Poem: Lamp

Planets forming, bubble pop off against one another

like wax in scalding infinity, sound effects would be flatulent

if they existed, instead of being locked in a cone, the light glowing

through from underneath ceiling circles

of the shadows made, forming singularity future of all

becoming just

one, stretching bonds become invisible, forgotten like

fruits of friendship, making for a mystic

hypnotism, the lost art of chance.

 

Turned off, it’s but silence and potential

blooming royal purple-hued, stillness shouting commands

for the penitent, cinder hands of stillness, paralyzed

in fear

of the truth raining, or so one would think,

missing the slender grin, imbued with the knowledge

of man’s inhumanity, the cell of the world, finding it in

power of a heartbeat, voices within will be

contented finally, for better or worse.

 

The clouds hold no wisdom, in truth

but what comes from within, shadows of regrets

victories and decimations, the win column

marked with a scythe, the blood of penalty, gut bile

bucket face

planting plunge, pulled up screaming, coughing up

universal truth, revealing a pitiless peace

unbounded by need, desire all but nonsense

now having seen this, we know it as genius in wax.

Poem: Lamp

Poem: Nothing

Vanity is the exile of the weirdo, breathing is for the damned,

screaming from the bottom of our souls is a desperate voice

we can’t hear, it says “help,” or it says “torture,” or it says the names of virtuous gods

we’ll never know, so crack a can, take a hit, and tomorrow will come

sooner than you thought it would.  This is a lesson

from the great god of nothing, as it rules everything having no eyes,

no hands, no voice, no identity

other than that it is not not, all else bursting

from within will bring a cataclysm.  So pray to this genderless mass

by going home, or stay out, and kill yourself, or build a church

with an orgy chamber in the basement, where the priests wear nothing

save gloves of two different colors, red and gold or blue and green

because the god of nothing knows it doesn’t matter, or maybe it does.

Poem: Nothing

Poem: Comic Poetry

Networks of stinky word fart bubbles in tepid spring water

spit from a methane snow monkey spring in japan, or wherever

dreams come from this day and age, festering cliche wounds

gangrenous memories of childhood trauma stink

probably forbearing penises to ejaculate, presently

at least, tomorrow is a mystery

like love, though less lame, to be sure

introducing a spiteful apocalypse, probably in truth.

 

Comedy is about timing and poetry is not

about timing, hyperbole is fact

funding foundations arisen, on the back of a well-placed quip

saying the rich should eat poor children

as a satirical aside, a creature cackles linking

knife key teeth in a mad guffaw, pointing at you

lengthy skeleton fingers portending doom

forbidden by the failures, drowning into mirror eyes

show me the truth of it, that this is stupid.

 

Laughter knowing its own nature multiplies

divisions of status, like a bucktooth boy

built for winter, gabble at the wind while spit flies

like the dude in Shine, derisive is the reaction

flowing from our eyes, from our ears, till we die

thousands of ends approaching, though we know not why

we find it funny, to acknowledge our own vain vanity.

Poem: Comic Poetry

Poem: 7 Curses

My favorite curse word is fuck, for obvious reasons

it’s like seasoning, as if salt in soup it flavors

the entire world, acting an umbrella part it plays

tunes on which to end and to start, signaling ejaculation

destruction and frustration, stubbing a toe

pained yelping eruption, ceremonial victory

flagellation enhancement, it wears masks

abundant as the day is long, and I love it.

 

Shit is number two, on my list as well

existing colloquially, meaning general detritus

piled in a wheelbarrow, a weapon of apocalypse

fertilizer ideally, good for growing bonds

to feed plants and air, the best in bouquet

hilarious and lovely, an unwelcome surprise

for debutante balls, in punch bowls especially

useful flowing, solitary signal stench.

 

As the cock crows at dawn, dick is number three

when used correctly, with the suffix -ish

describing celebrities, authority and fluency

set in a sneer, introducing itself fiendishly

everywhere it can fit, stands as pointed

satire for gender politics, most are tiny

bits of self importance, aesthetically accurate

found art, especially when fully erect.

 

At bottom is the ass, end of heavy meaning

for the fourth part, posterior is the central

function of fat, booming bass drum parump

parump parade leader, eyes are drawn down

to its focal point, rhythmically rise and fall

hypnotizing both genders, as well it suffixes

panoramic descriptors, jerk and candy ones

smell what a stone cooks, barely a swear.

 

Bitch is a tricky snitch, betraying sexist potential

leanings of spirit, can’t ignore aesthetic beauty

to the sound of it has, onomatopoetic expression

descriptive to a tee, sniveling backstabbers

conspiratorial politicians, mostly wastrel males

hiding under figureheads, scratching a societal itch

which seems obligatory, patriarchal mastery

sinking ship captain, command no respect.

 

Number six is unrelated, shunned and forgotten

bastard of an unwed home, but times change

mending wounds of slight, suddenly wedlock is cool

as it should be, having lost its vulgarity this term

describes only a villain, general perfunctory

graphic parlance, when spewed with emotion

substantially portioned out, tagged by an exclamation

point when uttered with vigor, it is not nothing.

