Every Sock

– – – – –

Today’s selections were featured in “The Weekly Cossacks”, as well as “Gutter Burger Magazine” and “The Washington Post”.

– – – – –


I have depression


sex addiction


skin picking disorder

unwanted thoughts syndrome

delusions of grandeur

suicidal tendencies

an empty bank account

a bow-legged stance

hips that don’t quit

Rumours on vinyl

a closet full of child mannequins

Ikea furnishings

an endless supply of boogers and cum


two lamps that work

one lamp that doesn’t

two clocks that work

one clock that doesn’t

a repulsion towards lists

wine I left in my friend’s fucking car

two ex-boyfriends

a thousand ex-flings

the velvet rage

a regal gift card

fun socks

house socks

reg socks

immaculate feet

a 2004 Toyota Highlander

some ratty wigs

a combative relationship with AT&T

four bags of german gummies

a quarry of regret

a canyon of self-doubt

a trench of straight-up feelings

iridescent white boy eyes

no prospects

no hope

no love

no god

no thyroid……


I’ll have the filet o fish, please.

– – – – –

Every Sock


every sock you’ve ever cum in

wants to kill you

so you




but then it’s like


your feet,

they’re so cold

so you consider going to the sock store


and even the thought

is just so


but what are you supposed to do?

Not wear socks?

Ever again?

It’s so fucking cold

and you need something

to cum in.

So you buy new socks

but this time

you ask,


what if

later on

I decide

that I wanna throw you away

and you decide

that you wanna kill me?

What IF, ya know?

Do you think that could happen?

Do you think

you’d ever

wanna kill me?”

but then you must remember

it doesn’t matter

what the socks say back



are just


– – – – –


fuck your fuckin cummy


leaking runny eggs

under water

on fire



sucking off

George Wendt


fuck it,

the entire cast of Cheers

while your asshole

blossoms outward

oozing juices


and brown

and your dog

laps it all up

while you piss on the floor

and drool down your


you jizz-stained dilettante

mephitic bundle of rape

busted barnyard bitch

sweaty slab of excrement

shard of stunted puss meat

you lava lamp cunt

jk lol u up?

– – – – –



Reagan, My Fuck Puppet

These selections were featured in “Catch a Rising Fart”, “The Loud Grizzum Quarterly”, and “Entertainment Weekly”.

– – – – –

Not Really A Thing

It’s not really a thing.

He lives in Weho.

He’s probably a whore

and that’s what I’m banking on.

– – – – –

War Cry

I’m the bolshevik

sucking dick


mozzarella sticks

– – – – –

Reagan, my fuck puppet

I’d legit

take a shit

into Reagan’s clit.

Use his hole

like a goal

with my soccer dick.

Dig his tomb,

flood his womb

with my angry pole.

Rape that slime                                           

more times    

than the AIDS death toll.             

His mud-          

thick blood    

trickles down bright red      

and in hell      

he will dwell      

and he’ll have many friends.

– – – – –

reagan gun

Butt Stuff

Today’s selections were featured in “Breath: An Air-Based Lit Mag” as well as “Fucktown Monthly” and “Vogue”.

– – – – –

Fourty-Nine States

Thank the stars I’m not straight

because I know

that I would have sexual assault charges

across the nation

in all fourty-eight states

and also Alaska

but not Hawaii

because I’ve never been

but if I went there

and I was straight

no hula girls would be safe

I’m not talking rape

Just creepy come-on’s

“Wanna get lei’d?”

– – – – –

A Goose Rhyme

The poor little goosling

feathered and loud

ran beak first at life

full speed and proud.

He fell forward hard

and cracked his young beak

The surgery will cost

a thousand a week.

And until he can pay

his bills to the doc

it’s bureaucratic hell

and sucking rich cock.

Now he dies with each step

to his benefactor’s castle

to beg for a job

as a butler or vassal.

But the story ends nicely

for our little goose friend

cuz he hitchhiked to Canada

where there’s universal healthcare you god damned fucking morons.

– – – – –

Butt Stuff






– – – – –


Marsha Marsha Marsha

These selections were featured in “The Contemplative Carrot Quarterly” as well as “Pizza Bagel Magazine” and “GQ”.

– – – – –

Date Thoughts

I’ll have the branzino (I hope she likes fish)

and your finest bottle of pinot (I hope she likes wine)

What are your specials? (I hope she’s special)

Sounds good but I’ll stick with the branzino (but not like retarded special)

and some more bread, please (Do I smell? Can she smell me?)

So what do you do for fun? (I really should have showered before this)

Ah, and do you make the candles yourself or just sell them? (just didn’t have time)

Well I would buy your candles for sure (can’t tell her about my hobbies, gotta lie)

I fuck raccoon snouts I was just doing it earlier I forgot to shower which is why I smell I do it all the time and yes they’re living coons I don’t fuck dead snouts that’s unsanitary I’m aware of the health hazards but it makes me happy and my friends tell me I gotta let loose so I’m trying to do that I’d love to make you watch sometime but I could only get hard if it was against your will so I hope you’re cool with that we could do it tonight after dinner I know a good dumpster where the coons hang and we could see if I could wrangle one I’ll hold you by the hair while I hump it’s stupid snot tunnel and shoot my viscous load down it’s rodent sinuses and gunk it up hey why don’t we just skip the dinner and go do this right now I’m all excited I can’t wait for you to meet my roommates (oh darn, the truth slipped out)

– – – – –

I Am A Toilet And This Is My Song

I am a toilet and I like my hot treats

Burble every morning while he sits on my seat

When my boy drops his stuff, man, it just can’t be beat

I wonder what he ate, it’s probably meat

Whatever, could be cheddar, as long as it’s sweet

On a Mexican night, I know he’s bringing the heat

I love to be a toilet, man, it’s so dang neat

– – – – –

An Actress, A Prison

My conjugal visit with Marsha didn’t go as planned

She stared at me blankly

I could sense her seething

We only had a half hour

so I started to take my pants off

She shut her eyes in disdain

I pleaded

she was silent

“Marsha Marsha Marsha!”

