Julie whatshername.
I've carved her out of thin air,
and fire.
Words, like hot candy, drip from her mouth.
There is a certain ammount of destruction in her eyes.
Her apartment is draped in cheap silk
and bead curtains.
She says she is an artist from Soho,
but really she is an ex-mormon from Provo.
She lets me sketch her nude.
Even though she knows damn well
I can't draw.
She wants to be a bohemian
She talks about Bukowski and Hunke
but all I hear is
'come to my bed with me.'
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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Time crimes
She drove as I fiddled with the radio.
I was stealing looks at her,
young, fresh, clean.
and oh my god her cleavage was hypnotizing.
Her eyes had the same sorrow as mine.
The wounded,
they know each other when they see each other
instinctively.
Like 2 sick junkies passing each other on the street.
They can just TELL.
You can see the emptiness where something or someone use to be.
Spending time with her was like stealing from death.
It was time taken out of time.
She, young and beautiful,
Once she held my corpse and said
'We are the same, you and I'.
I laughed,
A harsh,
mean, laugh that said
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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A Study In Scarlet and Black #32
I know you;
You are the reoccurring dream I have had
since childhood.
The one that leaves me exhausted all day the next day,
because I dream I have been hiding all the bodies
of random people I have murdered.
Then I awake in white knuckle panic and realize...
I haven't killed anyone.
I know you;
The night terrors
that leave vague impressions of dread and horror stuck in my matted hair with the cold sweat I wake up drenched in.
I know you:
You are the sound of car tires screeching
without the satisfying sound of metal and glass
colliding
like lovers
driven to absolute violence
by their own lust.
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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The Pure and Lascivious Period
She wore faux fox furs
dyed blue,
she said it matched her purple hair.
and ate nothing but Ramen noodles with miracle whip.
She was an angel.
When I was sick in bed with cancer
she leaned over me placing cool rags on my burning skull.
Many times I would wake from a fever dream
to find her sitting on the floor
next to my bed
reading one of my books...
waiting to see if and when I would wake up.
On my good days we would go 'Yard shopping'
3: 00 AM we would sneak through the neighborhood,
looking for lawn ornaments,
usually cherubs embracing one another,
that sort of thing.
We would sneak them home and 'augment' them.
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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Sign Here, Please:
At 43 my body is a twisted wreckage of scar tissue.
Most of them are from people I know or knew.
Cigarette burns (many of them) ,
Knife slices,
A large cut left by a pair of scissors wielded by a crazy girl I dated,
Claw marks on my back, sex scars, another crazy girl with 'lee press on talons'.
My teeth were knocked out in a few fights (over women and heroin) .
I now wear dentures.
There is a one from being hit with a frying pan in the head
I don't care how funny it is in Looney Toons,
that shit HURT.. and bled like a virgin sacrifice.
There are the scars from childhood clumsiness
(Falling down stairs and the like)
I have a huge scar on my right thigh...
a blowtorch my dad used to teach me that men don't cry
(I still can't, it worked)
'Sex and pain form flesh identity' Burroughs wrote.
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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Daydreaming at 5: 30 AM
I am waiting for the world to explode
I am waiting for the oceans to exceed their grasps.
I am waiting for you to start carving flaming words in to the air
with a silver forked tongue.
I am waiting for the numbers to come in.
I am waiting for words to jump off pages and start a 50 state murder spree.
I am waiting for every clock on the planet to break...
at exactly the same time.
I am waiting for the deaf, dumb, and idiotic celebreties to melt,
screaming,
running through streets.
I am waiting for people to rub the sleep from their eyes and go outside.
I am waiting for the television stations to be overrun by psychotic schizophrenics...at gun point.
I am waiting for concrete to burn like kerosene.
I am waiting for humanity to FINALLY admit it is NOT humane.
I am waiting for scars to be recognized as beauty marks.
I am waiting for your cool to drip with blood.
I am waiting for the insane and violent to inherit the earth.
I am waiting for America to stop using it's televisions as windows to the world.
I am waiting for scarifaction to take the place of plastic surgery among the rich and stupid.
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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Sick
I am sick with your corpse.
The sickness entered through my eyes and the infection has worked its way in to my brain.
In to my sleep,
In to my dreams.
The multiple stab wounds that went from your collar bone on down.
The stab wounds no one bothered to stitch up,
They have, in my dreams, become muted mouths trying to scream out…
For something.
I remember noticing that the slash mark,
The one on your neck,
Completely missed the bone necklace tattoo you were so proud of.
I remember walking in to a room built for maximum serenity,
Designed to comfort and sooth.
I remember approaching the steel gurney that had been draped with a sheet
And my knees buckled
For the first time in my life I lost my footing.
Your hands, looked so old.
I still can't help but wonder what they had been doing.
Nails, worn down to the quick, as if you had tried to claw your way out of something.
The 'cranial damage', the facial bruising…
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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9 Miles On A Dirty Futon
I spent nine miles with her.
in a cheap apartment.
Boxed wine and cheeses with exotic sounding names.
Eaten on a blanket on the floor as we had no table.
we had no couch,
we had no television.
But we had music.
At night we would lay on a futon matress
that layed on the floor.
The streetlight outside the bedroom window playing shadows across sections of her.
First her eyes were lit, the rest of her awash in shadows,
then,
when she turned,
her mouth was visible,
but her eyes were shadowed.
A breast, a thigh, her hair all illuminated
then darkened
according to her movments.
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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1st Date And A Hanging
He hung there,
not like 'strange fruit'
but like a body.
Hs blackened tongue partially protruding from his mouth,
and a belt around his neck.
911 operator asked if I was sure he was dead.
'Oh yeah.. he's f78king dead'
His face was purple black,
there was no doubt.
he was dead.
'I'm going to need you to cut him down'- the 911 operator..
'ummm... what? '
'Cut im down'
I climbed next to him,
tryng to balance on the wrought iron fence from which he had picked to end his life.
Do you realize how close you have to get to a dead man in order to cut him down off a gate?
My mind went blank as I sawed throuh the belt with a dull knife.
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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Train Wreck Ended By Car Wreck
There was a girl
(isn't there always?)
We met at a party where I was drunk and belligerent.
I usually am with pretty girls at parties who approach me,
I figure life will spoon feed them due to their looks for 30, MAYBE 40 years.
Who am I to perpetrate such a lie?
'You don't need personality or brains.. as long as you have your looks'
I am always belligerent to pretty girls when I am drinking and approached.
To hell with them.
'I'm a witch' she told me.
'We use to burn people like you.'
20 minutes later I was being drug through the party,
vision like a badly done cinema verite film,
towards the front door.
We ended up at her place.
a rat hole apartment
a students apartment.
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poem by Brevet Wilson
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