Maggot Drain by Rozz Williams

This is the end of the line/road come to a close.
Muted vision of the dead blends exhaustively
with the wretched night that binds it,
blinds us in wanton light—
a flight not so easily ignored
by those in whose arms death waits, enthroned…
These are the nights of wasted bones,
traced footsteps in mud, the dull thud
of laughter caught in leprous waves
crashed without mercy as a reminder
of a spent future, lost past, a void existence.
Time and again.

Wind blown
Sky scatters
Embryo in flames

But will it always incur so much unwarranted pain?
Clouds ripped open by a band of sleepless souls
intervening from the other side of life.
Throats cut like sacrificial lambs at the demon’s altar.
The seemingly endless invasions by huge, staring monsters
(those who go nameless among the largely unwanted masses)
occur every day.

I pass them by,
those gayly painted runners
in this mad dash to nowhere fast.
At last a slight relief from those
strangely demented eyes…
Seething, beaming wildly
in lonesome sunset to down.
Maggot-drain-brain-crabs/insect-larvae-sex-death strutter.
In the same breath, dusted nectar of heart’s blood gone to rust.
And I trust you’ve felt the same sharp, telling pinpricks
as our minds digress/regress.

Transformation into a new you must take place
like a pelt worn over milky skin and alabaster sheets
rolling off an unmade bed in bliss and the
Devil’s shattered kiss.
You gyrate for a dead world,
try to raise erections from its corpse.
Roll over and bite hard on that dead meat.
Beat it over and over again.

Well it has been a conscious decision on my part
to betray those digressions, although as you can see,
I sometimes fail, and lest I forget what brought me
to the first and last, it was orgasmic rush, hope, and trust
like flies with wings removed.

Paralyzed parasite that I have set my gaze upon,
how quickly you lose what I was craving,
raving mad and pleased to meat you.

…….Catch as catch can……..


“Maggot Drain” was written by the late Rozz Williams. This poem and other selections from his spoken word album, Whore’s Mouth. All rights reserved.

A Fire of Uncommon Velocity by Rozz Williams

Lecture of nectarines taking precedence over
the vast emptiness of my name and quickly depleting body
collapsed in holy withdrawal and a shivering wound left
unhealed by time or paranoia. Hopeless hope of nothing
to come but lonesome nights in the thick of nowhere.
Juniper daze and hold me over the barrel of your gun.
Ancient aneurysm of dysfunctional maladies,
bitter taste lingers on a tongue of misfortunate choice.
There, beneath hideous green/blue liquids await truths yet untold,
and by token of my own relinquished desire, a fire of uncommon velocity
burns the palate in star/space speed and brooding collapse…
Flat on my back, eyes turned towards heaven, black after that.
All else fades and in this haze of unequaled delirium,
I become the father who in life has evaded me
for all to see my religious frenzy played out
in turbulent half-acts at rosary pinwheels.
Blood drips wearily from the wounds
of childhood affliction, claws ripping inwardly.
Forget all I’ve previously tried to raze
and instead gaze upon the altar now assembled
to erase that which gave birth to this unfortunate
man/child. With a slightly crooked smile, replace torn,
umbilical rip cord in defense of my premeditated crime.
Unworthy bastard they call I.
And I alone shall stand  in judgement
of the mirror held before me.
Cracked down the middle
like quicksilver oozing down your golden throat,
a blood-letting jab through the arteries of stasis,
and chaos floods the body like a broken dream…
Holding on in bold-faced desperation,
holding on to one last fatal glimpse,
hands meet, touch, retract.
Burned to ember, weakness has
sunken in and taken its place at the head of this dark parade.
Stormtroopers attack, bringing up the backwash of bile,
a vile agenda lived out in monotonous pain,
forming shit soaked lives denied by those who fake at life.
Denied, maligned, redefined circles of shit costumed as shit,
cherishing shit as though we are indebted to it.
May we live to regret or forget?

