Hourglass

Hourglass

With memories so tangibly concrete—Salty spray in our hair, waves lapping at our 

feet—The mind may effortlessly recall, nebulous chemicals recreating every 

instant of the fall, revisiting each moment of blissful simplicity, escaping to 

nostalgic electricity; our minds at peace, our hearts at ease, your eyes alight 

in the ocean breeze, a moment apart from life’s cruel demand, 

hand-in-hand, with feet buried in the sand, our slender 

silhouettes set against the setting sun like two 

hourglasses, straining to stop the sliding sand 

with every moment that passes …

But time is just a formless measure
of distance, and if distance makes
the heart grow fonder, then across
hour after hour I would wander 

to retain even a grain of 

that tranquil serenity,

that bliss that exists 

not in form 

but in memory: 

though with each 

self-indulgent pass, I find 

that every hour is made of glass, 

and they crack and fracture with every grain 

of sand that slips past, threatening to burst and spill 

their contents of infinity, and every hour turns to days 

and days to years, until a sea of sand separates you from me.

So the memory alters with each pass I make through, and the first 

thing I note that is missing is you; then the breeze dissipates as I wander 

in wait, and the sunset and shore are too much for my mind to recreate, and 

what once was a haven is now arid and barren: a loveless desert whose sands ensnare, whose limitless horizon harbors not the promise of possibility, but whose glassy walls reflect only my own despair, and the deeper within the sands I sink, the smaller the glassy walls shrink until I’m crushed within the narrow nexus of what lay ahead, trapped, captive within my own head, and just when it seems that all is lost … it ends; I land softly on my feet in the opposite sands, and an upside-down existence without you begins.

Multi-System Organ Failure

Multi-System Organ Failure—

When my eyes fell upon your frame,

You took the breath from out my lungs.

Your voice, which softly spoke my name,

The sweetest song that’s ever sung.

It hastens pace, this heart of mine,

Then swells to burst inside my chest

When all your fingertips, so fine,

Upon my own do come to rest.

My stomach fills with butterflies

And my intestines somersault.

When I get lost inside your eyes,

Your boon, unblemished, I exalt.

A cold sweat covers all my skin

Each time we meet in an embrace,

All while my mouth dries from within,

Your faultless hand upon my face.

We changed our bodies’ chemistries

The very moment that we met.

What followed—instability—

Left us pathetic and upset.

Now,

My larynx quivers when it speaks your name,

That wretched word brings naught but pain—

It ails my brain; it drives me insane!

What once was my boon has become only bane!

You’re the dark cloud now overtaking my mind

Sending deadly bolts of lightning down my spine

To strike the levies in my veins,

Flood my blood with acid rain,

And burst the pipelines, seeping acrid oil

To ooze from my skin and blister and boil,

To blacken my organs and cloud my thoughts,

Turn my beating heart to a necrotic pocket of rot

That quivers and cramps while my fetid blood thickens to clot,

Twist my gut to knots and set my tongue to froth

With a flood of drool and snot in a futile attempt to protect my teeth

From the vomit induced when I hear you speak.

Just the thought of you sets my teeth to clench.

Upon my nostrils entrenched, your noxious stench,

And if I ever yearn for your touch, my fingers burn; it’s too much!

My stomach churns and skin turns to squirm and slither

Like a ball of baby eels ‘til it blackens and withers

From every inch you’ve ever kissed,

A sentiment, admittedly, sorely missed.

On Being God

I come home from a day that’s as tiring as bland

And sit down with some paper and pens in my hand,

And, when I reflect on this life that I scorn,

A fantastic and folkloric world will be born.

I’m so tired of struggling day after day

To keep things copacetic and going my way,

But I can’t keep my troubles and problems at bay,

So I’ll conjure up realms with creatures so gay.

I’ll construct and envision this world of my own

That thousands of residents will soon call their home.

I’ll ensure that they trust me and do what I will,

Lest my hand become achy and pen become still.

