Nine Holes (2018)

What happened to Love?
Heart decay has left a bad taste in my mouth
That I can’t seem to spit up.
The acridity of acid reflux pulses in my throat— doubled over at the base, puking down the deep, empty well that leads to my guts.
My organs have holes in them.
My organs have holes.

My tongue is grating against the roof of my
(mechanical mouth),
whose doors open and close.
But no words come out.
What is heard:
the very soft sound of stiff skin
Grazing against itself, as if
My lips have never once met the kiss of water.
My teeth creep across the lips’ surface with a careful, inward scrape.
I am swallowing myself.
I am swallowing myself whole.

My brain is soggy and feverish, gripped with fervor, though wilting.
This Fervor Floods my Soul, but refuses to even Drip from my Mouth.
words of premature rot
(let’s say: bullshit)
ooze from between
this dry orifice, a slime
that builds up on my lips.
It dries and cracks and I peel it off and put it back into my mouth and that’sjusthowitis.

My Spongy Brain:
When I take a bite of this wet, spiraling thing,
will I taste Neglect?
Will it crumble at the touch of my tongue?
If I remove it, wring it out, roll it with a rolling pin,
And put it back in its oven—
will it it bake or burn or melt?
Will another bite char my gums? Shatter my teeth? Burn the pink flesh even pinker?
Where will it go when I’ve swallowed it and my organs aren’t there to catch it?
Will I be just a head? A head with a dehydrated tongue? A head rolling
and rolling
and rolling and rolling
just because it is a head?
A head with seven holes and one million lives?

Or do we prefer the Vagina that moans with lies?
I’m a pair of legs runningrunning
r u n n i n g
Am I The Woman’s Pride?
I’ll put my fist in my mouth if you put yours in my pee-you-ess-ess-why.
I’ll bite my lips if you bite hers.
I won’t say one goddamn word.

I’ll lay in this bed all day.
For you, I Will Let My Bones Deteriorate.
My brain is seeping out of my ears.
A Puddle on The Pillow.
Tears and meat make for a real good lubricant.
Fuck me until these bones break into shards that will shred my meaty insides.

me open—a single vertical line right down the center.
Take any limb you wish;
Harvest any organ you like,
just please leave the

With your sweaty body curved over mine,
Reach your hand in, that’s right!
Remove my heart.
There it is, six inches from my face.
It looks so pretty when it pulses in your palm.
So pretty I could eat it, but never know the taste.
As you squeeze your fingers around it,
It cries blood and drips into my eyes.
Please, sweetheart, keep it.

I’m just a head
and a pair of legs, anyway.

genitals (2015)

Selling sights and losing minds.
Girls with tight bodies
and Boys with canines.
Flesh is but a commodity.
Raw, manufactured goods.
Body parts, what can be sold?
What price is there to pay
For brokenness and sensuality divulged?
Remember: if you rip a body limb-from-limb,
The sex stuff remains.

Mother! (2015)

"Spitting image
of her mother!" "Apple
fall far from the
They call me
a rotten apple—
But people often spit
before they see.

Untitled (2018)

Dissect my frozen body.
My guts are chunks of solid, cold meat.
Ice cubes that plop onto the winter water’s surface.
Some shatter, some crack, some sink.
I try to gather them into my arms.
In vain, of course.
I can only watch those bits and pieces
Fall into the opaque nothingness.
I can also scrape up what remains
And chuck it back inside.
[See if I can survive]
If I’m lucky, I’ll have a chance to bite the frost
Before it bites me.

Bite Me (2013)

A brick of ice consumed me.

That is, until you came along and

Sculpted me,

and I melted so sweetly—

a cherry coma.

Baked carefully into a pie,

Heart and all.

If you peek through the crevices,

You can see me.


                                You can eat me if you want to.

If I scream,

            Ignore it.

I want to be wrapped up

                     in your thick, icing teeth,

                                 your frothy, whipped tongue.

      I want my cherry blood to ooze

                 down your throat

                               and choke you.

Cookie Monster (2018)

You small baby,
Gnawing on a sippy cup.
When Mommy take you in car,
You throw sippy cup out window.
Ha ha hee hee.
Look at cup fly!
Hee hee ha ha.
Cup go bye-bye!
What’s wrong, Mommy?
Uh-oh . . . Mommy mad!
“You shouldn’t have done that!
You are bad, bad, bad!”

You probably didn't have time for phrases like:
Goo goo ga ga.
Or first words:
No, ma’am. Let’s not waste time.
You medium baby.
Straight to:
“mother, may I please have a cookie?”
mother is reading her book,
she doesn’t even flinch.
Why not? Please please please?!
“Go away—because I said so!”
You sneak cookie, eat cookie in secret.
Mommy never know.

mother hears cookie in your intestines.
mother sees cookie on your teeth.
mother smells cookie when you speak.
she screams.
“Why do you act like this?
You know,
everyone else really thinks you’re a brat.”
All you wanted was a cookie.
Why is your mother such a cunt?

Mommy feed you little green pill.
You large baby now.
Fight with Mommy no more.
You good girl now, Mommy love you.
She give you hug and kiss, say sorry.
You can have cookie tomorrow.
But you no hungry anymore.

Vicious Plague, Almost Grave (2018)

17. She screams, yet whispers––a red moan like death.
16. Her naked shadow (a black concoction)
15. Cradles but a thousand frantic dreams.
14. Hysteria is housed in her heart.
13. Incoherent muscles. Depleted strength.
12. Questionable structure. Of sound it is mute.
11. White: Borrowed. Red: Expelled.
10. The milky insides of her thighs are unforgiving.
9. Glops of body fluids seep from her Woman Hole.
8. Various forms of premature life cling to the milkiness.
7. Her cheeks, too, are equally as unforgiving.
6. The wet puckers from her eyes.
5. It molds to the curves of her face.
4. She knocks on her hip bones like doors.
3. When they creak open, all that will be there is
2. Murmuring fallopian tubes. A solemn cervix.
1. Grief-stricken estrogen. A hollow womb.


