My face is an abscess
Cut the cancer off my face
Put metal in me

Donít go into the basement

Something is wrong
With the angles of the hallway
I donít want to die

I canít wait to die
Iíve always been here
In an explosion

As far as I know
Itís been a terrible birthday party


My Fatherís Head

My fatherís head turned inside-out,
lips pinned-back and teeth clenched,
mouth a newly disfigured dimension,

there, where the walls and the floor come together,
depending on the angleóforever vanishing.

He taught me to hammer nails on their head,
to eye the craftsmanship in the darkness of the house,
to cherish shared blood, and all the weird light
we found there.


Say Kill, Kill, Kill

Scorched the ribbed roof of a horseís
Mouth on your insides, barbed, your blood
A soup, a tar-pit of cancer cells.

Fashioned new bayonets for killing,
For the purity of aggression, for the widening
Of wounds and the freeing of fluids.

A scraggly polar bearís muzzle worn raw,
Pinked and bloody, ulcerous bacteria eating
Away at the lining of his stomach:

Moaning, ďI canít stomach this
anymore. I donít have the stomach
for this hunger anymore.Ē