dude coveter

never say die, kill.
never let words fill
your fists and fool you
to think you can launch
them flaming into the night.
fool you to think they’ll
damage a thing.

this is a raid and we should
have launched hard with our
ears and mouths plugged
and let eyes and hands
have at it.
let muscle business be done
without speech padding
the blows thrown at walls.

no talking
no descriptors.
silence and blood
until only memories
lay in heaps
where enemies were.

grims

one more shadow to
cool the ground
while skin is breaking.
the stood too long of
boredom drawing
shapes in the fade.

we have left the freckles
on this city’s peel
so we think it’s us
that made it.
decorated block walls
with the burning up around us.

our space taking is
augmentation.
influence through
invasion.
done it all just by
showing up

and letting scenes die
 while we watch them. 

kevin shield

no one had yet seen
a beast like this, but she
did not depend on eyes to be.
she did not need the heat
from mammal brains to breathe
and suck air past burnt tongue
to fuel her pump to throttle
deep in scale and armored chest.
she could feel that predator,
feel that would-be attacker years
before the hairy mouth cut a tooth.
so she stayed clutched and coiled
until those fists were fit to dig in.
time and time again wasted
being ready while the real threat
was just winding up a punch.

vickernes

roughness from the
licks on the whetstone.
filing the cavities ‘til
black teeth are
sharp as thieves.
great for slinking through
cowards but whispers
can be hard to deal with.
all those times when you
wish words could fall
real soft on a shoulder
or tempt the hairs to stiff
on neck, all those puffs of
warmth onto quiver
will be flames, will eat up
anything the burn spit touches.
think what a taste of lips
would be like to miss
each time you’re moving in
to hone the fillings.

nights talker

there was flickers again
this morning like electric skin
come again to life.
enjoy the pricks as they wake
the blood at the bottom
of your feet, feel the boil
reach your eyes. 

come to focus the morning
with its heat and fatten the limbs.
we could lay here until the engine
gets so warm we burn the sheets up,
tumble through the ‘til we writhe in ashes.
lets put the burn to use, though.
save it up to light up night time
like the sun never went out.

acetate

i would not know what to do
with a body if i had one.
there would be too many
tempts to let it take me over.
a walk down the street and
every piece of bottle glass
is so much light to my eyes
i would need to touch it,
feel the blood i just got used
to feeling gush around
inside me hot spurt out all over.
i would be lost to the overkill
urge to touch things to make
sure my body knew they were there,
make things real with my feeling.
i couldn’t handle being trapped
in a place made of things
i have laid my own hands on.

Teju Coal

they’re bothering still with long words,
even with their busy tongues
licking organ meat off silverware.
another helping from the slime 
of aspic on bared groan-bellies,
but they keep ethics up
like banners to the sick,
enjoy their piece meal while
grunting into swigs of table wine.
and I’ve stopped listening long
before these boars have moved
to tasting face meat,
so long before their antlers grind
between my rib bones.
I was long gone way before they
were picking me from in between
their pig teeth.

trench

is this the sound of boot
parade meant to show
some vulgar strength
so big it’s never used
or just some whimpering
from the dogs that
guard the roost?
how prime must you think
these planks nailed
to cement are.
terrible that no matter
the number of blades
hung to care for this house,
marauders slip so easy past them.
effortless and warm like a stream,
such a fleet to
lay waste to everything.

used to be close

stuck real close to blacks
and grays, never blues lighter
than just about midnight.
we were sure the bell would
ring again and we’d be ready.
but what is worse than an
army who’s been trained to
cling real tight to insides
of houses until they remember
they’re fighting something?
these piles of us don’t even
know or remember enough to hope,
hope this drudge will end again and
we can run out into the crowds
we’re so afraid of
and start ripping them up.
some days my hand is so hard on
the knob i think i’ll force myself
to turn it, force myself to
start the battle.
then its fucking ice for days
until shakes from the strain get
soothed and i can make a fist
that just get hid in a pocket.

wood idol

how many handfuls
could come out if we
faced the gun inside the house?
could ever there be so much
dust the archaeology of our
dead skin would be worth it.
from the ignorance of what’s at
the all deep down bottom of
our trash heap we’re slowly
losing touch with this place.
slow monsters are being born
each time we flick the light switch
and don’t bother looking.
smears are growing and crawling
up the floor like shadows,
but we’ve stopped noticing
so they’re taking over.

not too long before the mindless
stepping we do those late late
Sunday mornings will be trespass
against whoever has dug in
their heels in our house.
how light our steps will be
so they’ll let us keep
the corners while they’re out.

I'm a monster and I exist

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