“Genesis”

In the very beginning, I wrote of this land

That soon would be fit to be dwelt on by man,

But, first, I could see that it wasn’t prepared

And that man on this land would be nothing but scared,

So I thought to myself, “Hey, let there be light!”

And the lights came at once as the end-all of fright.

So I made all the trees, and I made all the plants,

And I made all the bugs like mosquitos and ants,

And I made all the deer and the birds and the frogs,

And I made all the weird ones that lodge inside logs,

Yes, I made all this up, from the tip of my pen,

All the cows and the pigs and the roosters and hens.

I made every atom and each grain of sand

And each billion species spread over the land,

And for a few days I let them all run amuck,

But they multiplied faster than food at potluck.

So I sat back and thought, How to keep them restrained?

For hours and hours I racked my poor brain,

Then I finally thought that I’d throw in a dude

Who could kill them and cook them and use them for food.

Thus, Adam was born, but he seemed rather sad,

Just a tired and lonely and sorrowful lad,

So I took out his rib, and I wiggled it quick,

And shortly thereafter turned it into a chick.

So Adam and Eve for a while coexist,

But I knew there was some vital point I had missed.

Yes, something was wrong; I was bored all the time,

So I thought to make some small change to their minds.

I snuck in at night with my white-out and pen,

And this notion of lying, I snuck it right in,

But when neither Adam nor Eve made a move

To be entertaining or try to improve,

I sent in a serpent I’d made on day one

And told him to tempt them to make this more fun.

I gave them an order to not eat this fruit,

And I was convincing; they couldn’t dispute.

So finally now I could watch in excitement,

As Eve struggled to just resist her enticement,

But of course she gave in, as I knew that she would,

And I have to admit that it felt kind of good,

But I punished her justly by making her bleed

And knew from now on my advice she would heed,

And when, after all, she and Adam lay down,

I allowed them some children, despite my slight frown.

For as many days later as I can recall,

I watched all the children approach their downfall.

I watched from afar, and I grinned with great zest,

When I saw all the sodomy and the incest.

I instilled in their minds notions of this taboo,

But it mattered not; they were doing it too.

The years came and went, and the crimes just got worse

Until my poor world became slightly adverse.

I was ever so close to tearing to shreds

All the pages and pages on top of my bed,

But that would be waste of my time and my skill,

So I conjured a man who would bend to my will,

And I told him to build up a very large boat.

“Take two of each creature about whom I wrote.”

I’d just drown all the liars and cheaters with flaws

And start back from scratch with a new set of laws.

“Leviticus”

So to all my new rules every man would adhere,

For he’d know of my wrath, and my rage he would fear,

But soon I found out that that gene had slipped through,

And it made man revolt and defy me anew,

So I watched in disdain as my world waned again,

And I watched all the shady, unethical men

As they raped and pillaged and had sex with the beasts,

‘Til I took up my pen, and my ire was unleashed.

Ev’ry man on this earth would soon know me by name,

And every child would endure pain and shame.

Thus, I made all my aims indisputably clear,

And I set forth to veto streetwalkers and queers:

“All magicians and lepers, inferior too,

Will be traded as slaves for the masses of you,

And if you neglect to succumb to my will

And you blaspheme, self-harm, or sell your sex still,

I declare that the holy shall discharge my rage

And shall stone you and kill you, regardless of age.”

Then I shortened the lives of all of my swine

And promised the good ones a new life, so divine,

That would come after death if I deemed them all pure;

I would bribe them with Heaven, such earnest allure,

But this notion immortal would not be enough,

And I had to respect that some may call my bluff,

So I conjured another thereafter as well,

And I filled it with demons and christened it “Hell.”

If my men still refused to see all things my way,

And their flaws and temptations still led them astray,

I would smite them and damn them, condemn them for good

To suffer eternal distress, as they should.

All the wizards and robbers and men who love men

Will think twice before they succumb to their sin,

And the bondsmen who think that their slaves are their peers

Will suffer my vengeance upon them for years.

