My Own Private Iola

I will stop
thinking about you
in your doc martens
and your blue bomber
in 1997,

when something comes down
with a monkey wrench
from heaven

and beats it all
out of me
for good.

For good, the bad
go hungrier for
longer than any of the
God-mammals could
ever last for.

Up our Jerusalem sleeves,
we set the records to skip
back, to the same spot
dropping the needle
again and again
into a bucket of silence.

I can’t get out of the
she is a pleasure to have
as a curse.

Put the posters back up,
get me a job at some
fast death food market

and eat my fingers
out from under themselves
every night, in-between
chapters like the very
Spy vs Spy that first
entertained me

more than the central prose,
the para-text is a devious,
blazing star you cannot

scrape off like gum
on your spokes,
you cannot eliminate like
Constantine blood on your Keds.

This is the ugliest in a set of three poems,
these are the stones thrown at the stoned.

You are my first fist,
clutching my first page.

Crumpling up the demons,
wrapping up our moments,
it is like getting ready
for X-mas in Hell.

But it is still better than
letting go, completely
of that story.



  1. Your second stanza immediately threw “Monkey Gone To Heaven” by The Pixies into mind. From your writing, I would be surprised to find out you are not already a fan of The Pixies. Check out these vocal-only tracks of Black Francis on two of their songs. It highlights the poetry and turns a song into a surreal performance art piece. I’m trying to figure out how to get the beginning of “Hey” as my ringtone.

    1. I love that you got that from it, because, like many of my poems this one is a reference based one, and that is the exact song I was aiming for. Also the title of this poem is a subtle hint at Jane’s Addiction and the Perry Ferrel project known as “The Gift” in which his lover, Iola, dies, and he makes love to her one last time.

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