Your Ear is Bleeding

the scar tissue had grown up over my lips
or maybe it was my cunt
either way he wouldn't listen to me
wouldn't listen to what I had to say
wouldn't list what I had to yell
just put his hands over his ears
clenched his legs and hummed

hummed a stupid tune
a stupid tone
a stupid tomb
for his cock to die in

I jammed my knees up against his ribs
sunk them in
bruised my way to something to say
snapped his head back
and still
all he would yell was
'la la la la la la'
at the top of his lungs

'I'm not listening!'
sing song singing
even as I pried his hands away
from the sides of his head
even as I pressed my breasts against
his now blackened purple ribs
in a display of violent caressing that I knew
had to hurt
'I'm still not listening!
La! La! LA!
Not listening! Not listening!
NOT LISTENING!'

that's when I punched him in the face
rattled his teeth around inside his mouth
twin rivers of blood gushing from his nostrils
suddenly stunned into silence
both eyes as big as dinner plates
tongue working but nothing coming out
his cock limp
his hands useless
at his side
his lips swelling 

I took a deep shuttering breath,
shored up my anger,
clenched my legs and said,
'I love you,
and I don't like it.
Now stop bleeding on my sheets
and get the fuck out of here.'

Christ Chuck, What Next?

all these beautiful broken boys
and not one of them named Christ

I would break fingers with hammers
if I thought it would do any good
but saints feel no pain

and hate you when you press against them

I should have sold my soul
in a buyer's market
but now it's dirty and useless
like an old condom

and pretty boys don't want it anyways

saints hate to get dirty
and I live in mud

who the fuck let
all those wispy eyelashed looks in here?
sleeping at my shoulder
caressing my breasts
and whispering in my ear
that they love me
but only under the right conditions

like heavy alcohol
and heavier drugs
maybe when they are deep inside you

possibly if I was drowning in the bath
or maybe falling from the sky
on fire
like a comet of whore-like intentions
and a great big fucking
ball of promises

that I was never going to keep

Charles Bukowski said,
"Find what you love and let it kill you."

but I don't think the crusty old fucker meant like this
achingly slowly
my brain on fire every night
my cunt throbbing
waiting

humped over like a toad
creeping in the night
to slip down some unsuspecting victim's throat
and squeeze the air out of their heart

fucking saints
and their saintly touch
and their saintly fucking ways
and their beautiful eyes
and flowing hair
and silken skin
and stupid fucking sympathies

fucking kill me and get it over with
love me to death
so I can get up
and get that glass of whiskey
I've been thirsting for like blood
I need a shower
and maybe a plasma transfusion
so I can linger with the ghost of your cock still inside me

and by the way
you can tell Christ
when you see him next
that I told him
he should come down here
to pound in his own goddamn nails

my hammer is broken
and I'm tired of crucifixion anyways