Only The Damned Make Love

by Justin Wade Thompson

she sat on the edge of the bed
eating red velvet cake
in her panties
and a tiny tight undershirt

black nipples that i've sucked
for long hours
like wishing and wondering under stars

she cleans the fork
with her tongue

when she's finished
she wraps her brown legs around my head
with her cunt
in my face, on my lips
and i bury my nose
into the breach of her

she pushes tattooed arms
and sweat
along the hairless white of my chest
along the heart, along the ribs

collapsing on top of me
deeper than a fire or storm or the wrath of an awakened god

finally
she asks me
if i'd like a glass
of water

i catch my breath and answer
yes.

Boy Scout Blue

by Justin Wade Thompson

the girl had

her tits hanging out

boy scout blue and

no respect for her

own blood

some fag boys were singing

from the floor

i went home and cried

warm beer and a stain

on my pants the next day

to keep the patrons staring

in the grocery store

in the restaurant

where i ate cactus

and bananas with my rice

last time my dad sat across from

me screaming about Texas politics

and the end of the world

seemingly relative subjects

i don't know anymore

lies parade the news and magazine stands,

the wine bottles, the cat pills,

the beer, sex,and vinegar

and red-faced children

crying over the mountainous bridge while

their fat parents make them

watch and take pictures

of the bats

that look

just like

shitty rats

on wings.

i'd like them all to die

some day.

The Desert

by Justin Wade Thompson

i've got my dick stuck in the sink and she's

crying out

to a dead deity

took off her glasses

and told me how worms crawl up the walls like

when she was a kid

living in Saudi Arabia

and they'd cut off

the food supply

everything went to rot

she was kissing my neck and

hanging on me

like

a whore of Babylon, she said

i held her hand

and downed five shots of whiskey

we danced a figure eight with our hips

with my dick

half hard pinned between

the cheeks of her ass

buried my nose in her hair

the smell of coconut butter and sweat

stuffing my lungs

and the whiskey kept my blood strong

threw the night until we fucked

each other's brains out on fire without a beat

without a mighty hand of a god

just her lips

on mine

and the sounds of our

bodies clapping in ecstasy.

On Roads Beyond Hell

by Justin Wade Thompson

i know i'll be on the road again soon

with no where to go

just following the old gasoline trail

and pushing key cards at motels

laying on my back in a white bathtub

somewhere in some city i've never heard of

masturbating over some girl i've never even kissed

i share a bed with the living

and share a toothbrush with the dying

nothing new

nothing pretty

and shoe-shines with gimmicks that leave you dead

and cold

crane machines full of dead stuffed animals

and girl cashiers that would spit in your face

had they any life left in them

the dead of a nation wrapped in cellophane

and crucified on billboards for merry men to decipher.

What Children Know

by Justin Wade Thompson

when i was a kid

we had this nice little spot

by the river

you could talk

and smoke cigarettes

no one would know

we were kids

it thrilled us

to retreat

from the world of parents

in unhappy matrimony

with

pictures of

wedding cakes and smiles stuffed

in an album somewhere

in some closet

by the fireplace

that we seldom

used

we were kids

we had secrets that meant

nothing

like snakes in the grass

we'd get chigger bites

on our asses and bathe in bleach

and we'd cover our tracks

as best we could

we didn't know love

nor did we care

we knew skipping rocks

and burning leaves

in coffee cans

we knew nothing but

everything

drank water from the garden hose

til our bellies would

almost burst

we were boys

and blades of grass

made pillows for our feet.

Like Dead Rabbits Burning on the End of a Cigarette

by Justin Wade Thompson

tobacco smoke rolls

around my fingers

as i type these lines

a man once told

me smoking is

magic

a ritual

the real magic that people

mistreat, always

it's the art of

every man

to breathe fire &smoke

is Prometheus

like

a toast to Dionysus

these lines i write

are Apollo

no one believes

in these things anymore

like no one

believes in dreams

they just want to

interpret them

and lock them up

in a glass bottle

like little model ships to

show off to their friends

that's all we ask for

these days

something to do

something to look at

something to buy, to own

but it's these lines i write

you can't own them

you can't buy them up

they won't rest on a shelf

in your office, or in your

study,

they won't live in captivity

they put you in captivity

they put you under the key

these words take you away

and do with you

as they please

they tie you, they bind you,

to whatever rolls around

your heart,

around the hearts of gods,

like a golden circle,

or some unspeakable wisdom

at the end of a thousand

ivory arches.