I had a dream that I shot you In the face—point blank. And when I saw that grimey, opened flesh, All I could see was the blood That I emulate. The DNA, that genetic code. A forced bond. Barbaric roots. In theory, I cried. In theory. I am slithering into myself. Something of a listless worm, Writhing and shriveled Into some sort Of fetal position. If I could crawl back into the womb, I would. Live in semi-existence. Solitude and a feeding tube.I couldn’t be carried forever, though; Could I? (Could I?) Mommy, mommy. Inside your belly, I was a simple idea To fawn over. Outside, I am held captive To expected (mandated) Loyalty. You didn’t birth a child to love; You birthed a child to love you You dressed me up In outfits that matched yours. You toted me around—an accessory. Your Mini-Me. A babydoll, a plaything. All fun and games until Your toy gets a mind of its own. You will do all you can To be my puppeteer. Use empty promises To cajole me into Worshipping you. You needed to be My religion,god,idol,world. My everything. You needed unconditional devotion. Perpetual infatuation. You: the hourglass. Me: some sand. I am shivering down the funnel, Hoping to outgrow your constricting figure, But you refuse to crack. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s because You’re Made of Plastic. Even still, your tongue snaps at me Like glass. I am your limbs, I am Your extremities. You May be the one who Touched me, but it is My hand by which I am held. You linger beneath my skin, crawling. (Creepy-crawly.) We are separate, but You splice us together. Two bodies, one being. I am your reflection, and You are mine. No beginning, no end. (When will it end?) You give me a sickening itch, I can feel it—my skin— It’s about to rip. From the inside. From the inside. I do not feel safe inside it. (Even with all its layers.) I cannot scratch you out; I guess I will just shed you in 7 years.

Claustrophobic (2017)

In the privacy of my soggy brain, I try to
Wring out thoughts
And the feelings that drip from them. Down my spine and into my fingers.
An anticipated misery.
A circular, self-appointed jive.
How can I be late if I never leave?

When my brain finally dries up, shrivels, cracks, crumbles, 
I will sift through the remains.
As if this physical intimacy with my headquarters will divulge its secrets.
I wouldn’t open up after being holed up
My whole life, either.

Raggedy Ann Does PCP (2018)

We were at the bowling alley.
I think your friend was there. Something like that.
It was winter break.
I’d asked if we could bring alcohol.
Brunk Dowling, my favorite, I said.
We forgot the alcohol.
You forgot the alcohol.
So, we did some other kind of drugs in the bathroom instead.
It was sharp in my nose, like inhaling the fumes of our disintegrated love.
10 minutes later, and we’re sitting by the machine-thing that spits out our bowling balls.
We’re watching your friend take his turn.
I’ve known you for over a year now.
And I still feel like you’re so foreign.
We’re talking and laughing. Something I’m not used to.
At least, anymore.
With you.
But I’m like a child.
I also feel 2 feet tall.
I want to be one those stuffed animals in the claw machine, so when you go to play, my meat will be hanging from the claw’s hooks when you catch me. Please please please catch me Daddy!?
But yeah. We’re sitting on the bench. Talking and laughing.
Did I already say that?
I’m sorry. I’m so so so sorry!
I’m sorry.
It feels like this is the first time we’ve ever met. This feels like the first time I’ve ever been happy. This feels like I love you.
Like I’m in love with you.
There’s snow outside and it makes me want to crawl into my skin. Crawl into yours. Will you hold me like one of those claw-machine-stuffed-toys? Hold onto me for dear life, like you would’ve when you were five.
I’m hallucinating. I think you and your friend are going to the mental hospital. To drop me off.
This is it this is it this is it.
I was feeling a little weird earlier, wasn’t I?
We get home and I run upstairs. I am not right in the brain.
My vision is jarred and I think I am a 2-Foot-Tall-Doll.
I wrote down in my journal that I’m afraid I’ll kill someone. I start laughing. Who am I?
What the fuck?
I stare in the mirror and start trying to mold my cheeks like they’re clay or Silly Putty or something?
What the fuck?
Am I going to be okay?
You’re supposed to take care of me.
Stuffed animals don’t feel this way.
Stuffed animals don’t feel.
I don’t remember what you said to me when you came upstairs.
I don’t want to remember anything you’ve ever said.
Over a year later, and I still look at that journal occasionally.
Maybe the person I was afraid I’d kill was you.
Over a year later, and I feel like a Rag Doll.
Rag dolls don’t feel.
Rag dolls don’t feel anything at all.

Eat Your Heart Out (2018)

Suck my dick
And feed me grapes.
I’ll rip off all your fingernails.
I’ll make you wish they were grapes.
I want to go walking in the vineyard.
I want to find a rose bush.
I want to push you in it.
Maybe I’ll make you a crown of thorns.
When you ask what’s for dinner, maybe,
just maybe, I’ll shove a rose in your mouth.

Gasp for air. Do it.
Do it for me, baby.
Fuck it, I’m Jesus Christ.

I’ll be reborn before you know it.
Don’t assume I’m dead.
I’m only just beginning.
If I tell you I love you, don’t believe me.
If I tell you I hate you, don’t believe me.
All I spout are lieslieslies.
I am Meat Grinder.
I am Blood Guzzler.
I am Jesus Fucking Christ.
I hope
You don’t mind cannibalism.
Jesus has to taste his children
At least once.

Jesus doesn’t love you.
Jesus loves me.

Cryptoid a poem in 6 parts (2018)