Lee Levinson 日 26/07/2019 · friendly_admin No comments



I grew tired of the comfort/
having something to grasp onto/
I stomach the day,
so I promptly scalped myself
a clean bullseye.

This is but a side gig.
My real passion/
being setting fire to my birth
certificate nightly.

She bleeds ‘cause I eat her
rancor like thiamine,
victimize my boomerang/
cuddle the gushing/
acquiesce the sleeping
un-spade in heat,
holding flesh wounds on display/
slurring incognito tattoos as a pardon for crimes I’ve only regaled in public.

The creamiest paws to disguise dust.
Taste the honor?
Taste the honor!
Umami seeps the genocide at hand/
I forgo all utensils
She learns to backward engineer the knife.

I’ve swallowed a little birdie,
its wings in tow/
once accosted,
spilled seeds of disgust,
and forewarned the cardio in hell/
as if my burns never ran from a FUPA in drag.

The ritualistic animal…
You bitched bastion of dietetic restrictions/
a swivel chair in hell/
doctor, doctor handshake spinning mobius like/
congratulations, you still stand with a permanence
to the insulted english language users.
You see,
I ice my scars to see what afterthought feels like.

I never blink in public/
in fear of missing an enemy/
so outright public/
They dare clothe themselves with thought.

What the exact fuck are you scanning,
t’aint no Bible on display here.
I hold doors open for a living.
Unhinge them upon entry,
I hold doors till they get woke,
till they fear another exact door.
The doors know not of Korean jesus.
The doors burn as if made of wood.

Haven’t I seen your police sketch somewhere?
Burning the heels of one
‘s feet has time
yet to be proven as ineffective/ so
I dare ya,
this mug as if
you would a job/
‘cause any cause heralded front line/
only prepares me for hell/
able to rectify
repetitious entanglements with the ease of try hard/
whiskey dick/
pickled vegetables left on the wrong side of the glass.

I deep fry your puppy.
My condolences,
I recommend computer duster.



Let us salt our open wounds for fun,
for daybreak needs an excuse
to rear its ugly face.
Shylock and the altar both,
grant holy ground to saving grace.
That’s not to say in jest we must
forgive the body for healing
We’ve worked
so hard to put in place.

I can safely taunt my shadow now,
for fluorescent bulbs vignette masterfully,
with rose-tinted glass shards/
which line my muddied footprints in reverse,
to guiding stars we douse with mace.

The starlings here,
devour themselves/
to the tune of ruins
in retrograde.
to try and shy/
A light upon/
the eyesore known as worship

We vomit in our coattails/
for room and board.

Is your hate state issued upon gentrification?
Can your qualms with Daddy be soothed internally?



We could be so destructive you
and I.
Shall we,
moan together,
every opportune offer until sex
derails the outburst of each
other’s onomatopoeias, leaving
us to stare silent,
bile blistering our sanguineous ley lines/
gastrointestinal glue crusting our orifices/
to completion
until the rage which we rape
are knives in every crevice of the bedroom and beyond.

We can careen through
what little savings I’ve stoled myself,
with feet on the ground,
to play hiccup
In a blanket fort of cardboard and splintered pallets.

I do,
counter each and
every closed eye you slip sideways into with/
a huff and a puff of my kerosene fantasies,
dousing you with nothing but dreams of
licked flames/
ensuring you’re awake in the hellish pit I
hoist daily with nubbed fingertips/
‘cause I’ve bitten off each nail
with every sound you stake our lives on.

What a delight our downfall would be,
if we could only allow ourselves
the permission
to disembowel each other for supper time.
Your feast is my command,
shouted in chunky Campbells vomitose/
for the color of each blister I garner my flesh with
is too pink to glisten next to yours.

Yet, for every stitch you wish upon your wound,
I stock the medicine cabinet with/
a shiny new double edged wood splitter,
yes again,
you’ve heard the toothpaste cure-all.

If Lubriderm were sold by the pallet/
I’d swiftly suggest we self immolate/
with fingers laced,
in spite said maternal,
a fuck you to the self
care regiment of staying alive/
sweetly sound tracked with smooth jazz,
1-800 auto response recordings,
screams of the abyss sans political prophylactic,
so our exit could be as rabid as
a birth certificate.

Lee Levinson has had work published in Fanzine, Fluland, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, and Expat Press. He writes at leelevinson.wordpress.com and tweets @schlock_jaw.