That used to cheer her up

Like I was Jan Brady

but she didn’t blink this time

She slid me a letter

it read, “I’m not Marsha”

I looked up and asked, “Judy?”

She slid me another letter

it read, “Nope, not Judy either.”

I scratched my head and then it came to me

“You’re Anne Heche.”

She slid me a final letter


“Where’s Marsha?”

“I’m playing Marsha.”

So that’s where she’s been.

“Wanna fuck?” I asked.

We fucked

The whole time she kept repeating,

“It’s all for research, it’s all for research”

She let me cum in her

The baby’s due in April

she’s naming it “Research”

– – – – –

Anne Heche



I will cruise through Beverly Hills like a hillbilly hijacking a hearse

shooting snot through a booger cannon,

a mucus drive-by,

blasting “The Beautiful People” by Marilyn Manson

wearing water wings and blackface.

I will smear the makeup off my face and into the blonde hair

of the ladies walking their bulldogs and their burberry bags.

I will scream like I’m on fire

and everything around me is also on fire

and all I can do is scream

and hope that somewhere,

water becomes sentient and capable of listening.

I will uglify this place

so that finally

the outsides look like their insides.

I will kiss the police when they arrest me,

grope their whose-it-what’s-its,

stick my tongue between two fingers and drool

bend over and hope they’re as horny as they are sadistic.

I will fling my shit like a chimp in the jailhouse,

plop it on the booker’s keyboard,

laugh like a toddler catching his breath.

I will speak eloquently at my trial,

wear a suit and tie,

squeeze chemicals in my hair,

whiten my teeth and sit upright

so they all know that I intended what I have done,

that the “Booger Bomber of Beverly Hills” is no psycho

but just a boy on the brink of banality

desperate for clarity through insanity

begging to be boxed away.

I will read like hell in the slammer,

Dickens, Dickinson, Dick Tracy.

I will fill my head with law knowledge

better than a Stanford grad,

become dangerous with words and persuasion,

discover loopholes and oversights,

crevasses and clerical errors.

I will dazzle my parole board,

make em laugh, make em cry

make em joke about hiring me at the clerk’s office!

I will be set free and immediately get my law degree.

I will be hired by billionaires to sue the little guy for slander.

I will win for them,

toast scotch in the executive lounge with the big boys,

get sloshed beyond reason and start to cry,

bawl my fucking eyes out

because what a fucking sell out

and the big boys will be baffled and slink away slowly

but I’ll sneak up behind my client on the walk from the bar to the escalade

and wring his bratty neck until blue and bruised

and as I stare at his empty eyes on the pavement

I will shoot a snot rocket into his mouth,

onto his rolex and pinstripes and comb-over.

I will live on the lam

hopping from freight train to freight train,

hitchhiking from city to city,

terrorizing CEO’s and poodle-women,

falsely tan rich kids and young execs.

I will be cornered by the cops in Columbus.

I will get gunned down in gaudy glory.

I will perish.



justice and history will be forged:

I’ll be talked about on blogs.


The Burn

Today’s selections were featured in “Farm Sauce: an anthology”, “The Glib Warlock Monthly”, and “Home and Garden”.

– – – – –

Rinse Cycle, 2015

Artists filter

bad experiences

through their creative lens

to make life more bearable

which is why

I put your cat in the washing machine

because that cat

was a bad experience for me

and the washing machine,


was my canvas,

which killed

your fucking shit-town of a carpet beast

and made you cry

and so

life, more bearable.

– – – – –






one man show.





– – – – –

The Burn

“My cunt is on fire”

She read to the class from her diary


A woman alone

hungrily clawing to be saved

screeching her personal laundry out at her students

How does one get to this point?

How does a person reach such inner hell

and frigid loneliness

to literally cry out for help

in the form of a fireman dousing her vagina in hose-water story?

but a better question would be,

why don’t they screen for origami teachers better?

– – – – –


Not My Presidential Suite

These next poems (poems) were featured in “The Chartreuse Aunt” as well as “Crease Magazine” and “The Washington Post”.

– – – – –


If you buy me a drink

I’ll fuck you

If you say ‘hello’

I’ll fuck you

If you glance in my direction

I’ll fuck you

If you tell me you love me

I lost my phone

– – – – –

Not My Presidential Suite

I wanted the honeymoon suite

Yes, just for me

I like having a lot of space

for my birds

and my potato sculptures.

Yes, I travel with them

they are my light and joy.

I didn’t ask for this.

Not what I wanted.

Also Bush did 9/11

– – – – –


Repeat after me, class,

My horse-dad came on my baguette.

These clams have married my niece.

Leonard exploded and now I have all this cream.

I’ve lost all my pasta to Michelle and her grandma-husband, Phillip.

Please remove your pelican blog from my gong bath.

Steal nine grapes!

The mustard prince shares a Volvo.

Tell Brian to force lemons on the injured large boy.

– – – – –