1. Charlotte's Glass Eye
2. My God and My Dog
3. Bad Day Anyway
4. Gift
5. Stillborn
6. Last Belch of the Fish
7. It Was April
8. No Fun Anymore
9. There is No Mud in Joyville
10. Soiled Bandages
11. The Oven
12. The 23 Definitions of Love
13. Portrait of Doktor Goebbels
14. The Little Dead Mermaid
15. Nativity of Skulls
16. Got So Many Women
16. Stephanie, I Forgive You
16. Musket
16. Wotan Rains on a Plutocrat Parade

Charlotte's Glass Eye

Charlotte stops by the cemetery every evening after work. Talks to statues of Christ and the Virgin Mary and some minor saints who lurk. And then one day, Saint Frances topples off the tomb of some bird lover and right onto her head. And now like everyone else there, sheís very, very dead. Charlotteís found by some boy named Fred whoís jerking off beside a grave. He steals the glass eye from her head Ďcause thatís the kind of thing he likes to save. Five days pass, the cops show up; in their hands are cans of beer. "Whoís this dead cunt without an eye," they laugh , "and whatís she doing here?" And whatís she doing here? The coroner takes her apart to find out what went wrong. In her leg he finds an aneurysm that would have killed her before too long anyway. Charlotteís taken to a crematorium in a city far, far away. Itís really not what she would have wanted but then again, she had no say. The boy named Fred becomes a man; he wears the glass eye around his neck. The cops use it to identify him when heís burned up in a car wreck. Bye bye Charlotte. Bye bye Fred. "Bye bye, love. Bye bye, sweet caress. Hello emptiness, bye bye, my love, goodbye."

My God and My Dog

Oh my God, the dog vomited on the floor again. Oh my God, a bunch of his friends are at the door again. "Hello, Mr. Williams, is your dog at home? If not, I guess it proves we should have phoned first." They probably want something to eat, but I havenít enough to feed the ones who came last week. Oh my God, the mice have eaten through the wire again. On top of everything else, Iíll probably die in a fire and then theyíll find me brown and hard in what used to be my yard. Just like the Dresden logs, theyíll tie me in a sack and give me as a gift to hungry dogs. Oh my God, the whole worldís dyiní of cancer and such. Oh my God, I know you think that I complain too much. But it seems to me that some have been unjustly punished. And when thereís a job to be done, all you ever think to do is send your Son.

Bad Day Anyway

Hers was the kind of face youíve never seen on celluloid—some called her "special", some called her "mongoloid". She lived in a shack where her fat old father tended her. He was a lousy human being, but one hell of a gardener. And with a note and some bills one fat old day he sent her to fetch some seeds and things at the lawn and garden center. Though she proved quite a laugh to the patrons who inspected her, her face raised the pulse of the boy behind the register. He, who was marked by his dark, psychotic loner looks, his was the kind of face youíve always seen in porno books back on the pages with the pictures and addresses of Americaís psychosexual messes. Anyway they made it on a bag of fertilizer. She experienced a pleasure that life normally denied her. She went home with a glow about her arms and face and hair, sweat on her brow and blood in her underwear. She lay on her bed feeling pretty but a little sore, smiling like an angel Ďtil she heard the slamming of her door. "Where are my seeds?!" her fat old father asked her in an alcohol rage like some fire-breathing bastard. But she didnít have the seeds and she didnít have an alibis. "I forgot them," she said. She didnít look him in the eye. So he hit her with his shovel, hit her with his hoe and spade. For her, it turned out to be a bad day anyway.


This is not what it might seem. Donít be fooled by first impression. This ainít really anything but an overworn expression. This could be what you might want if what you want is nothing better than what this is or claims to be, here it is and to the letter. This is not what it might seem, though what it seems is not much greater. But you can take it if you wish. Either way, talk to you later.


I was stillborn, but nobody noticed. They just thought I was a little slow. I was stillborn, but nobody told them, so they wrapped me up in swaddling clothes and gave me a name. I was stillborn, still I was part of the family (though they kept me in a room all alone). I was stillborn, which left me cold and clammy. And they never let me answer the phone or answer the door. I was stillborn, but mother still loved me. She prayed for me everyday. I was stillborn, and yeah they all loved me. But one day they had to throw me away because my cheeks fell off.

