on my knee.
so I wait
for my moment
HAIR OF THE DOGThe black and white horizon flips and spins,
my right cheek snow and left cheek moonless sky.
Semi-conscious I can feel his shadow.
(Line and pour me half a dozen shots...)Warmth pours from his skin into my stomach,
but my fingers and my toes are still black.
A piteous kiss would reverse the bite.
(...one for every month he hasn't touched me)
Instead it's revulsion that snuffs the heat.
He leaves me naked, rotting in the cold.
(He lacks the balls to fuck away my ennui...)
Some stars appear in the black of the left,
a white, puffy clustered constellation.
(...but has the balls to ask why I seem restive)
Now they form teeth and legs, tails and white fur.
The bigger brighter canine blankets me
while the smaller one licks at my burnt ends.
(Please forgive me, drinking turns me tasteless)
I am revived but the two curs linger...(Thank you for your kindness and attention,now would you be so kind as to point mein the direction of Orion’s belt?)
IThe spectre is warped,an inverted white shadow smearedflat against the wallof my unlit bedroom(a distorted mural,magnified through the glass and liquorlens of the bottle on my nightstand).Concavity spars with convexity,ultimately yieldingas the form emerges from the wallto try the third dimension onlike a wedding dress it can't afford.It's a bedsheet ghost,floating with two opaque cutout eyes.The compulsion to stick a body part in themmakes me ache.I tongue the two slits;the ectoplasm coats my buds,smacking them with an aftertasteof spoiled milk.The wraith fades,shrugging off space and time,but the flavor lingersand intensifies.Retching,not yethaving had my fill of spirits,I grab the bottle and chug,infusing vodka and bilein an enzyme cocktail,crafted to be expellednot ingested.The toilet swallows the vomit,but you still pollute my palate.IINo one should see this...the submission in the kitchen.I unscrew the only bulbso not even the nosiest raycan escape to steal a glanceand refract through the windowto gossip with the stars.No. What happens here...(the driving out of the loiterer in my mouth)is to be absorbed,smothered,forgottenin the dark womb of ante-meridiem.A brief glimmer is permitted(to snatch the head out of the refrigerator)then snuffed.Now it is fingernailspeeling skin,old skin,tissue paperflaking off like a scab.Little bitstumble out onto the counter.My fingers roam and probeuntil they have the hilt.It feels profaneto turn a knife sideways,like flipping a cross upside down.Yet the blasphemous blade hoversthen descendssmashing one of the morselsand splitting its thin shell.Popped like a blisterthe fresh skin underneathis slick and sticky.I slip it into my mouth and chew.Acrid, bitter waves roll over the rot.Swallowing,the sharpness spreads,and I think I've won.My euphoria blinds meto the laws of Natureand the inevitable ebbof every tide.The foul rot,eroded but still standing,pushes back;the taste of the garlicrecedes and washes away.A fiery paroxysm of irebursts loose,singes sense and reason.The conflagration forcesmy burning fingersaround the cool blade of the knife.Both hands slamthe heel to the counter(over and over)crushing the cloves between.The harsh, raw garlicis iron infused,bloody crescentspulverized and masticated.Instead of overpoweringthe rancid aftertaste,the three elements synthesizeand metastasizeleaving me terminal.IIIMy life was saved by a sprig of mint.In the desperation of dawn,I munched on some leaves.The pain abated.Calmly,lying in a hot bathwith what was leftof the sprig,I rubbed the cancer into remission.
Which one of you is the guardian?
The child raises her arm in her sleep.Ah!You!You've been demoted...holy decree.
I squeeze the cherub's plush bottom,
pluck off his wings
and toss him to Hades.-----I imagined clay;
or wet cement;even a grapefruit.It was harder,
but only at first.
Like pushing through thin ice,
except the water below is warm and thick.Her eyes never opened,
but there was a coo.
And shit in her diaper.The tip of my Sharpie disappeared
as I scrawled the despicable noun into her belly.
I barely stifled a snicker
at the thought of tickling her.-----...past 4am now
The message is next to mommy
on the bed.For three and a half months
I have been glued to my mirrors,
trying to hoodwink one of theminto casting an honest reflection.Liars.When she wakes up,
I'll see my facsimile;
and(if she remains conscious for long enough)
she will see a grotesque silhouetted doppelgänger
sitting on the windowsill,
wearing her white coat
and a pairof bloody latex gloves.
A plasma anchorman watches me,
and trying to think
Somewhere there is an affable mass of carbon
orating about politics, unaware of the woman on her bed
sliding in and out of poesy and sophistry, writhing
under the onerous weight of detachment.
We are two distinct entities:
a double negative;
a divided dash.
The furtive blank paper between the blots
of ink is what I can't understand, or dismiss,
because somewhere in the nullity
is the fountainhead of my isolation.
So I fiddle around in there,
slipping into the slit
with no protection,
feeling around for context.
Why is it always flesh with you?
I was being dishonest when I told you I felt ill.
But I was speaking in terms of a permanent state of being
or an inherent character flaw,
not a temporary affliction.
So then I made up that bit
about my Circadian rhythm
being out of whack.
Your lack and my lack
so I lied
manic and morose
like a lycanthropic ghost:
a ghost with nothing to do,
who never could be bothered
with having any business
The moon is enshrouded by a cloud,
everything else around it
a cheap cardboard backdrop.
I'm safe in the anonymity of my tub,
in the blood
that has always been
into garbled jamais vu?
And what if that
A teacher felt she could confide in me once
as a precocious youth. She asked me if I had ever repeated
a word so many times that it lost all of its meaning.
and with a profound sadness
too disinterested to be marred by tears,
she told me that
was the same word.
Andrew is an aspiring poet; some of the major themes explored in his work are alienation, mental illness, the unknown, time, the physical vs. the metaphysical, and existential dread. He graduated from The Richard Stockton College of New Jersey in 2007 with a B.A. in Literature and minors in Philosophy and Religion.