Sanguine Bile, Troll and Boy
Original poster

Baby, maybe
you ought
to drop
the violin,

maybe your hands
should wrap themselves around
the red and green

on your brow,
pluck the plump

balls of poison
bowing its stems
by drawing purple

lines about your
and regret

for only a moment -- then maybe
those holly sapphires glowing
on your thick brow

has, at last, turned you,
Santo Niño, man,
and I

your violin case,
your crown,



Seven means the chariot
on which a triumphant prince
rides into his city, wets
the faces of the women with
tears -- the men who march behind
look around with hungry eyes
while the bellend blindly smiles.
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Sanguine Bile, Troll and Boy
Original poster

Some women in Athens conspired, long ago,
to seize for themselves the vote.
"The Deme of Envy" the men called their group,
although, as a joke, they were heard.
And when the white stones for their speech came up short,
the men continued to laugh
by stripping them, holding their dresses for caulk
on triremes for Sicily bound.
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Sanguine Bile, Troll and Boy
Original poster

What new sayings can I make,
son of a father and father of a son
more visionary than I could ever be,
to say what it felt, hung between manhood
and childhood, strung like a beast,

Each and every breath I take
you are collecting,

the silver of his knife sparkling all glad,
greedy to be stained, like a bud before bees,
the bush to our left all burned out,
the tent to our right barely upright,

Limit every second left
'til I'm off balance

then peeping tom, wolf in lamb's clothing,
watching from nearby -- he and I were blind --
we were startled -- wasted time --

I would die for you --
please, see it through.


Sanguine Bile, Troll and Boy
Original poster

The lizardmen built our modest party basement
at a crossroads: all the city's toilet
pipes drain here. I can't stand the smell.
I'd rather die than go back

to Facebook, Twitter, and the like.
Even if friends and readables frequent,
the minty freshness of community
cannot overcome, distant relatives

who don't know how to live
in an age where the lies won't stop
at the edges of towns or by points of crowns

flush their diapers full
of shit and shame, senility's costume,
down the drains, clogging pipes to burst.


Sanguine Bile, Troll and Boy
Original poster
A Long Week

You struck a well
and had your fill
of rage. Disgust
blew like a dry

east wind. You wished
for water, got
a block of ice.

Cum dribbled out
like typhus from
the maws of lice.

Then your baby died.
Why do you care?
Your momentous
is the world's mundane.


Sanguine Bile, Troll and Boy
Original poster
My Many Sexual Conquests

If there's one thing I know best,
it's sex. How many women have I banged?
Not many, but not one
left disappointed. I call it conquest
when I call
before I come.
And I never come.


Sanguine Bile, Troll and Boy
Original poster
"In a suburbia...."

In a suburbia of firsts,
my room's on a second
floor. Its window faces west.
Evenings I climb

down stairs my parents
are too old to climb, the sun burns
through even the thickest

curtain as it descends,
its blinding heat a sea
swallowing the east.

The world ends
for everyone: the old
and the unproven.
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Sanguine Bile, Troll and Boy
Original poster
The Purple Rose of Cairo

Here we have another separation.
I'm flying home to Hollywood while you're stuck
divorced and desolate in the theatre
watching over and over Fred Astaire
carried by Ginger Rogers' charm to heaven.
Last year I featured in a fancier flick,
Death Takes a Holiday. Not your kind of picture.
"There are only three games: love, money, and war."

Tell me what war
a woman of our time should fight
other than a thankless job
or a family that broke apart
shortly after the honeymoon.

To say you failed by some fatal flaw
would be a thoughtless, pointless gesture.
After all, we're in the same boat:
evenings you hustle with glitz and glamour
while I work a diner by day.

How did I catch your other-you's eye
anyway? I'm nothing.

Don't be obtuse, you're Mia Farrow:
the director is your partner.

"I wish that we may never meet
when you are less beautiful, and I must be less kind."
I caught it, alright.

I suppose all words on the subject have this strange way
of stumbling back to cliché. "Love is a kind
of madness, love is blind."

If you say I'm an actress on a screen,
fine by me. I'd think you were too kind
if I wasn't blind.

I suppose we were always actor and actress,
our story all a creature of the screen.
The screen that fed us, entertained us--- kept us blind.

And Fredric March, in a booming voice, replied,
"What could terror mean to me, who has nothing to fear?"