in the L.E.S.

I had contemplated whether or not I was a terrible kisser

as both our faces crashed into one another.

The clicking of our front rows of teeth send an electrical shock

through my brain. I admire that slight pain.

It feels alive.

It feels like something has happened, and although we scrape each others enamel off

in a furious accident.

We're both inebriated, I more than she.

It always feels like the first time as I try to siphon the passion from someone else's lips.

the steam of our heat rising from exposed mouths dissipating into the winter sky.

My lip is bitten over and over and it's incredibly amazing and off setting. Then my ear,

then a nip at my neck.

I am dealing with a pro? Am I a terrible kisser? Oh No!

I am an incredible filth talker, but we're in public, and outside a bar, and it's weird.

My hands begin to travel, and my brain is fighting a clinical assessment with my

kissing style, my raging hormones, and a lack of equilibrium.

the kiss breaks off and small talk ensues.

I don't see her again.

Our passionate embrace stuck in time in the L.E.S.

ah.

true story.

“And so,

the event rages on. the lights dimming,

the bodies pulsating and sucking the cold

out of the room. She approaches me, nose

nearly scraping mine.

“Oh god he’s so annoying.

I wish he didn’t come here.

I didn’t invite him.

I wish I can make out with anyone.

I want to just make out with anyone right now.

I don’t care who. I just want to do it.”

Her hot breath tumbles across my lower lip,

the hairs on the back of my neck raise.

This is what I’ve been waiting for, for a while.

She darts her head left and right, never leaving my personal zone.

I tilt my head down, eyes fixed on hers,

everyone else vanishing into a black void.

“How about me?” I poise the question with a naughty assurance.

Playfully. deadly serious.

It registers on her face my intentions and she pulls back. “Not now.”

somewhere a record needle scratches an imaginary 45.

I feel the gravity of the situation crushing down on my head. stunned.

“Not never.” I defeatedly reply.

her answer is mumbled, but answer enough.

hours later she makes out furiously with the annoying guy

as I pick up trash from the gallery’s floor.

end theme of DECEPTION w/photos

stupor

I recollected a moment,
a long time ago.
helping a friend who was staggering drunk,
back home.
feeling abject horror at her state.
making sure she would be okay,
as she went on to ignore me.

the foolish rush of blood to the noggin'
smitten with something that wasn't love,
nor lust . . . but need. that phase had passed,
we both had it out of our system.
but care was still in my heart somewhat.

I made sure she got home safe and sound,
while I took the long road back, dejected and disillusioned.
not worried about her feelings about me,
but my feelings about me.

flash forward, months after.
I, feeling dejected and disillusioned over
someone else entirely.
My feelings completely atrophied from this friend.
Yet we remained close . . . as close as acquaintances can be.

the night moved on,
the scene full of pariahs and sycophants.
androids, dolls, machines with pleasing aesthetics lined up.
phony, i drink, where have i gotten myself into?
what is this?
i drink.
i assume i will be funnier tonight. but no,
i will unleash a backlash. my body punishes me.

I have become the one staggering, blindly drunk.
the world gone topsy turvy.
a kaleidoscope of pavement, sky, and whirling lights.
loud conversations bubbling into murmurs of
inconsequential dialogue.
I beckon for her help, as I am clearly not fit to
walk the streets alone, since i had one too many.

i was a fool to think they actually gave a shit.
I was put in a car that dropped me 5 blocks away,
alone, teetering on the verge of blacking out.
into the wicked, dark night of an unforgiving city.

red

RED (there is no home) teaser 3 from MPFILMS on Vimeo.

the gate

there is a vortex that appears.
past midnight.
the sky will open, the black will swirl
into a luminescent white.
A great glowing eye from the heavens.
the only way to see it,
is to raise your hand,
palm outward. flat.
and slowly spread your fingers apart.

can you see it?
will you comprehend what it is,
when you do?

when your heart beat surges,
and the calmness eventually overtakes.
will you feel it?
will you know how to react.

will you be content?

absolute

three hundred and sixty five days
internal chaos, self destruction and self loathing.
the faces that appeared and vanished in the blink
of an eye.
that eye punctured by the ugly sight of another world.
darkness creeping in. spinning. funneled into a mutated keepsake.
The snails pace of evolution.
the stolen kisses that led no where.
challenged libidos, justified the mistrust of others.
the disgust.
not falling. not slipping one's toe into the black abyss.
teetering. not becoming the shadow . . .
the shadow the malformed brain guarantees
it will provide a cushion. a safety net from reality.
not possible. not falling into the trap of
misanthropy. misogyny. the lulling call of her . . .
the one called absolute.

she beckons, but must not be shown audience to,
her song will whisper around the ears, but
the moment it hypnotizes, the moment it
travels through the canals, the bloodstream.
it is over. she must be rejected or she will
swallow one into the deep recesses of nothingness.