Sonnet #4

A morning rose, through night, so steeped in dew
Has with a gentle kiss awoken me,
And with a breathless touch of vine, right through
My pale white skin, full stained a deep ruby.
A rich and bleeding red like maple leaves
Upon retreat of summer into fall,
Such naked burgundy like scraped babe’s knees
Which scamper home to comfort ‘pon Ma’s call.
Although, this rose of which I write e’er morn
Has splendor so much more than single hue,
For ‘twas this Rose, to water, I was born,
In hopes that thee may see its paintings, too.
As from my skin, through fingertips and pen
Like stream through glen, flows poems, again, again.

Sonnet #3

The world, I would let come to fiery end
So long as I, with thee, forever’d be.
I’d ride the molten rivers through each bend,
Reside within eternal agony.
For not even that brimstone’s harsh burning
On measures of pain, could ever compare
To this blood-freezing cold of my yearning,
Frigid winter without thy Autumn hair.
And as the fluid flame would rise from low,
So high would I hold thee with all my might
Until entrapped by that Hellfire glow
Illuminates you as my final sight.
And such a death, it would be so well spent
If I could just hold thee for that mere moment.

Untitled #21 

Asked for something with a bit of a bubble,

To accompany a shot of Bullit;

But she decided to pour a double, 

Now my finger’s on that glass trigger, getting read to pull it. 

What They Lacked on the Road

After twelve days of preparation,
The fatal Friday fell
When the people of Lost Creek, Kentucky
Went down the road that led to Hell.

Under light of dead-star constellation,
Those poor folk walked along the road,
And though a black-cat crossing read an omen unlucky,
No one thought of the weight that symbol bode.

Except for one young girl,
Usually nervous, and locked up in her shell,
Six months away from turning seven,
The sweet little blonde-haired Annabelle.

Her wide-open eyes saw the leaves’n’wind twirl,
As the townsfolk walked under trees like arching ladder.
She saw that the path lead not to the house of Heaven,
But no one thought that her cries did matter.

The townsfolk continued on the walk
And a light rain sprinkled like spilling salt.
They came to a puddle that looked like a mirror,
Which broke underfoot, as none did over it vault.

And when their wagons wheel hit a rock,
The thump startled the people of the town.
Annabelle whimpered, but no one did hear her
When she saw the lucky horseshoe fall U-side down.

The people on their journey went on and on around,
That path that snaked like a rivers tail.
And only young Annabelle had seen the streaks of fur
But her warnings were to no avail.

They kept on talking, and didn’t hear the sound,
As their prayers were cycling like a carousel.
None of the townsfolk noticed the werewolves bolt in a blur
Except for young blonde-haired Annabelle.

The rest of the story, I wish not to tell
For I want not to think of poor Annabelle.
Who longed for nothing more than the ol’ homestead
And now on that road, she lies cold and dead.
For although those pilgrims each had loaded gun,
Had they no chance to ever outrun
The wolves that hunt under lack of sun,
On those who are devoid of luck, and those folks had none.

via Daily Prompt: None

The Grip

They said that it was required;
A quintessential step in my indoctrination.
But they didn’t mention that getting so tired
Was from a potion to help with my castration.

They strapped me onto a shoddy wooden table
As they licked, and whispered into my ear.
They bound me fast with a rusty cable
And called me a “precious little dear”.


For a moment I tried to fight back,
I lurched and squirmmed with my fleeting might.
But it only slid me deeper into the crack
That those witches dragged me through that night.

The oldest of the those in the clan
Slicked a rusty knife with boil-ridden lips,
And she ran her moldy fingers to my little man,
And dug her splintered nails into my naked hips.

The potion was doing its work by then,
And I was beginning to lose all feeling –
Until that knife did what it does to all poor men
Who think that joining a cult is appealing,

via Daily Prompt: Control

Untitled #20

Well Mama always said “Darlin’, sugar makes you sweet”.

And I took that so close to heart, I now have diabetes. 

But I’d rather be violently kind to everyone who meets me 

Than keep both of my feet. 

Limerick #11


I met a prophet to the goddess Jove
Who welcomed me into her sacred grove.
She joked “Beware of Harpies”
Though she should’ve said ‘herpes’
‘Cause my cock now burns like it’s on a stove.

