Her - For N.

Her eyes bleed molten gold,
Upon her caramel lap,
Her white-hot touches scold,
A dark world’s coldest snap.

The copper and nickel,
Of her electric hair,
Twists, writhes and crackles,
Igniting the black air.

Her metal-plated skin,
Vibrant against the night,
Glowing wildly from within,
Proves a riveting sight.

The rapture of her heart,
A pulsing supernova,
Practitioner of lost art,
My muse, my liege, my lover.

Old Gods

Do you remember when IRAK

Bombed the Brooklyn Bridge?

Perched against its iron hide,

135 feet above the

Shit-filled slab of the Hudson River.

Did you hear about Justin and Harold,

Clocking out ahead of time?

Thompson Square pioneers,

Slickly varnished across silver screens,

Then left to bleed out alone.

And you must know about Dash,

Sucking down 20 bags of brown?

A flame so

Sick’n’fuckin’ tired of everyone’s crap,

That he chose to burn out his own way.

You can’t put a price on that shit.

Friends

Your shadows haunt

Our parties.

Darkening lips and faces,

Staining the walls.

Sometimes I stray so close

To your new home,

But pause.

You reach out

As I waver on the doorstep,

And stroke my cheek.

Your dead fingers

Still feel so warm.

Fuck.

I miss you all.

Private Party

Today I collected polaroids of all my dead friends

And snorted a line off every one

So we could all party together again

One last time