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Sunday. I went to church with the Devil and watched him fold the service in half, slit ‘Heaven’ out of old testaments to keep it for his own. Watched him reduce Gospel to snatched away air. An enemy of action is easier to trace than— Slips, summer heats, silks and pastels soft against pink...

her. She breathes the way I sink: with ease. Cold, I see those soft lips part, warm air coming to her like waves. Out she washes the juices of my intrepidation. In she catches how my nervous breath does hitch. Grasping at the straws in her hair, reaching for her tender garments. Whisper a...

anecdote. The wind snaps her windpipe; Nature's true cannibalism manifest— Aftertaste of honey. She sold that Jewel he gave her for a night spent warm in her C—t. True, she took him willingly, as he bottled the screams for dinner. I took of your flesh like a dumpster dived Jesus...

era. the dark cold of his fingertips scratched at the dawn like a funeral bell— vultures circling, going through the motions. the rite of passage i claimed from the girl with kisses of roses dissolved like acid, bubbling down in the ventilation of my c—t. breathing is overrated, or so they...

farmer's daughter. her breast digs into my ribs as an acorn burrows into earth, setting its roots and breaking the bones one by one by one. the milk-soaked heart branches, growing up my bronchus so that it might see the sun. as my breath becomes her she brings lips to kiss the fruits of her...

tide. i. the cup of my ears is full — brimmed over with lemons. honey, once on my tongue, all gone run dry, so now they call me: bitter ii. shake off the sand, mercurial Aphrodite. the dog of three heads simpers at your ankles. Death, pale courtier, bows, Lord, chthonic king, bows...

the creek. They tossed her with the coming of the tide, treating her bones with the salve of time; with it, she would come to blush, look delicate, and sacred cry out ‘Mother! Mother, you have killed me!’ — Those old treacherous bones down there. She drowned in her own salvation. The taste of...

as anyone who has ever met me, or viewed me from a distance through the safety of the zoo windows, knows well, i am a depraved, pretentious eejit who T H R I V E S off of being as pretentious as humanly possible. unfortunately, my status as a trashbag gremlin posturing as more interesting than...

Festering rats fatten on the milk of my tongue, Which turned sour long ago, But feeds their flabby stomachs nonetheless. Playing my pipe I crouch and snivel, And worm through cracks and alleys dark, And infect and poison, Disease wet with saliva. Thick black fur surrounds me, My tongue...

Cracked minds breed monsters, Or so they tell me. I think it all romantic. I break my skull on thoughts and poems, And stare at shadows in the closet. I lay traps and treats, So that monsters may come take me, And trail enviously after those who've won. I lounge in their tears and...

Grayscale moths and dusty stomachs, I'm done with you. Let the cakes decay, the bodies be eaten; I shall devour mine with a silver fork. It is mine and mine alone, And I shall consume it whole, Before the dust sets in. - dust

*breathes pretentiously* It's 4am, just past Xmas, and I'm innately awful. Seems like the perfect circumstances for poetry. Warnings: Old as balls, pretentious as balls, poetry Narcissist Part One