Last Belch of the Fish

Candy painted portraits of celebrities by hand on velvet and though her Elvis looked more like Morey Amsterdam, the carnival crowd used to compliment her: her art wasnít perfect but her blowjobs were. She is hot sometimes, she is cold sometimes, sheís like the weather and food. Blood bubble on lips, forms then pops, then drips: last belch of the fish. She was the front cunt punching bag for the local mayor who was a secret molester of teenage boys with long hair. One wild cocaine night with a pair of pliers he pulled her teeth out one by one. He did it real slowly. He did it just for fun. The quicker he crumbles the thicker she stumbles, "the bitch has started bleeding all over me." Blood bubble on lips, forms then pops, then drips: last belch of the fish. Candy put a Dylan tape into the tape machine. She filled the tub with hot water Ďcause she wanted to get clean. Lady Schick to her wrist, she was born into a dream. With a flick of a switch, she was born into a dream. Blood bubble on lips, forms then pops, then drips: last belch of the fish.

It Was April

Sucking a pear in a pair of socks, always a bridesmaid never a corpse. A slice and a pop and mother shrugs another: a seventh Ceasarean. Children ponder dumptrucks, steam shovels. Februaryís buried thaw to rest. My love pries the wired jaws of a goat, and her spinach is mine. It is Spring and I have screens for the mausoleum windows. Shades of scar upon her arm that breathe beneath her dress. Her voice, a dull and dirty knife through newly pregnant flesh. The getaway hearse left a week ago, wash line pajamas still hang. Some kind of flag, those ghost clothes, grey and flannel. We imagine all those cats of hers tracking brain through the house like memories or dander. It was her brother-in-law who thought to call Stanley Steamer.

No Fun Anymore

You werenít there when they christened me and you wonít be there when they bury me, ícause you sent me a "Dear John" letter on my first day of chemotherapy. And thatís why Iím no fun anymore. Thatís why Iím no fun. Now two years ago, our baby choked on vomit and died with gurgling throes in sleep. The mortician polished her tiny forehead, but didnít think to brush her teeth. And thatís why Iím no fun anymore. Thatís why Iím no fun. I gather you want your dinner now; I had mine hours ago alone. With all the drunks that get killed on the road, why is it that you always make it home?

There is No Mud in Joyville

Morning drags and the pain will pass into boredom like your kidney stone. I phone your house with results from your post mortem, but youíre not at home. Oh, Laura, your eyes were a shallow grave and I came every night to die. "Jesus Christ, thatís tacky," sheíd say. "Youíre the reason that Iím blind." Mercifully she takes her husbandís head. Thereís no danger in their bed. The man who burned her hair is dead. Sweet Vienna Carrion! She grins again to my chagrin. Vengeful eyes like big black balls knock down my disemboweling pins. I charm her in the kitchen, demonstrating my disease. She kicks, I kiss her soiled sole. She gloats while grating cheese.

Soiled Bandages

"Youíre far too good for this world," she would obsequiously purr. Yeah, Iím far too good for this world, but not good enough for her! And when I smile, she sticks her finger down her throat as if to gag. Funny, today we share a joke, tomorrow a body bag. And all the home boys in her block think Iím queer as a bat. Tomorrow I may not be so queer, theyíll all still be black! Oops, I spilled the Drano on the bunting of your shroud, love. I promise not to get it on the cunt that youíre so proud of.

The Oven

Lay you down in sheets of satin, weíll play a little game I call "Dorothy Stratton". Iím not really vicious, Iím just on the rag. Iím just a teddy bear in Gestapo drag. And in that light your eyes resemble faces in coffee table books in houses of Zion. "You were genuine, real," she says, "inside me". "You were genuine, real," she says, "inside me". And she fucks the vagina in my armpit with the penis growing out of her knee. And we eat olives and cheese on a veranda.

The 23 Definitions of Love

Mary Rose never left a letter, broke my heart and stole my sweater. You know it wasnít right for her to back out of her half of our beautiful pact. So I martyred that archetype of faded whore gloom with a ballpeen hammer in a motel room. Elsa Hoff nearly had my baby Ďtil a black skull coughed in her uteran gravy. Her voice is sad and its toxins tire, but itís not as sad as an orphanage fire, for she promises nothing resembling love, but she cradles my head when Iím coughiní up blood. Everyone who said theyíd help you with your coping finally got tired of all your moping. Today you stabbed a cat to get a sense of the feel of steel in flesh. And with rancor and ardor to the doctor we rushed, while she softly complained that her hair wasnít brushed.

