peaches and cores

peach 1

on the sturdiest peak
of island tropic

through muffled bullhorn
i atone,

with casting call, blasted
for all grinding teeth to
reach their slippery sleep
in deepest bite-

god’s ripened flesh, our
summer’s passing  peaches,

lashes flutter, shivering faint-
kick-start heartbeat,

lest swarming the rotten cores
in chronic verbal pong

and fine print hang-ups ’bout
patch job impeachments.

©Anthony Gorman 2019



don’t fear the dealer


on caving ceiling crests of
musty cellar eves,

she’s most likely to find me
bedsores and supine,

belting fine-tuned lunar swoons
of hamster cage bar blues,

in lieu of treading sepia lagoons of
paint thinner, coupon booze

both, idling diversions,
sleeves of same cushy sweater
guarding calico contusions,

still jonesin’ bottomless pause
of tie dye infused pollution,

momentarily, so grudgingly,
damn selflessly refused.

©Anthony Gorman 2019




sun water clouds

chase me up to tips of treetops,
’till saggy, dad skin
slips right off

then, climb me into woolly nimbus,
filled with moisture’s Christmas,
forever floating,

i’ll return from rebirth to earth
in sunshine’s portrait glown on
dry dusk’s river sheet

and swathe you in crisp ripples
licked molten and still

in freshwater ponds 
of crudest oil spills.

©Anthony Gorman 2019



patch repairs rooted in blanket prayers

velvet 1

guilty for wringing kinky minds
of drunken, sinking vessels

in bleached knuckle clutch
of writhing felon covers.

suddenly crumbled into thinkin’
it’s likely time for me
to pray,

why the hell not?
i’m down here anyway.

pleas for thinning, sleepless linens
to bud a motley bouquet-

lending transient beauty
in blessings to gravest garden
gargoyle clays,

though i’d settle for
rampant wad of tumbleweeds,
crowding coffin’s velvet womb,
on these livin’ days.

©Anthony Gorman 2019

image: ://


most ghostly of insides


i’m clumsy highway ghost
wandering halls of
swollen home,

creaking corners,
lunging broken bottles,

i see the freak,
but it’s the antique
staring back,

stifling blitzkrieg spectacle
of ocular attack

in appreciation for my
plunging of his

Casper  prefers
to frost  his
attic panes alone

©Anthony Gorman 2019





leggo my ego

dorian gray

so ferocious, the teenage courting
of vendetta vixen Vee’s
grind-fiction section,

dazzled by left side
swiping strobe light of
circling blood trace
tinder hags,

hushed tedious truths
hissed more timid
than mute,

through gaps in dripping box
wax teeth and botox bloat.

i’m now trimmed balls, shit bed
and showered,

impelled by drag of
blackstrap molasses

sneered dead,  jiminy cricket
from leaky bow on
anchored boat,

proud singing old neil young
in measured flattery
of seersucker suit,

each tool polished bland of style
and muse, from shifty swagger
to platform boots.

©Anthony Gorman 2019