Reasons for buying the house
The house you want is probably haunted.
The house you want costs a million dollars and probably haunted.
The house you want has seven fireplaces, all original.
The house you want has seven crumbling flues.
The house suffered salt, erosion, and flooding.
The house was gutted and built up again.
The house is not emptied of spirit, not a new construction.
The house has aging bones. (more…)
weasels are underground, waiting.
they want skin.
weasels are little whiny men in grey business suits underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair.
weasels are petty, arrogant, they preen in the mirror, adjust the grey hair in its perfect coiffure.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood.
weasels are hassling the wait staff, to complain this drink has not enough ice or too much ice, or this steak is too rare or this steak is not well done.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle.
weasels are sniffing at blonde ice queens in bars, underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone.
weasels are in the court room, on Wall Street, on the televised news, at the head of the operating table, behind the pulpit, underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone; they want marrow.
weasels are plotting world domination, underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair, they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone; they want marrow; they want gristle.
Weasels are being appointed to the highest government offices in the land;
They want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone; they want marrow; they want gristle; they want ALL
weasels are underground, waiting. (more…)
There is a baby crying. You are not the baby
crying and you aren’t sure it’s actually
a real baby but you are told it’s there,
you are told a family buried their baby in
the baseball field, because a bunch of boys
found a small, misshapen hand at the home base
and it’s too absurd to be real—you are a scientist
that’s what you tell yourself every night. (more…)
After the rush
of our bodies aligned
you told me the true story of the time you found a woman
buried beneath the tree outside your family’s home
you were seven and your tiny shovel
hit what you knew would be treasure
but unearthed the smooth white of skull
with teeth so perfect and even
that you imagined that smile for years (more…)
a bag over the head is iconic. if you are thinking only of fashion who are you thinking for? when i was 13 i started writing with both hands at once so i could make something that touched itself in the middle. i became an angel. i put space between the letters of my name and my identity was then entirely composed of light. this is why i swallowed a phone and pulled the cord through my throat and mouth. i’m close to you, vince. when i replace my face with a circular mirror you’re inside me still. i am not in love with you, vince. i am convincing you that you are a body in a morgue acting as a patient in a hospital stuffed with doctors. when i was 13 i started writing with both hands at once so i could make something that touched itself in the middle. i became an alchemist. i made pure the gothic deep inside the erotic to compose the world entirely of mirrors. i’m calling you because you are inside of me. (more…)
Jenny ran her hands around the smooth leather of the steering wheel as she turned into Pollston Avenue. She switched the radio to DeepKiss FM and listened to Stevie Nicks for a bit, then began to flick between radio dramas and weather reports. She checked out her lipstick in the front mirror, and fixed it up a bit at the creases of her mouth, scooping the red paste with the underside of her nail. She drove her Buick up onto the corner of Grensham Street and pulled out a smoke, taking a minute before immersing herself in the acrid, vinegary smell of new denim. She had been working at Blackwood Denim for only just shy of two months, and yet she still struggled to get that coppery whiff of industry out of her clothes. Hell, even out of her underwear. She often wondered quite how she managed to get it down there.
Browneston was a pip-squeak of a town, that sat comfortably just a stone’s throw away from the coastline. On her evening shifts, Jenny could make out the flicker of bonfires on the beach, and by the time she clocked out the howling midnight winds hurled themselves all over Browneston, shaving the coastline and throwing a blanket of night over the beach huts. A star-studded blanket, glistening gems in the sky.
Lovers at the Table
You’re coarser than I expected. Thick-
skinned, bristly, almost scaled.
You told me to be contrary
so I’ve practiced by screaming.
My voice has changed, rough-edged
& more brutal. There’s
in my belly
that you can’t quite kill—
I don’t know its name, but it’s shaped
like a four-legged animal (more…)
It’s funny how they always blame it on
the girl. Cherchez la femme now slut shame. Like
itty bitty me could bring down the sons
of industry and prep school breeding. Strike
some blow against the aristocracy
still armed with money, power, even God
when I don’t even have a solid plan
or decent reputation. Use my body
and blame me for your weakness. It can’t be
you. It cannot be that I was something
you so wanted you gave up all to see
me crawl across your kitchen nude and lean
like some malnourished kitty cat while you
hold all the milk and savor every mew. (more…)
What do you say to a ghost at the door?
Even if I don’t answer, it finds a way in
‘”How are you?”
“Weary. A little horny. The usual.”
hisses echo in
and i am awakened…
pleased to drown
in your moonless waters
obsidian in your eyes.
upon reflection, it may be
why i let you come
within on many occasions
despite ideal prudence
pleasure was persistent, (more…)