Tim Barrus: Incendiary Comments NYT

Been there. One drove a cab. One was a maid in a hotel who never went to work because we were more fun to hang out with. The All Too Usual Question is inevitably What If Someone Gets Jealous. Someone will get jealous. I’m thinking the nuances here all have…

Tim Barrus: If Sexuality Were As If

If by what degree history itself represents, mainly motal armies as they sleep. Even their bones come from wounds. I have made mince meat from a strange and bitter world.  

Tim Barrus: High As Any Other Reno Whore

We have fallen asleep between between our tonges continued to the beaten grounds of stir.

Tim Barrus: The Desire From Year to Year to Do Something Completely New To the Universe

blizzard of the winter dust that year when you escaped/ i don’t think I ever did, i could not do that today/ when you are young just over some other wall, somewhere else untouched like her darkening lips/

inhabits our frail blood

Then, saved in the constant image of the creaure, shaking off I Would Have Died An Hour ago, but that is not what happened says who says I because I was there, and I say so. Fate itself has become obedient to his mother’s womb. The shortened tedious nights the…

Tim Barrus, New York Times

https://twitter.com/lukewilliamsxxx/status/1419810615007358976?s=20 It is the sun that drapes the summer. The one we are walking down a path of lush green that will look differently soon enough as you will amble through it shoeing some of the leaves and snow away. How is it that we sexualize the very thing that…

And Edges of the Zero Gate

The dismal sky burns the tongues with scorn. Languages. Never savage chaos as it walks the moon beach shore. Coiling in the darkness, it was like remembering our cells of faint shadows and it’s time to go. Any whore will get it. You and I both know.   

LÉCHER VOTRE TROU COMME UNE BRIQUE MOUILLÉE

je suis un con alors baise moi

Lonely As If Kept Enchanted

To Prey Upon. The Something Next. Everytime you open up your hole. Prey Tell. The leaden sky left no room for sun, no room to pretend you lived here, or pretend you lived anywhere. They only murdered Homo sapiens I didn’t like. Someone was following us. I could see it…

throwing rocks

Yes, it’s only poetry. Poetry is an only child. I know the text is too small. Stop reminding me. Obviously, i have failed at dealing with the Homo sapiens again. What I want to know is when does it all end. Where are all the naked old men with long…

Never In One Place Too Long

you were the magic of the moment/ it was a small cabin, after all/ who said there were easy answers/ i’m all the stories i write about/ how is that possible/ you don’t get it, you never did, you never will/ i’m supposed to have all these filters, the new…

Nos mantenemos rígidos. Todo el mundo puede vernos.

still, he does have a gun in your mouth

The Red Army and you are the diva of the whiskey pool table times ten. You said you knew what you were doing. We are so much past that, now. No one knows what they are doing. Not you. Not me. Not French TV. The Old Incarnation Ritual. And then…

Going Rogue

the old incarnation, and then some peyote with the poets, who are you this time, pills and spills, blings and things, i was there that night you pierced your vagina with a silver ring/ glistens some say it’s been done with frost/ to dream a net made of stinging nettles/…

shoplifting

you could take it into public      on the night of a mission saving the world was like      shoplifting with stuff shoved down our pants next to our      balls they could search us but they knew we would      blackmail them and blackmailing adults who      wanted to touch us we dared them…

U HAVE CLAIMED WHAT WHAT DO YOU HAVE A COVEN MEETING TONIGHT

i know all the fucking secrets the poor down the dirt road are running out of wood again they are hoping for an early spring it’s cold today it never freezes in the how cold is it cold as a witch’s tit mother’s arthritic hands moved like bats and their…

Tim Barrus, New York Times

About Poetry. Ten reasons why religious poetry is religious poetry. By a poet. Who lives on a farm in Appalachia. 1.) I do not know what it is like to be a woman. I am not a woman. I do not want to be a woman. 2.) It is hard…

upstairs in our bed

what sort of old stone house is this with its memories of the old people playing cards downstairs while we pretended sleep the kind of sleep lost somewhere between the morning and the mystical, the musical, and the misbehaved

hey kid i found your doll

first, they will starve you/ that knot in your gut never goes away/ then, they will lock your brother up for shoplifting/ food/  food so you could feed your belly with it food/ then, that bitch from social services keeps coming around and you threw rocks at her car but…

poetry

You Are A Fortess

GoingRogue You are a fortress. You have always been a fortress. A fortress of slaughter. Broken. Gone mad. Castles. Only to turn your back on us. This is how you want to be perceived. I can buy some of it. But I have seen eyes like your eyes before the…

Gutted In Beds of Ice

the aproned butchers/ swung their clevers down/ on fresh cold joints/ slapping the thick chops/ and tossing them roughly/ tied/ to the boot delivery boys/ smelling of earth and morning/ wide bellied buttfuck/ clotted damply of black loam/ wrenched from gardens the smell/ of gardens a thunder on the rails/…

StrangleHigh

in those last moments, hands quickened around your neck, running dry, you who begged him/ to turn it all off, veiled, his eyes a salt-rinsed brown, you, giving way to the yellow skies of blackness, he’s doing what you asked for, now, you need to let this lost dog go/ 

HIS DARKLING TONGUE

his darkling tongue of pour/ inside my bitterness whose lights were like film, hurried/ grainy all my shit is grainy trix in a filthy rain as if his cock down my throat was another dead day of gravestones on the lawn/ https://www.instagram.com/timbarrus/

whore hotels

unhinged, i am sucking his cock, he is sitting on the toilet/ the disenchanted bed we slept &fucked in smells soft like the sleep of stones/ it is the bike that sings &pings in the parking place outside the motel door/ death cums in my mouth, &we know we will…