the second history

well aren’t i ridiculous
to act the way i do
against you

punching out in directions
breaking the broken
shifting in and through
hard rip into all of it

to do it my own way
pushing to make
dominance in reverse

slurping sounds
as it releases
reel to end
be kind rewind

wind it all up
catalogue it
placed in an archive


revisit to remember
why it was

tape 2
a fresh start
without your bullshit
a new time

Being Other

Feeling overwhelmingly other,
being one of the others.
where are all the other others?
Lost in every metropolis,
drowning in the majority,
the majority of the minority
that the majority
thinks us and wants us to be.
A spectrum obscured,
disguised by the loudest of us,
falling between cracks
in representation.
Lost without reference points,
falling out of pigeon holes,
too much for some,
too little for others.


i kinda hate everybody right now
no exceptions especially myself
yes that does include you
a stinking mess of judgements
false meanings and false walls
your standards are not mine
a perspective around closed doors
our dicks are not the same
should i make myself vomit
maybe remove all my body hair
you painted this hell for no reason
only to whitewash it the next day
drum roll please as we smile
this may never happen again

A Map of Somewhere

I have never seen this town before,
at least I don’t recognize the streets,
it’s a strange thing to find hidden.

A map found in an old chest of draws,
tightly implanted between wood,
No markings of notable significance.

The names are unfamiliar, landmarks,
street names ever so generic,
market street, city road, back lane.

Hoping to find an X marking a spot,
or a route penciled in somewhere
let alone a hint as to the township.

The map is so unassuming, why?
Why was it hidden so well in the chest,
what reason has it to be a secret?

Poring over it night and day now,
I obsess too much, note to self:
Stop buying second hand things.

My Dearest Violeah

My dearest Violeah,
you are so lost in the longing,
busy enveloping someone ever so firm,
dancing in the afternoon haze,
observed by distant crowds.

My dearest Violeah,
stop dreaming and start feeling,
his body will break your heart one day,
he’s not worth your tears,
but your hair will follow him.

My dearest Violeah,
your life as their woman is a half lie,
their imposing fog clouded your judgement,
you will dance on their graves,
maybe not today but someday soon.


Slowly caressing the walls,
a rising, a steady creep,
sliding over and consuming flesh.
Heavy heat hangs over,
oppressive and firm,
beads rolling down you.
Leaning one way, then the other,
a tilt in their direction,
with meat between your teeth.

midnight anxieties

escalating escalating
pushed way too far now
cold sweats
feverish fingering of dry skin
midnight anxieties
your past will meet mine
sway slow
a dance we won’t share
chain sore
pressures within your still face
burning halos
an itch on old memories