Punch Face

10, 9, 8

capture wrist

sweep feet

gonna feel like

a hambone

meeting meat

Tiger claw

pivot hips

scissor kick

to the lips

Red suit down

blue on top

gonna feel like

a mallet married

to steak

Chest plate

canned goods

tumble off

crooked shelf

Raise forearm

block right jab

gonna feel like

a marked down

chicken leg

with shelf life

out of date

Store manager


this never ending


gonna come on like

a carnival clown

small town date


Carts stowed

signs go dark

all door bolts

drop lock

deep freeze

ray gun Mace

gonna feel like

a budget trip

through hyperspace

10, 9, 8

punch face



Chicken & Steak 4567 ☢ Love

Silly Photoshop Image Insert Here

I’ll replace you
when you fail;
the pinkness of
your petals burnt

Tender loving
with a new you;
caresses brushing
absently cruising
over ™ silica curves

I’ll forget your
melted oval cornea
Formosa drowning
metallic headlights
all hazard stamped
with a carbon seal

Barnyard bake-down
your bird&beef saliva
will still moisten ♬;
lips still smearing spicy
in time to kids counting
along 4, 5, 6, 7 > fusion
only with a new ⋃ to me

Maude’s Vending Machine

On long wooden porch
under waning electric torch
in this upright mechanical box
marked Happy Meat Treats
five empty slots gape
among eleven occupied ones
in Maude’s vending machine.

Dried, pickled, salted, and boiled
chicken, beef, goat, and lamb.
Drop-slot the coinage,
slip slip slip
clunk clunk clunk,
push back the chute cover,
it’s scuffed see-through plastic,
like your pineal eye, failing.

Take hold of the tasty byproduct
our subservient lifeforms, failing.
Not true life, just its decaying
outward form. Serving us
our own slow ugly death
in plastic wrap, succeeding.

Going to the Motor Base, Continued

Our Meat Boys

A story of the near present


When you’re hungry and soil is rubbish, cows mad, chickens burning with flu, and fish dead gone, eating your fellow humans is less taboo and more a matter of time. Time to hack, saw and slice.

For after one or two generations of desperate need and deeds done it terror … the young and hungry won’t see what all the fuss was about. They’ll see a leg, a thigh, a breast; a lean cut, a rump roast, or a delicacy of eyeballs and blood-stewed kidneys.


“An army survives on its belly.”
– U.S. Civil War, Anonymous

in the rain stain,
reminiscent of the last great storm,
north of ancestors’ decayed paradise,
the only class to live
above the earthly dirt,
outside the physical pain,
is the Tidal Barons.

They’re the Meat Merchants
of the Motor Base. They control
the selecting, the herding, and
the processing of body slaves.
If a guy’s got a craving, a guy’s
got to pay at the base.

“Your mind is yours, but your flesh belongs to Us.”
– the Tidal Barons


Rillian, of the earthly dirt
but not the common cloth,
heads balls out
hindbrain out
cocked guns out
with Middle, Tip, and the rest
riding his wake
to the Motor Base main gate.

It was the bloody cruel loss
of Rillian’s blood-tied family
to lackeys of the Tidal Barons;

It was the senseless and bloodless
apathy of his fellow man,
too numbed to stir
in their own defense;

It was these external motivators
mixed with his regret-fueled need

that primed his pump and
charged his cells.

As for the rest,
Middle, ‘member him? A one-
handed man-killer, our destroyer
of the ever-present enemy,
a demigod of bullets and boots,
but a man all the selfsame;

he and his brother Tip need
to eat meat. All our killers
need meat. It drives their cells


captain of the multi-guard,
her radiation-brown skin shouting:

“Fuck your weak understanding of humanity! Ugly is skin deep; beauty is my blood and marrow and viscera.”

She squints from the capstan,
overlooking the main gate,
chewing on her spiced jerky
like bed springs compressing
then reluctantly releasing
under a prostitute’s routine
action atop another John.

Swallow, a burning in her gut,
tells MH something is coming;
all her remaining nerve endings
Make fast the gate!
Ready thy forces!

Maidenhead signals the trolls
to dump the vats. All along the
heavy main gate, below her,
MH’s lounging Ant Boys scurry
to their needled feet.

The vats tip and release
red darkness flowing over
the wood and stone barrier:

A rush of heads to the blood,
the Ant Boys greedily lap
the sticky red motivational
treat, Blood of Man,
from every timber.

Maidenhead squints from the
capstan, ready and willing.


And Rillian yells,

“Beyond this gate, death awaits! Will it be ours or theirs? One thing. One thing above all else. Find and kill Lady Tidal. She falls, they all fall!”

And Middle shouts,

“I’ll fuck that bone lady. She’s got Picasso face. She’s the high king of meat.”

Tip and sundry are overcome by
laughter as they stomp boots.

And then Rillian’s boys sing:

No more safe happy places,
not in our deepest deep,
not in our shining heaps;
the Motor Base is ahead,
the pain will be brought
double, triple, quadruple;
we’re gonna kill some folks

No more safe happy places,
not in our deepest deep,
not in their bloody heaps,
but it will be done,
the Motor Base taken.


There’s a sense of full circle birth life death in every bite; each breaking down of the flesh with our very own teeth is the birth of another soul but not separate and lost, a part of us and everything — a fleshy encapsulated universe tying us … one to another.

Our meat energy joins with others when each body dies, is consumed, and this is good.

The End


In Love with Springs

Tim Tim the butcher,
a man who knows flesh and bone,
builds from lonely despair
a base plaything to fill his empty.

Tucked between pub and laundrette,
Tim Tim’s meat shop is empty
as the Vegan Uprising flares.

His sales fall to zero;
his stock rots on the vine;
his lady butcher clears out
with a sly vendor of the
non-dairy frozen yogurt.

There is little left now for TT,
but his tools and invention.

So he slices the metal
like juiceless roast beef
into shapely curves;
twisting useless skewers
into high-tension springs;
and inserting meat injectors
for sensual body cavities.

TT is learning to speak Machine,
learning to love bloodless flesh
with new caresses and kisses;
all slick and hard, not smooth;
all tingly and dense, not wet.

TT adds voice to plaything’s throat,
thin spinning copper disks
perforated with simple song patterns:

I ting ting ting
You love the Springs
I ting ting too
I love the you

I ting ting tong
You love my song
I ting ting ting
Please love my Springs.