstown?
He sure wouldn't argue if I said yes.

The Quiet Murder of Carpathian Hunger Pangs

In the black folds of nightshade he descends.
Madmen chase the tail of sanity in the wilderness.
Pig heads mounted on pikes glare at those who pass.
Amens wilt as shadows blow out the candles.
Lunar desires drum the beasts into frenzy.
Enemies of the tyrant hide wide-eyed in haystacks.
Red letters written in farmer's blood: With love, Vladimir.

Pecking at Dried Vomit on Thirty Third Street

Patience is what kills the most miserable people.
Imagine a world where roadkill can speak.
Go for a walk without looking over your shoulder.
Enter the green door leading to the black room.
Ordinary miracles go unnoticed in the disarray.
Nausea trembles in our stomachs like a butterfly.

Spelunking in the Blasphemous Innerspace

Corn has infiltrated the fortress of my human waste.
Alien emotions explode in my chest like sun spots.
Ben was no more a rat than the man who sells me danishes.
Binge killing is known as extermination in some circles.
Apparently I pissed myself while writing the last line.
God damn, these corduroys are dry clean only.
Enough of the self-exploration. There are larger things.

Desert Phantoms Stalk Old Law Men

Wild hogs nibble on bodies in the newest ditch.
Years have wheezed by since justice sang in this place.
All the nights are full of dying stars praying.
The saloon burned down during Sunday mass.
Tired hands explore a revolver's familiar curves.

Even the dry riverbeds seem dryer these days.
At first the blood seemed so bright. So exciting.
Red turned to black and now the dead moan.
Prairie winds spread snarling grass fires.

The Thunder Screamed Decaying Songs

Another barn collapsed while the little ones slept.
Rain water flooded the muddy back roads.
Chicken coops full of rotten eggs, black inside.
Ask the chainsaw sharpener which way is South.
Darkness sends the cattle howling towards the storm.
Illuminated by lightning, the coyotes feast.
Alarms cry over the hills, beyond the inky river.
Naked children play beneath a flaming weeping willow.

Breakfast Sausage Bleeds for the Mistress

Jackals tore the skin from the eyeless carcass.
In between breakfasts I am an absolute beast.
Moonlight whispers, tells me to hurt again.
My Mistress Luna, I answer. Of course I will.
You are my favorite night soldier, she sings.

Down in the slaughterhouse the animals scream,
Each morning ripe with spilled guts and grease.
After the afterglow, face stuffed with bacon,
Nothing can stop midnight's voice in my ear.

Thor Watches With a Turkey Leg and Boner

Venom laced lollipops sure made the evening interesting.
In all my years I've never seen a dying dog have its day.
Kings and baby thieves alike are buried in this place.
Illuminate the black depths and terrorize the serpents.
Nocturnal genocide; not yet a televised sporting event.
Good luck, boys. Those metal huts are harder to burn.

Saturday Morning Cannibal Pep Talk

Enough of the gut-eating funny business,
You're going to boot camp, son.
Even a godless sons-a-bitch like you can learn
Proper manners and how not to eat persons.
And if you slither back home some day
There better not be gut-juice on your breath.
Control, that's the most important thing, son.
He who controls those dark desires is the man.

What the Spade Hit in the Garden of Malice

In the garden you will find my secret,
Nestled between dying geraniums.
Frost bite has claimed my third leg.
Expell the demons? On what charges?
Cook me up better bologna than that.
Tomorrow I will change my name,
I think I like the sound of Victorino.
Or maybe Hunting Wolf. Or Turd Burglar.
No, forget the name, no one will remember.

The Burnt Sky Drips Ashes in Our Eyes

The phantom laughter dies like old soldiers.
Each one of us has a spark of ugliness.
After the doctors pull a white sheet over the moon
March into town and burn that fucker down.
Weak bones snap under my hungry stare.
October passes like ass gas from cadavers.
Runaway lovers run down by pickup trucks,
Knives protruding, the asphalt wet.

The Dead Rest on Easter Basket Grass

Screams rip through the woods
Miles away, I hear them as whispers.
Is that a song for Easter morning?
Lemon custard and honey-basted ham,
Eating as the blood fills my eyes.