Thursday, February 16, 2012
when he was
a little boy,
he used to dress up in his sister's
dresses and high
he dyed her barbie dolls'
when he was
a little older,
he dressed her in dominatrix'
he grew out of that
phase soon after...
when he turned her
barbie dream house
into a brothel,
he charged his imaginary
friends extra monopoly money,
to play the "bunny game" with
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Nam hit the factory like a payload of napalm
setting libidos aflame and scorching
the jungle of conflicted marriages
with the incendiary heat
of sexual fantasy.
Nam emerged from the office citadel,
the clean lineoleum oasis
populated with computers and polo shirts
where men with machine grease on their hands
were disavowed and unallowed inside.
Nam collected paperwork from the shop floor
her hair black as the smoke of burning tires
denim tight as a falcon's hood
eyes alive with the hope of rescue
as she moved with the speed of shadow.
Nam fell in love with a working man
his sinewy arms leopard spotted with chrome
ambivalent eyes always distrustful
entering a battle of wills
with no measure of victory available.
Nam destroys every man eventually
succumbing to sexual battery
emotional confusion, financial chaos
an armageddon of broken promises
the best time of their lives.
only a poet can make
death seem poetic
only a bad poet
a dead internet mistress
into an immortal muse
from dirty cyber laundry
from lonely facebook identities
and Skype pussy
second hand platitudes
from the maw of obscurity
he claims originality
his mouth is
of better writers'
he wipes his lips
on the small press
you call it