The Nutmeg Eaters


2 Tbsp nutmeg

1 Tbsp turmeric

1/4 c maple syrup

1 c sweetened vanilla nutmilk

(whisk thoroughly)


warm orange astringent belches through the nose

flannel mouths sip cool water

sometimes faces burn

fever needle ears ablaze


first timers crumble

under flu-like feels


pendulous kissing betwixt marijuana

& opioid bodyhighs


not much is known about this olde thyme inebriant

trill lifted shrouded fringe,

archaic lean of

wormwood’s longlost

tapping soma

for now-writ ancient poesies





©2016 John Thomas Menesini

From a Window Overlooking Centre Avenue

November’s naked trees

are frozen fits

dancing delirious


wooden nerves

for wooden teeth


brown vines climb

castrated phone poles

perpendicular to power lines

connecting yellow brick block flats


under a slate white sky

bright grey,

where a few smudged clouds

bear bruises


above all the little, little people

down, down below

grinning within

their smoky din




©2016 John Thomas Menesini

Paris of Appalachia



of those veins

run rivers





then  Ohio  taketh away


to port, to port

that cargo Coal

fuel for the  BLAST

besting Hades


flame for licking flame








©2016 John Thomas Menesini

Sexting w/ yr Mom ♥

the earth spins 1037 m.p.h.

i spent the morning sexting w/ your mom


i typed damn, i’m gonna finish                        -hit send-

your mom responded                         lemme see


where do u wanna leave it? lol


everything comes to an end

our sun is no exception

sure, our sun has millions of good years left

but its eventual doom is certain


i imagine me & yr mom in space

(what’s it like to come in space?)

i imagine space is too cold for yr mom

but i bet she’d remember to bring a sweater


in 1.1 billion years the sun will begin to grow

larger and hotter

the earth’s ice caps will melt

and as the planet heats the oceans will boil away,

eventually earth will lose all its water to space,

it will be a hot dry planet


yr mom told me she was so wet

i came in my hand

& took a video to show her

but i got a little on my phone


yr mom likes close-ups of my mouth

yr mom is obsessed with cunnilingus

i tell yr mom

using sexuelle verbs

how i intend to finish her

with my mouth

while your mom finishes herself

with her hand

thinking about my mouth


i tell yr mom

about the sun

& how it is likely

our entire existence is random

that we are spinning 1037 m.p.h.

without reason or meaning


your mom tells me to stop being so fucking goth

& send her more pictures of my mouth





©2016 John Thomas Menesini

Gloom Hearts & Opioids

New & Selected Poems (1996-2015) 💜💜💜

Published by Six Gallery Press, Pittsburgh, PA 

Order copies here by hitting me up with messages or comments, send me money!

$12 per copy includes shipping for all orders within United States, for international sales we will work something out 💜 All books will be signed and include personal notes and sketches for each beautiful reader 💜

Poetry makes the dopest stocking stuffer 💜


© John Thomas Menesini

Pittsburgh Season Poem




frozen weeks

weather in the 10s

(feels like minus 4)



creeps in my old house

old windows

creaking doors

cold floors


as I type with dumb numb pink fingers

nature lets my hands know the score

between me & it




paper streets

take shape

blossom wild

tangled city steps


kids smoke spliffs in glass bus shelters


like buds budding





everywhere bugs

a chorus of cricketing cicadas

everybody gets up on every hill

high enough to see over

sometimes seems like sea  if you squint just right


hills aplenty

as many hills as bugs or bridges




Gold Son reaches

over East Liberty


over hills

to spill onto the streets

in bursts


rust pink orange

all vibrant in their death,  the leaves


smoky air

breath becomes a ghostly little wisp

wet air coats all weeds



& the fiery rivers run away







©2016 John Thomas Menesini

Janytor Raconteur

dame d’vert in a cup

the cleaning of a president’s bathroom


johnny mop and viruscide


hiv crablice salmonella

clean the johns like teeth

murphy’s oil pants

burn the midnight

(floor) glow

saints, scary Marys,

and bloody Jesi (pl)


yellowing butterfat cherubs

breathe fresh under the tarnish

20’s wood

and nuns

monsignor wears designer fragrance

chapel brown

tit ceiling

the old oak bend’d toward the nipple

baby superman

spiky starray design


holy holy holy


fishwine (after, pizzawine. msb)


confession wire

black profiles

stoicism in robes


Myrrrrrrrrrhlin wizardry

(from Wales, y’know?)

criss cross, brains balls…

holy Christ rib cake




fat Tuesday

Wednesday’s child





©2007, 2016 John Thomas Menesini