Ol’ #9 Line


Took a seat, alone, down on the Ol’ Nine Line.

Tucked a fifth of whiskey under the belt.

And although it’s just a remedy,

A false sense of feeling fine,

For a while now, it’s the best I’ve ever felt.


The train’s a’screeching on the rusty tracks

Every time it pulls through another station.

Though I doubt that you can hear me,

Way down South through the volcanic cracks

I’m scratching you a poem, a lamentation.


So, tell me Jacob, what’s it like down there?

Is it as hot as you had hoped?

Or does it feel more like a dream?

Or does it make you fucking scream?

Not getting mad – just saying that I never really coped.


Well from up North, I can give you a quick break down.

Everything’s been falling straight to shit.

All the bombings, terrorism –

Been making me rethink nihilism,

Wish you had as well, before you decided to quit.


Yeah, it’s taken me a really long while now

To write, and get all this off my chest.

Been eight long agonizing seasons,

But I’m sure you had your reasons         ,

So perhaps it really was just for the best.


Though I’ve been grinding my yellow teeth –

Just knowing that the cold-dark ground,

Is what you’re trapped beneath –

Without a drink, a friend, or sound.

So, Jacob,  keep your bright eyes open,

– And I’m not saying that I’m hopin’ –

I might just soon enough be coming ‘round.

Shotgun Wedding


We were drinkin’ in the living room,

Gin-drunk spinnin’ – place felt like a tomb.

She was supposed to get married,

But her mind got carried

Away by the fleein’ groom.


Half an hour waiting – we thought we were done –

Then she asked “Boys, where’s the shotgun?”

We slurred “Baby, don’t ya’ do it,

Darlin’, you’ll a’rue it” –

She replied “Girls just wanna’ have fun.”


So she hiked up her weddin’ dress

– Her legs bled unhappiness –

She climbed each and every stair

Sreamin’ “Goddamn, I don’t care,

I’m gonna’ make a fuckin’ mess!”


We all jumped up – well, we stumbled –

And I’m sure that we all mumbled:

“Get a grip on your head!”

“Ya’ don’t want him dead!”

As after her we up’n’tumbled.


Top of the stairs – she was in the Master,

Even in high heels, the gal ran faster.

She found the gun box,

Bare hands – Ripped off the locks,

And armed herself like a pastor.


And though we wanted to intervene,

Her eyes were flamin’ a burnin’ green.

She looked damn venomous

– Or maybe just envious –

Most terrifyin’ thing we’d ever seen.


She barged right on past us with rage,

Hoped in the truck – didn’t even check the gauge –

Hollered “Someone take the wheel!”

And we were bound to the ordeal,

It was too late to disengage.


So I hopped into the driver seat,

And I could hear her throbin’ heartbeat,

Poundin’ with fury,

She was pantin’ “You’d best hurry!”

And I stomped the gas pedal with my feet.


We barreled down frontage road thirty-three,

Rest of the clan starin’ forward at me,


Didn’t want to be part of the murder,

But the boy had hurt her,

Revenge is part of bein’ a Western family.


We were three miles outside of town –

When sis – still in her weddin’ gown –

Saw her husband-would’ve been,

Her face grew a grievous grin,

That said “We ‘bout to run this bastard down.”


She perched the blaster right ‘bove her hip,

Blew a kiss from her bottom lip,

Didn’t even peer down the sight

– Just shot through the night –

And we saw the tuxedo boy take a trip.


He fell flat on his well-dressed chest,

Sis said “I’ll take care of the rest”

Opened the door, over joyed,

And like Pretty Boy Floyd

She brought murder back to the West.


A truly savage bit of blood-shedding.

Damn near brutal as a French beheading,

But she strolled back to the truck

And sighed “Well fuck,

Now that’s what I call a shotgun wedding.”

Being Thomas Poet (Pt.I)


Howdy! So, here’s my first real shot at creative writing (but, you guessed it, it’s still basically just fuckin’ poetry). The concept for this story, however short or long it may be, is that of dystopian America. Taking place over the span of a single, 16 hour day, this story follows the routine, setting, scenery, and introspective analysis of a fella’ named Thomas Poet. Here we go.


