Saturday, January 31, 2015


I desire to paint you unclothed in my closeted mind.
I so badly want to witness your belly button. Which I believe resembles da Vinci’s The Last Supper minus the religious overtones.
I need to bowl a strike with you naked while drinking Guinness straight from the leprechaun’s engorged penis.

I’m not one for pussy footing around and when it comes to small talk you can count me out.
We could stand around having a pissing contest to see who has the greater intellect or we can call it a draw and get down to watching Netflix in bed while eating Chinese food and lowering our guards.
I used to believe in a second coming before finally accepting women have men beat hands down when it comes to multiple orgasms and the heavy lifting of hostage negotiations.
I am drawn to you like a moth to a flame. Drawn to you like Welch's 100% Grape Juice to a Valentino lace blouse.

I desire to sculpt you with the most unarchaic of prose.
I so badly want to not want you and know I am barking up the wrong tree. Which I believe resembles Bob Ross’s “happy little trees” minus the public broadcasting.
I need to give my wanton desires a break, go to a bar, order a Coca Cola and throw some darts. Think about something, anything other than you standing there on fire in the freezing rain.

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, January 20, 2015


Take off your tee-shirt.
You know how much I love your small breasts.
I promise to suck on one at a time even though they’d both fit easily into my big mouth.

Take off your leggings.
You know how much I’ve always loved your plum shaped ass.
I promise no funny business until you’re completely naked and found something we both can watch on television.

There’s no disputing that when we dated it was like an anti-Semite and a Jew hanging out while cities burned and America lost its new car smell.
There’s no denying how freakish I acted when you found someone else to carve pumpkins with.
I’ll never forget that pay phone on King Avenue and repeatedly hitting myself in the head with the handset when you hung up for the final time.

They tore down the apartment building of our love because we were slumlords of our own desperate and deplorable fantasies.
They built a 7-Eleven on the sacred ground where we once fucked like two malnourished bunny rabbits strung out on Camel cigarettes and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.
I always believed that you were out of my league and I have this gnawing, sick feeling you felt the same as we exited the war-torn structure admitting to nothing while writing our poetry in blood and other less favorable liquid refreshments.

Charles Cicirella

Thursday, January 15, 2015


Proof of purchase.
Gift receipt.
Liberal intentions.
Conservative conjecture.

Tired of washing my mouth out with soap.
Tired of shielding my eyes from this appendage called a penis.
Tied of lashing out at ghosts and fairy godmothers.

I thought we had hammered out a deal.
I thought we had a plan in place that did not belittle or disrespect our core beliefs.
I have a tendency to overthink things until they’re buried deep in the earth where no one and nothing will ever reach them.

K-Y Jelly.
Family Ties.
Lionized antecedents.
Tattooed reparations.

Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

I’m a little dump truck dropping a load.

In the bathroom dropping a load thinking about Elvis in the bathroom dropping a load and then dying.
Or maybe he wasn’t even in the bathroom to crap and just enjoyed some solitary time in the crapper like LBJ.
Scratch that because from what I’ve heard, LBJ would actually govern between grunts, and anyhow Nixon was more Elvis’s speed.

Was it the grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches that helped push him over the edge?
Or maybe it was the 10,000 doses of uppers, downers, and assorted narcotics that Dr. Nick prescribed that really did Elvis in.
Of course, all of the public acclaim could not have helped when you are just a good old Southern boy who was probably more at home driving a truck and doing what his mother told him to do than playing the part of the King of Rock and Roll.

I can understand the bathroom becoming a sort of sanctuary, especially when he had a phone on either side of the commode. I bet there was even a TV in case he felt like some target practice as he sat there and waited for something to come down the pipe.
Celebrities are no different than everyday people except that after all of those years of being handed everything on a twenty-four karat gold platter, you become spoiled and entitled, and you even reek a little of your own misdeeds.
Paranoia can and will destroy you, especially when you squander the otherworldly talents you possess because life just became too large a burden for you to bear.

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, January 10, 2015

"Every Christmas is Last Christmas"

I don’t like what we did to the Native Americans.
I don’t agree with what we did to the Japanese.
America cannot have its cake and eat it too.

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, January 06, 2015


Encased in mercury.
I do the reach around to take my own temperature.
I prefer coffee enemas and my water torture to be ala carte.

I remember prom. The white tux and Michelle’s peach dress.
I am at a loss for words. More of a wallflower than a wildflower.
I’ve run aground. All of my excuses cut from the same dirty washcloth.
I am tired of coming up for air when everything on the surface is redundant and lacking depth.

Covered in memories.
I shove my fist up my own ass to see if I’m running hot or cold.
I prefer Patron "XO Cafe" Coffee Liqueur and my bartender to be without a sense of humor.

Charles Cicirella


Truth serum.

Preoccupation with being preoccupied.
Preventative medicine preventing the inevitable.
Four does crossing the street in the suburbs of America.

Wish list tattooed melodrama.
Mr. Mom dead from accidental hanging.
Overemphasis on dreaming about underdogs.

Too much information.
Intimate details shared on a need to know basis.
Leonard Cohen’s “Avalanche” - perfect song for the fetal position.

Charles Cicirella


Lines go through my head.
Some I write down. Others I wait until they are sharpened.
I remember when you broke the speed of sound.

Table scraps do not make for good poetry. Especially when all you eat are vegetables.
I like restaurants that give you a wet nap when you’re done with your meal. Rib joints are the best because it’s like a crime scene.
I remember the last time we played strip poker and how innocent you looked when you lost your last stitch of clothing.

Lines go through my head.
Some I scribble down. Others I wait until they’re baked in direct sunlight.
I remember when we first hooked up and how much of an expert you were at self-moistening and self-deprecation. 

Charles Cicirella