I declared that the very last day of the week

Should be dedicated entirely to me,

And if any sinners should live in remorse,

They’re only expected to slaughter a horse

And offer it up, sacrifice it for me,

And hold up its carcass so that I can see.

In this way the masses will not render me vexed,

And I may just forgive some unnatural sex

As long as they know that I watch from above,

And they must just repent to recover my love.

“Job”

Well even these eerie ultimatums of Hell

Came back to haunt me and leave me unwell.

Some men could not handle the thought of this fate,

And sometimes went out of their ways to be great,

But this sightless devotion was taken too far

By a man who would constantly plea my radar.

Job thought that his wife and his children were cursed,

So his alms he would give, and his prayers he rehearsed,

But this ceaseless complaining got under my skin

‘Til I told a Hell-demon to smash his house in.

Well Satan succeeded in wrecking the house

But forgot to warn all of Job’s kids to get out,

And when I looked down at the grief I had made,

I saw Job’s response, and I was dismayed.

In no time he was sitting outside with no dress

And praising my name in the light of this mess.

As my temper was rising due to his blind hope,

I reached for my pen because I could not cope.

I swiftly delivered him terrible pain

And speckled his soul with unbearable shame,

But he still did not yield, and he thought he had wronged

To deserve all this suffering I had prolonged.

So I kept him in torment, discomfort, and harm,

And I made him have boils on his face and his arms

‘Til he finally blamed me, and I came to find

That I did not like when Job questioned my mind.

Now my temper had risen once more, and I thought

That poor Job had at last done what he should not,

But I did not worry with what I had done,

And I rationalized that it was kind of fun,

And Job I had made; I could take him away

If he thought for a second he had any say.

So I sent out a storm equal only to Me,

And I spoke through the winds so that Job must agree

That I was his savior and giver of life,

And I could decide whom to saddle with strife.

“Malachi”

So between all the sinners and saintly devout,

My creations were making me pull my hair out,

And some men would come forth to boldly defy me

While others would vindicate and rectify me.

When I started to think that things could not be worse,

Other men tried to claim I was well-rehearsed

And that they alone were my vessels on earth

Whom I’d written with singular, uncommon worth.

They called themselves prophets, my eyes and my ears,

And in others they struck insurmountable fears

When they preached of my vengeance and plans to come down

And finally show them my skillful renown.

They claimed I was after the worst of the worst,

The servants of Satan who killed and were cursed,

But they failed to acknowledge that in my own eyes,

All the vain satisfaction surrounding their lies

Was much less entertaining than infrequent deaths

Carried out by his lackeys at Satan’s request.

I just sat there and stared so ambivalently

At the things in my world who were forsaking me;

I could not abide all the sin and the crime,

But I also disliked those who called themselves mine.

False worshipers and prophets were topping my list

Until Malachi reared his head to say this:

“All your gifts are displeasing; your priests all tell lies,

And with husbands routinely divorcing their wives,

It’s not hard to believe that our Lord is displeased;

It’s we men He created who cause Him to grieve.

So before He descends from His Heavenly throne,

He will send out a son who will, all on his own,

Set this world back to right and then leave us prepared,

So we don’t have to live our whole lives feeling scared.”

Although Malachi spoke so little of truth,

I thought that his notions could be of some use,

So in one last attempt to revive my dead world,

With my pen in my hand and my fingers all curled,

I began making plans for the coming of Christ,

Who would teach all my men to be humble and nice

And would teach them the right way to worship their God

And inform them that Satan was merely a fraud.

All the saints would adore him and learn more of me

While the sinners abhor him but would come to see

All the things in their lives that they’d lost without sight

Of what truly is just and what truly is right.

“Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John”

So finally I wrote this character in

Who would stay true to me and terminate sin;

I gave him some gifts that no other men bore

So he could heal the sick and give aid to the poor,

And Jesus excelled at fulfilling his jobs;

He quelled the most violent, quarrelsome mobs.

He cured all the lepers and turned water to wine

Just to prove that he truly was something divine.

