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Poetry by Dee Sunshine 

Dee is a visual artist and author of The Bad Seed, Dropping Ecstasy With The Angels, Stealing Heaven From The Lips Of God, and Visions Of The Drowning Man.  He has been trekking Europe for three years and "intends to carry on until his legs or his heart wears out (or until he runs out of money)."  Visit his site, buy his merchandise, or download his books.




© 2009 Dee Sunshine








dAdA scrambled: too late this night.

No you to superglue the bits together

so, destined to drift aimless,               


thru’ the remaining years


razorblades and pills



undecided & too scared.


An emotionless voice in my head

plays in an endless loop:


Why kill time when you can kill yourself?



who you are fucking tonight,

this night,

as the bed beckons:

empty and unforgiving...


If there was someone, anyone:

doesn’t matter who...


Just someone to hold my hand,

stroke my fingers till I fall asleep

till the blankness swoops down

and devours me/ till I am deVOID

of all these X-S emotions.



Kurt Schwitters is building

a random construct

in my small intestine:


not that I am exactly hurting,

not that I am missing you...

not even the bitter musk scent

from the crook of yr neck...

or the soft contours of yr belly...

or the wry twist of yr smile...

or the ink stains on yr fingers...

or the wistful look in yr left eye

when you waxed euphorically,

full of bitter-sweet one-days


No, I never loved yr idiosyncrasies,

I never swooned with lust

to the lyre-song

of yr own peculiar idiolect. 


This is false memory:

out to destroy the delicate balance

of my being-here-now-ness. 


Some nights

the loneliness bites

chunks out of my brain. 


Here & now,

I have not sunk that low. 

I am mindful of my breath,

if bereft

of metta.


I breathe into my hara

and the illusion of tranquillity

is made manifest:

black and dense as syrup.


The emergency exit sign glows,

liquid crystal green

and so seductive.



even the Buddha

tried to waste himself once.


He said:

paradise is for humming birds and fools.


Counting the breaths,

the minutes, the hours, the days:

I perceive myself to be

beyond redemption.


No insipid Christ could carry me.


I am a slut to my expectations:

will spread my legs

For any worn out old promise.


One, two, three, four, five:

once you caught a fish alive.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten:

then you let it go again. 


Not waving, but drowning:

a fish-hook thru’ my cheek,

just under my right eye


Counting the hours till daylight

the samhain moon

burning thru’ the windows

into the dull kernel of me.


La bella luna

pregnant and laughing:


she who oversaw

our first velvet velcro fuck -

galaxies bursting

out of your eyes,

filling my dull room

with wondrous incandescence.  


Where are you this night?


Are you extinguished

like some overburnt candle? 

Does yr beautiful head nestle

into yr lover’s soft belly? 

Do the pair of you smile in your sleep,

like cats that have had too much cream? 


There are three nightlights

guttering in my window

to keep the witches at bay. 


I stand in tadasana,

trying to find my balance:


I’m a tree

blown in random winds.


I breathe slow and deep into my hara:


still counting,

but the moon hardly moves


stirring a longing

in my belly.









All work is property of Dee Sunshine.




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