Month: August 2014



small ruffians
pose under stoned heroes
who’s stardom now weighs more than they
and stands at the corner
of the historical border
where students gather & study the art of the greats

I count on my nails the brownstones
the cobblestones
the heat so strong graffiti burns
it’s profane colors lift away, from brick to brick
to cool and set in sidewalk stone

like a waxy substance turning cold
my ankles harden
up those concrete steps
I am not the fighter I once thought
my blood can barely take the hit

O Philadelphia
you crumbling piece of shit
you’d file down the chains you wear
but like the smell of iron
and the sweet blood of rust
too much
between your teeth
to quit





let the wind play
a tune just for us
the monochrome breeze
gathering dust
it seeps through my hair
& hyper chimes
all but a metaphor
(love practices blind)
bricks are misplaced
walls are collapsed
in desperate times
we are made to laugh
at things that we buy
cities we hate
mortars are crying
(the white flags are late)
my bed is on fire
every thread singeing
in a funeral pyre
what is it that makes
love burn so bright?
is it the weather
is it the fights
we’re all under water without oxygen tanks
searching for air
(and no fish to thank)
i can still taste Morocco
under the silk
amber-lit flowers
with it’s saffron thrills
it’s mint and it’s melodies
it’s piss and it’s hash
i asked for forgiveness
(instead got a rash)
my midnights are dark
my soul in a bind
wrapped tight like a tourniquet
in silver, in twine
i drenched it in gasoline
with no match in sight
if my body must burn
(let the cause be your light)

Cabin Fever

I stayed at a cottage with a friend for a few days in New Hampshire. We shopped, we skulked, we hassled house spiders and I nervously watched as she got a dermal piercing done by a man with hands as shaky as a recovering junkie. It was good to get away for a few days and not care about anything, except for writing half-assed fan fiction until 6am and eating Pop Tarts for dinner. Now, I feel perfectly fueled to tackle a bunch of art projects that I have been neglecting, rejecting, or just plain and simply want to set on fire (but we’ll just label that one performance art).

Sketches I did while I was away:



SPEAKING OF ANCIENT PROJECTS THAT NEED TO GET THE FUCK FINISHED, here is an old WIP from 6 years ago that was inspired by Jose Packard from Twin Peaks:


Oy. Slowly but surely… And last but not least, I bought a punching bag.

But that’s a whole ‘nother post.


Write like it’s worth it.

As I slowly crawl out of my shell, half awake and needy, I take a moment to clear my head – Think about not only the things that I have already done, but all there is that could be done. So in order to get myself back into full throttling, choke-holding gear, I have been making an effort to draw out every story wip, and bring them to life just a little bit more through previews of cover art.


TREATMENT promo cover


‘TREATMENT’ is a story that I have been slowly sculpting together since winter. Parading itself around in my OpenOffice as a half script, half novel – It’s about the unlikely friendships of a doctor, a copper, and London’s most expensive male prostitute, who all take a keen interest in eachother’s unique yet lonely lives.

It is a dark screwball comedy with (ideally) a shit ton of master shots, and a hint of surreal, sexually stimulated ambiance; like Jimmy Stewart trapped in a Jack Vettriano painting, the plan for it is to give you visual pleasure as much as it gives comedic relief.

I Can’t Get Started

By this time of year, normally brought on from the simmering haze that summer always shoves in our faces, my laziness takes to the stars in one of Bradbury’s rockets, and I am handed a scepter and crowned Queen of the sloths. But this year is different. This year, despite my tenacious efforts to see through it, I am stagnant. The gears have wound down, clunking every now and again, but ultimately sit there unmoving, gathering dust.

I very silly put on the internet (numero uno mistake) a while back that I was going to self-publish a short book. In fact, I promised that 4 months ago, and POOF – Nothin’. I still only have half of the amount that I originally had wanted to publish. My poetry is only sub-par. My short stories need a fucking crowbar bashing, and me – Well – I need to get my head out of my ass, and that’s tough when you’ve confined yourself to bed on your days off, watching nothing but Alien Nation reruns.

This is not a laziness I recognize (nor like, for that matter), but some sort of mild depression that keeps me from doing the things I love. Things that are ideally suppose to be my career. I’m hoping it’s only seasonal. A fluke. The last thing I ever want to lose is my ambition. The second is my accordion.

There are a few workshops I am waiting to sign up for at the end of the month. I hope it will bring change. I hope it will bring challenge. Something needs to kick my ass into gear, before I lose myself, and everything I’ve been working for, entirely.