He walked across water and calmed stormy seas;

He cured men inflicted with deadly disease;

He healed halitosis and cured chickenpox

And fixed the dysfunctions in men who can’t walk.

He’d aid amputees and give sight to the blind;

He’d liven the listless and fix feeble-mind.

He’d campaign for the poor and berate those with wealth

And punish their greed with bad luck and poor health.

He travelled my lands and helped all my men

Put an end to their crimes and be wholesome again;

He cleaned out the smut that prevailed in my land

And taught men that I was the one in command;

He spread word of my grief and resentment and shame

And told them my generous, virtuous aim,

And just when I thought that my problems were through,

A man came about, and he called himself “Jew.”

Well this Jew led a clan that neglected my ways,

And they kidnapped my men and made them be slaves,

And they sought Jesus Christ just to put him to death,

So I sat back and watched while I bated my breath.

Despite his great work, I was kind of relieved,

‘Cause Jesus had some men convinced he was Me,

But nevertheless this was utter disgrace;

All these Jews killed my Jesus right under my face.

They beat him and shamed him in public outright,

Then strung him and left him to hang there all night.

Well needless to say, I was not impressed;

I sat up with my pen, and I wrote with great zest.

It took me three days, but when my work was complete,

Jesus rose from the dead and was back on his feet.

All the men were convinced he had died for their sin,

Carried it to the grave and just left it within,

And I could not believe what then came to be

As my men turned their backs and immediately

Just dismissed all they’d learned from Jesus before

He was beaten and dragged through his own filth and gore.

So my plan to preserve what I’d made just fell through,

And I’d no one to thank save the self-righteous Jew.

I almost gave up on my world and my men,

But one final notion came through to me then.

This was not a plan to restore what I’d made,

And not one creation did I care to save,

But merely discarding my world would not do;

Much more exhilarating events would ensue.

“Revelation”

My final objective of fail-proof design,

With epic proportions and purpose divine,

Was due after all to the tribe of the Jews;

Their dissension inspired me to fashion miscues.

I’d warned many times of diviners untrue

And threatened discord with my fearsome debut,

But so guileless and callow, my men never failed

To be tempted, convinced, cajoled, and regaled.

So I wrote up a new story called the Qur’an,

And I warned them alike of the weakness of man.

I cross-wired the creatures, instilled in them hate

And watched them pursue their inevitable fate.

Each mortal was sure that he knew what was right,

And those who dissented were willing to fight,

But my fun came too slow as my worlds staggered on;

Holy wars were sporadic, and martyrs seemed wan;

I wanted to hasten the pending demise,

So I had many stories still left to devise:

I wrote of Mohammed and Moses, St. Paul;

I could tell that my men were not happy at all.

I wrote next of Buddha, Confucius, and Gandhi;

My world in a maelstrom, I watched rather fondly.

The Talmud! The Veda! The Upanishad!

All my men were defending their own hand-picked fraud.

I wrote Tantras and Sunnah and Analects too,

And made more faithful lackeys at every venue.

And before I sat back, just for comic relief,

I made a few groups with fantastic motif;

The Mormons, upstaged by the Scientologists,

Once bombs were flying, were on no account missed.

When debate turned to mayhem, my plan was ago,

And I let them all clash; their demise would be slow.

Soon the buildings were burning and children lay slain

As fully grown men gave their lives in My name;

Many women were tortured and beaten to death;

They were raped and died screaming until their last breaths;

I saw elders and infants, and neither were spared;

Bodies littered the streets, and no one seemed to care;

The fighters were covered in napalm and bombs,

And they strolled into churches with nary a qualm;

Sleeping men would be smothered in rubble and smoke,

And the ones who crawled out would be beaten and choked.

Then finally Jesus was observed on a hill

As he urged all his zombies to go have their fill.

He travelled the streets raising men from the dead,

And the sight of these corpses filled rivals with dread;

The vampires and werewolves and swamp monsters came

To worsen the havoc and cripple and maim.

