Tuesday, August 01, 2017

“He told the High Sheriff”


Thirty pieces of silver
If you believe the stories
If you believe one red headed disciple can bring down the world

Mary was also a disciple
Quite possibly the one closest to the fold
Of course she gets less press because of the blood running out from between her angelic thighs

Get ready to bury one more civilization under newspaper clippings and the eyes of the dead
The Nazi’s made lampshades out of Jews’ skin because they had nothing better to do with their spoiled time and loved the unclouded light pouring from a victim’s undeniable suffering
They called them Concentration Camps which was a bold faced lie. Leave it to the Germans to fill up mass graves with irony alongside the bodies

I’m not writing this to shock anyone and doubt anyone is even bothering to read it
The cave drawings must be sketched upon the walls even if no one is paying attention and Ben Carson decimates the projects because poverty is a choice according to his out to lunch brain
I’m no prophet and refuse to cover myself in excrement and stand in the center of town yammering on about this or that coming apocalypse

We had it coming just like every empire before it that believes it was too good to fail and too good to take care of its less fortunate
Don’t get me started on the hypocrisy of Christian Family Values and how every serpent believes fervently that they are God’s favorite
We all have a little or a lot of the Devil inside of us and until we start to accept this truth as self-evident we’ll continue to fail like the braying donkeys we’ve always been

Charles Cicirella

Superimposed-Glitter-Reality (For Juliet)


Snake venom
Feather boa
Landlocked misprint

Femme fatale
Blow Up
Fever pitched

Stand your ground
Sockeye requiem
"Four Dead in Ohio"

Foregone concluded
Dinosaur dystopia
Shaved avocado

Spine curvature
Vomit reflex
Lawn darts

Chain smoker
Nicotine fits
Sleight of hand

Come what may
Come what goes
Poisoned pen letter

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Dueling Banjos (For Kenny Mullins)


Stand up and be counted
Or sit down and shut the fuck up
“He got a real pretty mouth, ain't he?”

We’re being led astray by a dog that cannot wag its tail and chew gum at the same time
Follow the white haired Jew screaming about a revolution because that’s the only way out from all this austere gluttony and neo liberal syphoning off of the working poor
Not only are there no free lunches, free range chickens in every pot is just another old wives tale and organic is no healthier than if you cannibalized your next door neighbor

Stand down and resist the temptation to overthrow the government because absolute power corrupts absolutely and next time you ask about pardons take a good long look in the mirror and try to come to terms with how much of a loser you are
Falling in love with your image or falling in love with money are the same thing and neither one will make a lick of difference when you’re shitting in a diaper and cannot even remember the sound of your own name
I get that you suffer from terminal low self-esteem, but that’s still no excuse for putting a gun to the head of America and making us suck your flea dick

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, July 22, 2017

Everything's Dead


This lump in my stomach isn’t going away
The onion I’m peeling is my own existence and I’m tired of coming up short with tears in my indispensable eyes
The narrative got changed while bullets were flying over our heads and you washed your panda slippers for the millionth time

I know we can’t go back to the beginning and what would even be the point?
Before I came out to Middleburg Heights and we ate turkey and corned beef sandwiches
The library was a bust and so was the poor bird that got squished, but putting my hand on your thigh and you later telling me how it made your pussy throb will continue to replay in my Sodom and Gomorrah mind until the end of time

Everything’s dead or at least on life support and maybe that’s for the best, at least until she figures out what she wants and what she wants to do with my cadaver
We were in a corn field. Just me, you and the car that drove us into this mess because I fell asleep at the wheel and thankfully woke up before we hit the culvert
I’ve never been all that great at following through, but I swear someday I’ll put away childish things and accept the death sentence of being a grown up

I hear trucks pass by as you sleep and I imagine them bringing you samples because you deserve only the best as all of this uncertainty goes by the wayside like roadkill or organic vegetables
Seeing how we’re putting all of our cards on the table I told her I was falling in love and thankfully she didn’t hang up the phone or run from the room with her hair on fire
Everything’s dead and that’s okay because I believe in the Lazarus effect, meaning that the raising of the dead is more than possible in these days of box wine and roses disguised as Hershey’s Kisses

Charles Cicirella

Thursday, July 20, 2017



I want a Baconator.
I want it now.
Want it in my mouth and all over my Jewish-Sicilian lips.

Your ass came out of virtually nowhere.
Like a ballistic missile shot from an underground bunker straight to my unexpecting heart.
I love how you play it off like it’s no big deal when actually nothing could be further from the truth.

We resist temptation or we don’t.
It’s just that simple and the older I get the more I realize temptation may be the very last virtue we have left.
Never much cared for owls. It’s difficult caring about an animal who has eyes in the back of its head and is wiser than King Solomon on a tear.

Your ass calls out to me like a collect call from a prison of the universal mind.
I desire to break on through and cleanse The Doors of Perception by telling you everything that’s weighing me down and letting the chips fall where they may.
Of course it’s a dangerous proposition letting one’s guard down, but it also gets mighty boring always staying above the fray and never getting one’s hands and heart dirty.

I want a Baconator.
Want it like I want you on all fours, barking at the moon as I take you from the back like a miner mining for the bloodiest and most striking of diamonds.
You told me a secret with your eyes that I kept to myself for as long as I possibly could before spilling it upon this killing floor like music that must be shared with the world.

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Beautiful Resistance (For Lambryah)


These words will not save me
They’re not intended for such paltry tasks
In the middle of the night I called out to her and she arrived in a honey pot

Somethings make sense, while others do not
The way you opened up and are now shutting down tears at my chalky bones like an illiterate adult trying to read the Jewish News
I always jump to conclusions and someday I’ll probably jump in front of a train. That’s just what poets do when poets run out of Wheel of Fortune consonants and vowels

I know you don’t understand when I say I believe you’re the last person I’ll ever make love to and perhaps that statement is both over the top and pathetic in its statuesque randomness
It’s just I’ve known since the first time you tried to hide your smile from me while on video chat that we were more than meant to be and that a late checkout would not be a problem
Every time I experience you in your birthday suit it’s like the very first time because your beauty both bewitches and bewilders me like the best graphic novels always have a tendency doing

You play inside of me like the most haunted and ridiculously redundant of refrains and that’s a very good thing because I’ve never been able to memorize the words so humming will most definitely come in handy in a pinch
I left the station at half past nine while in my mind it was our Brief Encounter that was of the utmost importance and left me whittled down like a sharp stick or canoe
In the middle of the afternoon I drank some much needed coffee and waited for you to respond. Thing is you’re most definitely losing interest and that is killing me like a thousand origami swan paper cuts to my already low self-esteem.

Charles Cicirella