Being Thomas Poet


5:59 A.M, October 1st

Thomas was already awake -granted, only for a moment – when the alarm screeched. That piercing, shrill, jolting dagger of frequency slapped Thomas through his eardrums, just as every morning; but no matter how used to Patriot Protocol Thomas thought he would become over time, every morning somehow seemed more stressful and terrifying than the last. Thomas realized that six seconds had passed since the wall-mounted alarm began the daily Call to Arms. And so, immediately, and with absolutely no hesitation, as every morning, he flung himself from the bed. In his hurried and frantic attempt to appear set and ready at exactly 6:15, Thomas slipped and fumbled on the hardwood floor, fell to his knees and caught himself with the palms of his hands.

The spread of agony.

The shock of the clumsy and frightened fall shot from his palms, through his wrists, up his forearms; the strike of his knees on the hardwood ricocheted through his hamstrings, bolted to his Achilles tendons, and echoed in his hips and ankles. Thomas held himself, on the hardwood floor, hands and knees, like a broken and beaten dog attempting to recover from a kick. Seven seconds passed. Thomas was running late.

“Again?” The only thing Thomas could think.

6:00 A.M, October 1st

The Call to Arms had concluded its 30 second blast when Thomas had composed, swept-up, gathered himself, and gotten to his feet. Seemingly instantaneously, as the alarm silenced, the florescent light of his quarters illuminated with a blinding, searing flash. The entirety of his 18-by-18-foot studio was completely revealed; the manmade light denied nothing its false and hollow warmth. As Thomas walked, more so threw himself towards the bathroom, he noticed, as every morning, the light of the florescent tubes was so savage and domineering that no shadows were cast in his apartment.

The light shows everything.

Although he had gotten his mandated eight hours of sleep, Thomas still felt groggy. “Sleep isn’t really sleep when its forced, is it?” Thomas thought. His legs and arms still tingled with the echoes of his frantic fall, his muscles ached from the night full of clenching, trying to block out dreams and just make it through the night. He knew he was falling behind. In desperation to reach the bathroom by 6:01, Thomas lurched his head and chest forward, hoping that his strained muscles would somehow manage to propel themselves to prevent another collapse.

“Gravity is as good a slave driver as any, I suppose” Thomas thought to himself as his legs and feet stomped and drove him onward with hopeless, panicked impetus.

6:01 A.M, October 1st

As Thomas approached the bathroom with five steps left to the door, he heard the breath of machinery begin to swell. “Running late” Thomas thought. The door to the bathroom unbolted itself, and hurled open automatically, stopping suddenly in the exact same place as every morning. While taking the step through the threshold from the hardwood floor of the bedroom to the white, clammy tile of the bathroom, the hanging head of Thomas noticed, as every morning, the steel                  – ‘secure’ – hydraulic door of his bathroom had, over time, carved a faint and shallow crescent in the tile. Tiny flakes of tile dust, like powdered sugar, floated, glided, and danced across the floor, propelled by the gust of wind from the doors determined and planned opening. Thomas thought he should report the damage to Landlord Miller, but was caught in the predicament of getting the mechanical folly rectified, and being reprimanded by Landlord Miller for not having reported the impairment earlier.

There’s really no winning.

But Thomas didn’t have time to think about that, he was running late. He pivoted like a soldier, and faced himself in the bathroom mirror. Thomas hated the way he looked. For being as young as he was, he looked like shit. He grabbed the “What a Smile” toothbrush (seven days old now, this would its thirteenth, and second to last use), the half-empty – ‘half-full’ – flaccid pouch of “Pearly Whites” toothpaste, and began to brush his teeth. The bristles were a little bit soft now, not as rigid and sharp – ‘new’ – as they should be by Protocol. Thomas looked at the clock, the digital segments, fragmented, divided, read 6:02:49; Thomas had brushed for a minute and 49 seconds, meaning he had eleven seconds to spit, rinse, and move on to shaving. The water of the sink turned on automatically, as it does every morning, and Thomas jumped on the four seconds he to cup his hands, collect some water.

“Rinse, gargle, spit. Shave, shower, shit.” Thomas rhymed in his head.