The dark wizards and demons and skeletons rose

To take part in the turmoil and butcher their foes.

The rivers ran red with the blood of My men

As every man killed his fam’ly and friends.

Heads were severed, limbs lost, and nothing was gained;

All the babies were burned and the cripples were caned;

Hands were covered in blood and some fragments of brains,

And even the living endured endless pain.

My mountains all crumbled and cascaded from high,

And black acid rain drizzled down from the sky;

In the rivers and oceans and inlets and seas,

Icy water was frothing and rising with ease;

The distant sun withered and smoldered to ash

That turned black and vanished with one final flash.

The stars twinkled out, and some fell from above

And fell upon men who had once hoped and loved.

All my plants were soon withered; my trees were all fell;

The whole world became My description of Hell;

Dark billows of smoke spiraled up to the clouds

Before settling back on the dead like a shroud.

All presumptions forgot and friendliness failed,

The meek just stood by watching trains get derailed;

Falling aircrafts exploded, and ships all just sank,

And the whole atmosphere of the planet just stank

Of decay and quietus, and no sounds were heard

Save the brays of the beasts and the cackle of birds

And the screams of the children and cries of the lost

And the blasts of bombs and the gusts of exhaust.

When I felt gratified and contented enough,

All belligerence ceased, and each man just peered up,

And beyond all the smog, they all seemed to gaze

As the sky was alight with Star Wormwood’s blaze.

Afterword

When I went to set fire to the stack of my works,

I thought fleetingly of the duty I’d shirked.

Though this turned out to be an enlightening chore,

I just could not take all the stress any more.

I did feel kind of glum as I watched my men die

In the fiery apocalypse out of their sky,

But I’d done what I could to forgive their misdeeds,

And then, in the end, I was forced to concede.

I gave life and envisioned this world of my own,

And let thousands of residents call it their home,

But the masses had doubt, would not bend to my will,
Thus, my hand became achy, and my pen became still.

Freedumb

"Freedom isn't free,"
Is what my mother said to me,
As she kissed my cheek
And shipped me off to the seventh cavalry.
And, though the draft was mandatory,
Insofar as I could see,
There wasn't much to be gained
For av'rage folks like you and me.

"Go show the world democracy!
And maybe Christianity..."
Check out our extensive history
Of segregation and slavery,
Of treason and Confederacy.
And never mind that sixty-three
Percent of all the world's countries
Are democratic already.

"Land of liberty!"
So long as you're the same as me.
And if you ever disagree,
You might get strung up from a tree
Like it's the Seventeenth Century,
'Cause it's the land of the free,
Home of hypocrisy,
And finding ways to vilify minorities.

"Education isn't free!"
Health care? Water that's clean?
This ain't a commie country.
Well, I still got my law degree,
And in the prison industry,
Freedom's wholly free,
So we put restrictive laws
On everything but weaponry.

Number 2

Three Dog Night said, "One
is the loneliest number," but two
is shit.
No, the number 2 is actually shit.
It's the reason we all settle for less than we could actually get.
It's the reason we stand behind Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump
and murmur, "Did he really say that?"
while holding signs with his name in big bold letters
with no content on the front and no writing on the back.
It's the reason we come together to find ways to drive ourselves further apart,
why we sit back and watch--no, we buy tickets to and encourage--
the MMA match between our brains and our hearts
because we can follow only one or the other;
All that exists is the one or the other.

Two ... is literally the sophomore slump of numbers.
Imagine you created the perfect pillow,
Not 2 hard, not 2 soft, but ju-uuu-st right for Goldilocks to slumber;
And then somebody said, "But wait, I have this brick from that other fairy tale,"
and he slipped it underneath.
Is he serious? A brick under your pillow? How is this an improvement?
You have no choice but to remove it; the stack is too high; Goldilocks' neck is craning--!
But then you turn around and he's gone.
And so is your pillow.
And you're left sleeping on a brick because ... well, just because there's no third option.