Portrait of Doktor Goebbels

"And any drooling pig with a six for a nose could talk that slut out of her clothes. Jew lover, you hover only slightly above the Jew himself. Jew blower, you know her, sheís a lot like a Jew but without the smell. I never thought I would condone the bloody piles of hair and bone, until I moved to the city."

The Little Dead Mermaid

(lyrics by Judith Schaechter)
Big fish eats the little fish except in a fairy tale world, where fish have fish tails topped with the heads of girls. But when the storyís over, the mermaid swims away, or else the little mermaid becomes a bigger mermaidís prey. Sleeping beauty slumbers through the loudest sounds of life. Sheís totally unmolested, sheíll be a totally perfect wife. Lying in her coma, with all her jewelry on, just waiting for the man who will rob her, take her home. And once upon a time, I was your sweetheart bride, but our love was so sorry, Cupid lay down and he cried. You were much older, but not a minute wiser. You let me take you to where the blind lead the blinder. And once upon a time, say the fairy tales of youth. Unhappily ever after is how theyíll end in truth. Itís the story of my life and itís the ancient story of being uncertain of what you wished for when you thought you wished for love.

Nativity of Skulls

And she brags of her abortion like she canít wait for the next one. By this time I realize she thinks that sheís Anne Sexton. She says Iím a misogynist honky, just like all the rest. But sheís only half right—I swear, I swear—by the hair of my motherís dead black breast. On the morning when the virgin Spring murders the Winter, Iím usually sad. I go out and buy lumber for another wing on the Museum of Love Gone Bad. I stare at her from my awful bed clothes, the eunuch slave of a brothel on Lesbos. Take this stench from me, nativity of skulls. Take your stench from me, nativity of skulls. And she bought a scalperís ticket for my last evisceration. The pain that played so sad, so real, proved only crude claymation. Sheís an envelope of petals from a hundred dead forget-me knots and her heart breathes never syrup cough, a sheath of undistinguished bloody clots.

Got So Many Women

Now I got so many women, I often get confused. Which ones are vegetarians? Whose cats are whose? Which one works in a nursing home? Who has what disease? Life was so much simpler when I was lonely. Lonely, when I was lonely. Now the walls are closiní in on my lovers and me. Iím loviní all of them, but theyíre not loviní me. And I canít escape this jury, in spite of all libation. Hell it hath no fury like a ritual castration. So frankly I donít see the need for you to be telephoning. Go tell it to some other phony. You forfeit the privilege of intimacy. Go tell it to some other phony. You forfeit the privilege of intimacy.

Stephanie, I Forgive You

Stephanie, I forgive you. Stephanie, I forgive you. And I really just wanna say I know you didnít go out of your way to cause the pain that you did. Stephanie, I forgive you. Stephanie, I forgive you (how could I not?). ĎCause only with your kiss could a boy—could a boy like this!—feel like a princess. But wasnít there a pea beneath your mattress? Wasnít there a pea beneath you mattress? And I know that you donít miss me, but I donít mind. Because I know the reason you donít miss me is youíre so drunk all the time. With a bottle of BíníB beneath your mattress. Stephanie, I forgive you. Stephanie, I release you. To a healthy, better life with better friends. To your hell of battered wives born in the bodies of men.


Sexual, she, in all the ways Iím not. My passion, an embarrassment waiting to happen. Shall I practice? Filthy mattress waits outside for copulation or sublimated patricide. Your loveís but a musket butt in the face. My blood grows cold in someone elseís body. Am I growing old? Or growing ovaries?

Wotan Rains on a Plutocrat Parade

You call that thing a baby? Well, if I may be so bold, Iíd say one day you simply shit out of the wrong hole. And this need to cut your throat is more duty than mere fun. For only the smell of blood will smother the smell of subhuman dung. And Iíll confess at the foot of the flame. My confession at the foot of the flame will fan it. One less one of you, one less one of you on the planet. And when ZOG and all its monkey men come a-gunniní for me, I will build myself a fortress of my Hitler biographies. And Iíll be there with my Schmeisser when the savages come. I can hear them in the street now, banginí the battle drum. But Iíll pick Ďem off one by one, though personal survivalís not my goal. You can kill the Aryan body, but you canít kill the Aryan soul. Yeah, you can kill the Aryan body, but youíll never kill the Aryan soul. Donít think of us as cattle. White Man was born for battle.