6:03 A.M, October 1st

Thomas had half-assed the mouth rise portion of Morning Protocol; he didn’t want to fall behind on shaving. The Landlords and Managers never really noticed a bit of residual tooth paste coating the gums, or lingering on the tongue, but they’ll dock anyone for a sloppy shave. Thomas reached into the package of “Looking Sharp” disposable razors, slid the thin and flimsy – ‘economic’ –  plastic sheath off the razor head, and then left it to rest on the elevated porcelain border of the sink. The water turned on automatically, again, just like every morning, and as Thomas shook his can of ‘Silky Smooth’ shaving cream, he waited for the water gauge to read “Optimal Face Temperature”. It took two seconds longer than usual today; weather must have been a bit colder than predicted.

Can’t control the weather.

Thomas cupped his hands again, and splashed the water on his face. “Say what you will about Protocol, but they do know how to make this shit precise” Thomas thought as the water dampened his face, slid down his neck, and pooled between his collar bone and the top bridge of his trapezius muscle (Thomas usually spent his required hour of Free Study reading about human anatomy, bone structure, things of that nature). He shot a splash of shaving cream into his left palm, still a little tingly from his fall from the bed; lathered the cream together with his hands, and slapped it on his face. “Maybe a little too much there, buddy” Thomas said to himself within the confines of his mind. The shaving cream splattered, sprinkled the countertop. “Sorry about that, Carla” Thomas apologized, in apostrophe to the FreeMaid who cleaned his floor of the Complex when the FreePens were at work. He took the razor against his skin, dragged and pulled, slicked and shone it across his face; left cheek, right cheek, against the grain, no pull, no snagging; everyone had to shave every day anyway, so the hair never really had a chance to grow back. The water was still running from the sink, but methodically fluctuating in accordance to the regulations of water preservation established by GreenPeace, which Corporate had implemented on a Statewide basis about two years ago. The fluctuation, as described by GreenPeace, and passed onto the FreeMen of The State by the LandLords was in attempts to save water during the Morning Shave (Thomas wondered what it was like for the FreeWomen, and how Corporate had wasted – ‘dedicated’ –  so much time to figuring out exactly how to control the water that their legs would get the best possible shave, without wasting any water).  LandLord Miller had said that the low flow of water assures that no excess hair or cream will gather to clog the pipes, while the high spurts of water pressure allow for the razor to be fully rinsed in between strokes.

“Wonder how many fuckin’ monkey’s they shaved to figure that one out” Thomas said in his head, with a chuckle and sardonic grin.

6:10 A.M, October 1st

               Thomas finished off his shave, and waited for the “Polish Up” aftershave disposable facewipe to be fed from the wall. “Did I actually get that done on time?” Thomas pondered, looking at the clock. 6:09:56. “Shit, would ya’ look at that. Not too shabby, Tommyboy” he thought to himself with a little sense of pride in his efficacy. “Four seconds to yourself”.

Little moments like these.

The aftershave facewipe slid from the chrome-plated slit in the wall (positioned just to the left of the sink) like one of those old dollar bills being rejected from a vending machine, but that was all before Corporate. Thomas snagged it, rubbed it between his hands to warm it up a little, and wiped his face. Thomas liked the little sting, the little pinch of his skin and pores reacting to the alcohol, or whatever it was that soaked the napkin. Behind him, the chimes from the BathroomPlanner played its little tune, like a xylophone, signaling that it was time to take a shower. “They play music to tell you it’s time to shower, but they wail the screams of a banshee to get you out of bed” Thomas remarked, silently, to himself. He approached the shower, held the CorpTek on his right arm up to the BathroomPlanner to transmit his current body temperature. Even since Corporate has initiated the State Comfortability Plan, everyone’s CorpTek was revamped to monitor everything: blood pressure, blood sugar, body temperature, heartbeat, location, and stress levels. While stepping into shower, even after all this time, Thomas was still hesitant that the water may be too hot, or too cold; but just like always –

“It’s fuckin’ perfect.” Thomas critiqued in his mind. “They stuff terror down your throat, and what comes out is a big, heaping, steaming pile of perfection.” Thomas closed his eyes, and let the water run over him; on the ShowerScreen, Corporate’s “Five Steps for a Cleaner Body and Healthy Skin” beauty regiment morning talk-show played. But unlike every other morning, today, Thomas didn’t listen.