There are 2 sides to every story,
2 sides to every coin.
And with the way we arbitrarily pick sides, we may as well be flipping a coin,
but that's beside the point, and the point is two-fold.
One: there is always only two.
2 sides, 2 opinions, 2 options, 2 interpretations.
Two: they are separated by an immeasurable, untapped chasm of unknown,
a chasm into which, if you venture, you're likely to be perpetually alone,
because it's easy to stand atop cliff 1
and it's easy to stand atop cliff 2
because you can see, you're in the sun,
and when you scream and shout, people below can hear you.
But when you stand on the left and face your enemy on the right,
you see him flying the flag of his differences
and it's clear
you're day-and-night.
And when you stand on the black cliff and face your enemy on the white,
his hideous complexion repels you
and the infinite rainbow in between you two
is perpetually out of your sight.

So I guess if I had to take both points and roll them into one big awkward ball of different-colored Play-Doh that's sort of dried and crumbly and the two pieces don't really stick together ...
Better yet, if I could devise ONE point,
somewhere in between the two,
it would be this:
There are two sides to every story,
But the glory lies somewhere in between.
And if you waste half your life staring at the dirt worrying about your fate,
you'll undoubtedly waste the second half gazing to the clouds and dreaming up false comforts,
and you'll forever be blind to the chasm
that separates the two.

Life After Death

Act One began way back when mother had a son

Who asked her, “What’s the meaning of life? What happens when it’s done?”

And, “What happened to the family dog? Where has grandma gone?”

She put The Book into my hand and said to read it word-for word.

“This holds the keys to every answer to every question you’ve ever heard.”

And so I read it front to back, and then I read it all again;

I went to church on every Sunday and on Wednesdays with my friends.

I learned how all of life began and what would happen when it ends.

If I lived a life divine, enduring glory would be mine,

And I would see my loved ones all again until beyond the end of time.

There is life after death, and that’s the best part:

If you’ve faith in your brain and love in your heart,

There is naught to fear, for when mortal life ends,

An existence eternal and blissful begins.

Act Two continued on through middle school,

Where everyone who tried to help me, I regarded as a fool.

I grew depressed and self-loathing like the other numb kids;

I believed what they told me, and I behaved as they did.

When my best friend climbed into the passenger seat

With his brother who’d had way too much to drink,

They perished after pulling a most impressive feat;

I saw photos of the wreckage and didn’t know what to think …

I had long since lost my childish notions of Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory.

I had long since grown disinterested in cheap comforts and bedtime stories.

While I’d have loved to believe I would see him again,

I knew all that would ever matter had come to an end.

His short life had held meaning for which few could contend,

But we’d all seen the last of our dearest late friend.

There is no life after death, and that’s the best part;

All we’re guaranteed in existence is a brain and a heart.

There is nothing to fear, for when mortal life ends,

There’s no pain or awareness, just like before it began.

Act Three was a breeze until the day you left me.

The heartache you harbored must have been too great to see

For you never sought help, never unshackled your grief,

Just took a handful of pills so you could escape in your sleep …

And it’s no one’s fault but mine that I didn’t stop to see the signs

Like when you told me you felt ugly and I never noticed you were cryin’.

I said, “The great thing about beauty is it exists whether you choose to see it or not,”

And when I think of that night, my stomach turns to knots, my mind starts to rot.

Maybe you got too selfish to see our selfish need.

Maybe you just didn’t care enough to honor plans that we’d agreed.

Maybe you were buried under too much weight 

to realize that you could’ve been great.

Maybe you had too much on your plate 

to see things could be better if you’d only just wait.

Maybe you got mad or carried-away and didn’t stop to think how we would miss you,

But that isn’t the issue, and you’ve got friends who will dwell on all they didn’t and did do.

I guess your curiosity wasn’t great enough to see what tomorrow could hold.

To think where your mind must have been makes me shiver from cold.

I do not believe what you did was a personal attack.

I do not believe your last thoughts were of vengeance before all faded to black.

