Wolf Mother

Prick me while the moon is waning

Suck the blood out with the poison they fed me

Empty me and feed me to the wolves on the precipice

Suicidal over hunger gazing at the rocks in the gorge

You thought a dog couldn’t feel it

You thought a dog couldn’t feel it

Posthumous savior of a land unremembered

Forsook and forsaken, let me be nameless

The only difference between that and a martyr

Is that a martyr is shameless

You tighten the leash

I feed them bits of me till

The leash is tethered

You thought a dog couldn’t feel it

You thought a dog couldn’t feel it

Wolf at a stoplight

Rummages through the dumpsters of urban blight

Sets course for the precipice when the trash doesn’t go down right

Tell them the truth, urban cowboy

You’re obsolete and it’s a crisis

No cows to heard, only wolves at the bit

You thought a dog couldn’t feel it.

Time Decay

Raccoons in the backyard

Half dead candle in the living room

Ants in the cat food

What’s a little dirt in the foyer

What’s a little fly in the butter drawer

What’s a little mold in the coffee

The reminder of the missed deadline

The day you turned 25

Missed call kept in eyeshot

Father’s day card you didn’t write

Countdown to a countdown

Provisional rewrite



Greeting Death

Some days and at some times of those days the end feels like the only thing that matters.

On any other day the end bounces around carelessly in my head, like a personality trait; and the recognition of it is automatic, like breathing, even when it’s all I can see, like when you get too high and all you can do is focus on your heartbeat. And when I get there I just ride it out and

Greet death with apathy.

Look at the stars and listen to post-rock and remind myself that I, an insignificant little shit, don’t matter one bit, and how!

The idea of apocalypse was man-made and the non-existence of God is the only way any of this is bearable because who needs that kind of pressure and he’s not up there and neither is anyone else so fuck that provincial bullshit when I die harvest my organs and don’t waste them on anyone over the age of 50 and just throw the rest of me in the trash and rocket it into space.

Sigh in relief. Greet death.

It doesn’t matter. None of it does.

Spirituality was always hard for me.

While I’m here I’m just trying to make people happy, even though, at the end, all of these experiences are just expendable.

Everyone wants to live, but not live in misery, so if you’re at a loss, indulge, because it’s not black and white and good and evil.

Show me an idiot and I’ll show you the binaries he holds in credence.

But there crops up an armpit, dread-filled, shit-stain of a day that swings the hands two minutes to Doomsday.

The end walks up to me with my morning coffee and holds it above my head to remind me that I have no autonomy.

For a control freak, sometimes the teasing is debilitating.

Some people who fantasize about dying don’t necessarily want to kill themselves. What they’re really fantasizing about is the choice.

They’re fantasizing about picking up their own hands and gripping their own stainless steel blade and cutting their own thighs and bleeding out in a bathtub listening to Enya rather than being unexpectedly launched Raggedy Ann-style through the windshield of an Uber and coming to rest mangled in the middle of an intersection.

They’re naked and covered in blood.

Why are they naked in the front seat of an Uber in the first place?

Who fucking knows.

For someone who never asked to be born in the first place, it’s awfully poetically unjust.

And that’s just the way it is.

Take the coffee. Sit down. Greet death.



A drop of water in a pond
Turned the whole thing into a

Vexed ocean fit for a Michael Bay adaptation of a

Jules Verne novel

Each ripple a new pretty ugly


Where are the damn royalties.

Quel poesie

Mi amor pizza j’adore

Come si dice

The difference between free verse and free style and the air when

The truth comes busting out as if it’s significant

It’s not a heart of pretense but

Lavender and sage, bled words and word play

It’s just

Lost in the matrix of a land unjaded

Because everything else got jaded and

I learned language

At the age when growing up meant getting fucked

up and over for the sake of


And I tried but the only solace I found was in the experience of relinquishing it

And god fuck I relinquished it


You couldn’t tell from a glance but baby bebe bambina

I’m angry at the way I –

I see it all now

Pon de motherfucking replay

16 again realizing fantasy is a fallacy

Mixing my brains into brain stew for the

Sad drummer in the drumline

Sad dancer with the wide smile

Dumb bitch in carmine

Click-clack, a clock keeping time

Automatic transmission with a manual overdrive

And I just let it

Just let it all

From the top to the bottom


Everything was dominoes

I couldn’t help but dance around it

And there they went

And I watched as they fell in a pattern I couldn’t recognize until now

Hedge maze in a bright blaze

Always stepping too late

To hold that last domino

Against the weight of the ivory and the blood that was spilled to put them all in place

A violent dance with myself

Stepping too late, always stepping too late

I make myself laugh when I step too late

In a dark room

And I’ve always been feeling my way towards the end of the line and the

Sacrifices for the accusation of a crime

Giles Corey in Wonderland

There the fuck I go again

Velocity-inspired Bible-based hellfire

Dominos click-clack like that clock keeping time

On a bomb set to detonate whenever my legs give out and my weak arms expire



Soft as lilies

Plucked from a chilled lake

On the outskirts of a burning city


Fit me like gloves

Tailored and God-made

As we fall into us like a fever

A little death saves us from the degradation of life

In your hands I die, and die, and die

Come up and undone


I watch you die, and die, and die

Messy, sweaty suicide

Kickstarts a breath and a sophic smile

Nothing. Nothing but this.

Hold my hand and let’s fall into it


Tulips from the outskirts of a city on fire

Pure on my lips

Pure as every burning morning

Verse for the Expelled

The last thing they told me was that they were slipping through the cracks

Every fuck you was a slap that turned a backwards heads right back and right back


Those babies 

Exorcists, they’re all exorcists 

Screaming at the demon inside the details, like a child in a bind

And, like a daddy with a switch, the demon keeps screaming right back

The last thing they told us was that they were slipping through the cracks

And nothing high brow could ever be that sacred

On the way to hell they clawed my hands and made me promise

As the cracks widened and the chasm got hungrier 

To keep holding on

And they scratched at the bit 

Restless for recess

Scratched my eyes and my mouth

Drawing blood to prove I was real 

Not a ghost like the ones they crawled out of –

Born of a ghost

Damned to the ground.

My makers keep me chained to heaven.

And their makers are underground.

Circadian rhythm for social pessimism.

Else I’d make that promise and follow those babies down.


The Wanting

Darling please believe me
I have tried to understand
What was or what wasn’t
What I could demand
I touch of tenderness
An opening of hearts
The light behind the shadows
A brand new start
But I have got to know
Can you tell me please?
Have you ever been the fool
Down on your knees just like me?
Talk to me talk to me
Fill me with your words
And I’ll forgive your hunger
If you’ll relieve my thirst
But I have got to know
Can you tell me please?
Have you ever been the fool
Down on your knees just like me?

****(written by J. Schaerer)

*****performed by A. Schaerer and penandprism

The Wanting – Full Song

The Wanting – Long Version