friday night with vieux carre, beer pajamas and netflix

friday night with vieux carre, beer pajamas and netflix

on balconies

In San Diego orthodox with drink
my missing summer breaks my collarbone
as expertly as any contract bodyguard:
observe, with nothing more than this
still-ringing phone, the pain
so godlike one can only kneel.
Somewhere along the half-car streets of Mexico
or else the rows of bikes parked on the Zeil
or in the living outer Puget fog
it got away from me for good.
No calendar has brought it back,
no bubble bath, no hidden bar
with gilded fourth wall skulls and candle wax.
I worry that I’ve lived the rest of all my life
between the next two lines, although
I haven’t written them and now
I have a moment in which all there is
is gunships glossing quietly
across an antimatter-colored bay.

Cool life bro


I’ve been to this America the oil slick
the armadillo shotgun shells the fog.
I’ve stood beside this holy mess of trees,
knelt open-shirted in the rain, arms out,
the tires melted to the crumbled road.
Much like a backstreet video or something else,
the desert sky Crayola blue above,
and how I hated all of it, the kids
who weren’t stuck using RoseArt crap,
the trapper keepers that I never had.
Digress: repeatedly in bumpy planes
I’ve stonefaced through the almost dieds,
smoked python cigarettes in smoke-free rooms,
thought this was an okay last thing to do.
It’s clearing up now where I am,
two days of rain in central PA
(pronounce that like the Yearling, thanks).
I haven’t had a solid shit in days
but this is now my lot in life.
So beautiful the ex-wife men in khaki shorts
beerdrinking in the hotel bar, so long
the legs of poolside antelope and soccer teams.
I want to take a bite of everything
before I have to go. I want to take
a bite of you and all the perfect graves
that line the toothy hill from here to there.

what fresh apocalypse is there for me to masturbate about today

We follow from the virus, hot and sweet and too much on our breath.
The green disgusting light is what we have been promised
and I’m waiting for it with a can of pringles cautiously removed
from a dry dock minibar, replaced with equal weight of stubble, blood and oats.
How many nights in shitty rooms is it supposed to take
before I join the angels, complimentary wine and eyelid wings on floors
where more of this is visible, this comprehensive mess?
I ask at registration and am told: tomorrow we will all be dead;
late checkouts are available. I fish the lemon slices out
from where the lobby water tank has captured them
and place them on my eyes. We all go free into the blinding night.

note from paris

The staircase is a snake to where
regret is eating its own tail
and all the confit is the only thing
I can remember how to say
besides merci. So anyway
last night they blew the tower up
and then I watched a police on a bike
ride circles round a monument
much older than itself. Tonight I sweep
my cigarette butts to the street
and drink campari in a little glass
tomorrow doesn’t need to know about
or come for all I care as long
as there is still some butter left
inside the dish when I get home.


The first symptom of alcoholism
is google searching the first symptom of alcoholism.
It takes four limes to quiet down
the scratching in my brain, in order:
all of them with names like elder gods.


its thursday im drunk off vieux carres + im listening to mellon collie + the infinite sadness + if you have a problem with this fuck you

I’m a men’s rights advocate

*farts all over meself* g’day m8