I do not believe you only wanted to show us what we took for granted

By abandoning us all to be forever disenchanted …

But now I can never be sure; all I’m left here to do is wonder,

Lost, alone, uncertain, and literally torn asunder.

Of course there’s life after death, and that’s the scariest part,

For those left behind with bruised brains and broken hearts.

All the bridges burned and lovers spurned and family turned to strangers,

Words unspoken and questions unanswered and heartache that hardens to anger …

There is life after death for all of us left behind

With our torturous thoughts and our muddled minds.

It’s this undeniable fact that makes life so unkind:

Being left alone and helpless, unable to rewind.

Casanova

They call me Casanova

Because I’m just that good.

I see you walking over,

Just as I knew you would.

I glanced across the room

To quickly catch your eye,

Then shifted nervously

To make you think I’m shy,

And after several minutes

I caught your eye again,

And, with a hint of coyness,

I flashed my winning grin.

We played this for an hour;

I had to wait you out,

But you could not resist me;

I had you figured out.

So now you’re in my pocket;

I know the game is won.

I’ll ask you to my dwelling

To have a bit of fun,

And though I’m being forward,

I know that you’ll oblige

Because by now you’ve fallen

Victim to my disguise.

So when we storm my front porch,

Already tongue-to-tongue,

I’ll whisper to remind you

The night has just begun.

I knew since I first saw you

That you would sure put out,

‘Cause I have got the nostrum

That you can’t live without.

I’ve had some girls before you,

Who giggled much like you;

I knew the game they played, though,

Because I play it too.

I’ll lift your shirt and kiss you

While you unzip my fly.

I’ll lick you limb-to-torso;

You’ll arch your back and cry.

When I undo your bra strap,

Your heart will hasten pace.

You’ll shiver in the blanket

And touch my shaven face.

You’ll say, “My God, who are you?

I don’t think that we should ...”

I’ll say, “I’m Casanova,

And I am just that good.”

I’ll bring you high to climax

Then push you right back down.

You’ll beg me not to stop it

And flash that playful frown.

I’ll leave you cold and sweaty

And begging me for more,

And maybe I’ll oblige you,

Despite that you’re a whore.

Now when I kiss you softly,

The sequence of events

Will make you melt, reluctant,

And fill with hot suspense.

So when this first date’s over,

You’ll want a second, sure,

But will I really like you?

My motives are too pure.

I don’t have time to waste here

With infidels and sluts.

I need to know I love you

Before you make the cut.

You’ll call me Casanova

Because I’m just that good.

“Can I come back tomorrow?”

I swear I knew you would.

So on our fifth or sixth date,

When I am sure you’ll do,

I’ll drag you to the kitchen

And start to batter you.

I’ll strangle you with hangers

And make you scream to stop.

I’ll wrap the wire around you

Until your airway pops.

And when your fingers graze me,

So light, this final time,

I’ll stop and smile serenely,

Because they’ll feel sublime,

And when my club completes you,

You draw your final breath,

I’ll stagger to my bedroom

To get a hit of meth.

Then we’ll walk to the crawl-space,

Together after all;

I’ll dip my fingers in you

And paint you on my wall.

I’ll think, “Oh, Casanova,

This don’t look as it should.

I’ll need just nine more lovers

To make my mural good.”

So should policemen find you

In twenty years or more,

They’ll hardly recognize you

Buried beneath the gore.

Your head is in the oven,

Your hair has clogged the drain.

Those golden locks, so lovely,

Did prove to be a pain.

Bones are buried in the sand

In quite a hefty heap.

Skin is sewn upon my own,

Forever mine to keep.

Your organs long since eaten,

Your soul lives on through mine.

I lie in bed and touch you;

Our fingers intertwine.

Your legs inside the armoire,

My ring upon your hand,

You’ll make it through this, lovely,

My favorite five-night-stand.

They’ll call me Casanova,

And, girl, you know they should.

My name will long outlive me,

‘Cause I was just that good.