I devoured the quite satisfying "warm place to self-destruct" in mere hours, and it is time well spent in the theatre of imagination. Weasel’s poems transport you into this hypnotic, darkly erotic, elegiac, fatalistic netherworld; an invitation to his private purgatory of fears and desires. Do yourself a favor and curl up with this passionate monster of a book. It will resonate with you long after you've turned the last page.
—Brian Kehinde, author of Synchronicity In Violence.
Weasel is like Charles Bukowski with a twist – he focuses on the sensuality of experience but also manages to reveal decadent natures of sexuality and the self. "a warm place to self-destruct" has an affinity for the cosmic and the devastating. It is the gateway between worlds through its meditative style of poetic exploration. This collection has its roots firmly planted in an environment which Weasel interprets as sensuous, raw and terrifying. It acts as a warning against the comfort of familiarity which can eventually push a man into the depths of despair. These poems read as a yearning for excitement and adventure and ponder the possibility of reaching beyond the boundaries we set ourselves, to overcome our inner lethargy to discover a more fulfilling existence.
—Nathan Hassall, author of The Flesh and Mortar Prophecy
a warm place to self-destruct
weasel
a warm place to self-destruct
weasel
© 2016 Weasel
Front Cover © 2016 Zerda-Fox
Back Cover © 2016 Matt Borczon
Foreword by Z.M. Wise
Printed in the U.S.A.
www.poetweasel.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book, or use of characters in this book, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without expressed written permission from the author / publisher, except for educational purposes.
For Arronn, who soothes the jackal. Love you, babe.
For J. You were right, snow’s fuckin’ ugly.
I’d like to give a huge thanks to the members of the Poetry Works Group, and the Pearland Writers Group for helping me grow as a writer. Especially to my editor who kicked my ass a lot during the making of this book.
somewhere
a dog from hell
she hung half full above us
pulse
hunger
the church of fast food
the sleep that god dreams of on his smoke break
reaching for embers
the taste of debris before the storm
fire
connections
our last breath
how the stars say fall
our last days
how light tastes without direction
the first breath you take after giving up
temptation
heroin
purgatory
we think we know what snow looks like when it falls
our words never existed
the story of adam
holy
requiem
i think of you in terms of hysteria
afflictions
poison
roaches
the ceiling drips like bad plumbing
frailty beneath wreckage
midnight’s starving
the day i got off the plane
let the healing bleed through
i still dream of you when the stars are gone
bouncing prayers off the living
the heavens are not yet full
we wore our affection to dinner
the weight of a comet
we will grow empty
ordinary madness
not the only jackal
the stove is going senile—or maybe i am
Foreword
Dim your lamplights, huddle close to your favorite reading spot, shut your mouth, and expand your mind. I instruct you, dear readers, to fulfill these tasks because this is a book by Weasel. Whenever you read one, you are in for a rollercoaster-like thrill.
Now, I am not speaking in the manner of horror, but in the manner of life itself. Weasel’s ink children (his previous collections) have served their individual purposes, whether they were confessional in the most necessary way possible (The Hell Inside Us) or a subliminal statement (Ashes to Burn). His words have captivated you, motivated you, terrorized you, made you weep, made you guffaw in public, and have made you analyze the very depths of your own existence.
In a warm place to self-destruct, Weasel explores the very element of those two idealistic, yet echoing words of the unknown future: what if? One must understand that in order to write the material that Weasel conjures from within, one must endure those experiences as well. He sucks you into his ‘multiverses’ (pun most definitely intended) and enthralls you until the very last brain cell begins to perspire from the high intensity of the pieces.
However, certain pieces take a more direct approach to the matter at hand. “Temptation” is a perfect example of this. This is a more straightforward ‘what if’ situation. What if Weasel had taken the initiative and gone on this venture with the face that matched this lewd digital information? On the other hand, poems like “heroin” combine the addiction of poetry with biblical chaos ensuing inside the already corrupt mind. Keep in mind that these are personal interpretations, for poetry and the rest of the arts are limitless and subjective. Each time I read one of Weasel’s works, I am reminded not to take the years of this life for granted for a multitude of reasons. He unintentionally makes you step into a harsher reality, filled with eight thousand doors, some leading to desire and some leading towards damnation. In some cases, those two coalesce with each other, and some wish to have a fusion of both in their lives. As I always say, “Forever damned, forever allies.”
As a devoted Weasel reader, friend, and fan, I reiterate the request of preparing yourself. This is not a caution, but merely a preliminary warning to what your mind will experience next. Nevertheless, the question remains ambiguous: what do you want to experience?
—Z.M. Wise