This nightmare is in overdrive;
a fire of uncommon velocity.


“A Fire of Uncommon Velocity” was written by the late Rozz Williams. All rights reserved. 


Who’s In Charge Here (Beneath the Triumph of Shadows) by Rozz Williams

Old ass monkeys swivel in the discuss/fiscuss lovers
yahtzee style. Circle of viral disease spent in whirlpools
of light hatred, beginnings of the new world…
“Jimmy trick,” the space captain moaned from beneath
the cosmic red rays of radioactive dead curl.
“You make my heart sing.”
A homosexual antibiotic
for no sex in venereal hallway sleaze.
Cross its path if you must.
Return head-burn, separate the vile
scent from a misspent youth
uncouth elders sent these children
to their demise, unrecognizable limbs
sway in palm shadow.
Rigorous waves that I ride on, endless (so it seems),
corrupt crawl, withdrawal – bent on trembling knee prayers,
thrust up, thrown to sky, eyes torn out and tattered rags of emotion.
Devotion often squandered on a heap of melting flesh, mesh,
teeth, howl aloud, “Forget me not!  Forget me not!”
Recognition blurs and spurs me on to further acts of degradation.
No boundaries, no limits, no space beyond acceptance
of the mass genocide to come.
Squealing for a fat tomorrow never known.
A quick infliction and the last convulsions of life into death begin
and while you may think it morbid, the reality will not hide repulsion.
It breeds like a plague-ridden flea from carcass to carcass,
door to door parasite, sign your name to the list of those dying.
Get a hold, grip tender with your organ…
Sugar sex on a bed of holy whoredom.
There is no bill of sale with this love.
Let it all be known.
In false dedication, I defile all before me.
Medicate the shell of a body you thought was alive.
Hobby-horse-goat… gloating/bloated,
candy cotton’s spun its web of sickening, sticky rush around you –
nothing as it seems.
Apocalyptic memory soon come true,
Riding the pale horse which taunts you,
haunts you with its wholesome/precome illusion.
Suck you fuck, and suck until I cum!
What might it entail to flaunt you as the hustler you’ve become?
Hole in the head, dreading the next image:
A haystack needle mile, descending mend-tack pile ‘o skin
and we cannot escape the inescapable.
How could they?

“Who’s in Charge Here? (Beneath the Triumph of the Shadow)” was written by the late Rozz Williams. All rights reserved.

Dear Skin by Rozz Williams

Electronic babble,
shove off with thine elastic attitude.
You condescending fuck hole, you tiny little prick,
you don’t have the persuasion to crash down my power
of hope with rationalization.

Tower of rubble,
shovel dirt back in that open hole.
My soul residing?
Hiding there.

A devilish grin of rich desire,
more fire devouring flame,
and shame on you, rust beggar,
the one I’ve longed for.
You splendid whore.

No gift perhaps to reason
on the lips of this sad, mad man.
Overtaken by a vile dream in which
I tumbled to earth on my disassembled feet,
and you must not treat me like the others.
We are not one in the same.
Removed, proved to be of higher honor,
least the trumpets wail.
Fail to find release from this anchor,
rancor of bullshit ties, these drownings.

Electronic babble,
tower of rubble,
shovel dirt back in that open hole.
No gift perhaps to reason
on the lips of this sad/madman.
God forgive my slightly shifting lines
in thought disfiguration.

Meat as meat…
defeat the source of that which spurns thee.
As for me, do not mistake my misgivings
as indifference to this madness
that surrounds me.
Often time, I flee
from this torturous

Just another onion head.

Polished meal of spine
structure and jaundiced horns.

All the endless fragments
of this distorted view of life.
My soul, sold.
My being? Maybe.

Toss, turn, burn
the smile that tries to waste you.
There is no hope
in repetitive warfare/nightmare
but then again,
who the fuck am I to care?
Let us take heed of memories foretold,
dear skin.


“Dear Skin” was written by the late Rozz Williams. All rights reserved.