 

Finally comes a friend, for tits are pleasing

as they move up and down, they sway and bop

the rhythm of time, jiggle jangle or perk up

welcoming a sunny day, as the star rises

they draw my gaze, unforgettable on film

though in person heaven, unfathomably soft

welcoming a lover, for all intoxicating view

from any angle nice, all of them lovely.

 

These are the seven, I could think of today

not impressively various, uses by the truckload

expand and contract, creating a dialect

distinctly American, connecting cultures

without pretext of coin, social status or accent

they carry emotion, comic acoustic shortness

of sound percussing, they are a kaleidoscope

for the masses, linking us to each other as god.

Poem: 7 Curses

Poem: What They Did

I don’t know what she’s thinking, circles and star wand

waving speaks volumes but not to me

because probably, I don’t know what it does

or did, garble roaring from beyond and behind recalling

poison prejudice and misting it around, but that’s only me

living in past fantasy short stories I scribbled

on bathroom walls, but prison shower brawls

are titlating so never mind because that’s what ignited

all of my phallus fulcrum tilting face first

into fantasy, so maybe that’s her too, maybe.

Her name was Samantha.

 

I describe what I am as parts and pieces missing,

that’s all there is really and you’re all just weird

about it, no never mind is more than I’ll go, thinking over

what quote unquote nature puts as my outline

in this reality but it’s only rules, so they can fuck me

over with a penis, but I am what I am and that’s all

that I am a woman is all that I know and I can’t

live this way anymore so I won’t, and that’s all they need

to know, is that I am a woman, and have ever been.

His name was Jeremy.

 

Jeremy and Samantha burning lake of laughter

fuels a fire, an ignition inferno expanding and licking

all the lips, in and out shimmy shammy and they both loved

the inner body, licking his and her arteries exploring

each and every option of all possible permutations,

but then he discovered what she used to be and he laughed

and said that he knew, and that they should do

what they were made to do and so they did.

They made love and it was cool.

Poem: What They Did

Poem: Curse Words (1-4)

My favorite curse word is fuck, for obvious reasons

it’s like seasoning, las if salt in soup it flavors

the entire world, acting an umbrella part it plays

tunes on which to end and to start, signaling ejaculation

destruction and frustration, stubbing a toe

pained yelping eruption, ceremonial victory

flagellation enhancement, it wears masks

abundant as the day is long, and I love it.

 

Shit is number two, on my list as well

existing colloquially, meaning general detritus

piled in a wheelbarrow, a weapon of apocalypse

fertilizer ideally, good for growing bonds

to feed plants and air, the best in bouquet

hilarious and lovely, an unwelcome surprise

for debutante balls, in punch bowls especially

useful flowing, solitary signal stench.

 

As the cock crows at dawn, dick is number three

when used correctly, with the suffix -ish

describing celebrities, authority and fluency

set in a sneer, introducing itself fiendishly

everywhere it can fit, stands as pointed

satire for gender politics, most are tiny

bits of self importance, aesthetically accurate

found art, especially when fully erect.

 

At bottom is the ass, end of heavy meaning

for the fourth part, posterior is the central

function of fat, booming bass drum parump

parump parade leader, eyes are drawn down

to its focal point, rhythmically rise and fall

hypnotizing both genders, as well it suffixes

panoramic descriptors, jerk and candy ones

smell what a stone cooks, barely a swear.

Poem: Curse Words (1-4)

Poem: Writer at the End

Personified like a simile, for instance as an example

of some drunken reveries, lay bare the facts

pimpled and phosphorescent, amplified bass tones

burst a farting reality, unimpressive as hell

on a sinking ferry, spanish con men play baccarat

with millionaires, or whatever

the case may be, language is naught but squeaking

motorcycle mice plunging off a cliff on purpose.

 

So if poetry is poisonous, panacea for an unblink sky

masking truth numberlessly, rise up to the flood

stinking of sulfur pots, strangle the clown

booked for birthday parties, combat it with shit

in its eye, bubonic juices pour like tears

tearing down the blue yonder, as rats roll

poop into tiny balls, rhymes are the song

making slavery seem suitable.

 

What we do to get by, in this chain gang game

to sing from the soul, progressively of course

listing liberal leanings, manifesto’s of a lush

theoretical society, shangri-la was a lie

striven for of course, as only should be

like a puppy treadmill, a cuteness kaleidoscope

being shoved fitfully into a furnace.

 

They sound like sprung tires, popping a hiss

as the oxygen exits, wavering not on flat fatigue

over untrue wheel wells, gasping at fuel

fire in the air, fear in a mother’s eyes

will turn us back, but not soon sorry

fella, await a baptizing inferno shut-eyed

leg-shackled and blindfolded, what doesn’t kill us

makes for a novel future so take notes.

Poem: Writer at the End