Poem: After the Bombs

On my back is a pack, a flavored rucksack

holding pictures of the past,

canned food and your signature, saying “I’ll see you

again someday,” but it doesn’t matter

much anymore, for the earth is fire,

poison and knives, not one of us is

safe even for a moment

anymore, but I promise you

and my descendants,

that after this is over, I will carry

your heart in mine again, for war cannot kill

the realities of the world, love in desolation

still shining like it’s colorized.

 

Sickly seeming serpents abroad, slivering, simply

viscous venomous virus, magnetlike a drop

of bloody sweat, among aphids

on a grave, jockeying for position

ahead the new world

order, we live in blood

raining like the sky, red sweeping down

Poem: After the Bombs

Poem: Survive

Brain storming idea flood, dropping in parts

perpetual dead eyed ubiquity, an albatross haze

chaining strangled instruction, interior chambers a-choking

hazard, pointed lavish amplitudes, scraping voice

rasping mutinous revision, mockery infused with petty

predestined inquisition, critical disquietude

formally veracious, pointlessly hilarious

sociopathic harmony, the world is but reason and death.

 

Fearsome future, fumbles at the goal

line segment, solitary abundance is a master

key molding missionary, Unbolt Kaiser the third

succession line straggler, pulling to pieces

protective parlances, demonic pandemonium

punch bowl poisons, guzzle gallons persisting

painfully oppressive, fritter away days of night

backhand parlor gaming, see the other side.

Poem: Survive

Poem: Brutality

Tapestry of stories blood spattered, full of sex

and acid raindrops on the pavement, the universe imagining shadows

under streetlights, walking and whispering whimpers with their legs

reaching all the way up, hepatitis waiting

way over the horizon for each the same, how far is up to her

in this day and age unless things go very wrong it’s forever

for everyone involved, though a rapist would deserve a fiery hell

burning from the inside out, loud and bright for everyone

to feel indifferent to their nearness, his children would piss on his grave

before they commit suicide, paint a note on the wall in blood

while you die slow and alone, making for good copy

say the editors once more, crying aloud again

again and again, once more on the anniversary

party is a shadow hanging still, acting as a blindfold would

from the fires of the future, savagery emerges

smelling of bath salts, cardamum and a callous heart.

Poem: Brutality

Poem: Utopia

What kind of revolution lands with a plop, not a passionate

caucus of like minds, but the righteous ho hum

of the revelry, twiddle stash and his minions ruling

with an upturned eyebrow and a question mark, expecting all

but you to know the answer, while none are ever.

to speak it, for reality is a sense of burning tires.

 

It deposits its waste on the regular, spilling out over

the news every day, concluding hopeless tid bits

and ball scratching posers, for misery is a business too,

like all other things, working a neverending

cycle of tragedy, four digits dead is a jackpot.

 

Twenty-four hour coverage of the great sense

deadening, somehow survival has become a sport,

on the horrorshow, in and of the horrorshow

also, come to think of it, seems like it’ll be on the news

apocalyptic finality, but Bachelor in Paradise is on.

Poem: Utopia

Poem: Straight Horizontal

The horizon isn’t

a line to crest and plunge, beckoning the darkness

to die and summon the sun, only an expression

of passage ticking forward, holding still your eyes

on it is a good way to forget that you’re dying, but yours will come

when the pupils mold over, and you won’t hear a bell.

 

See the future in your shadow, through the past raining

down in streaks, for to live is to die every day

beginning an end, tombstone maternity wards

build deathmatch nurseries, for the world is inescapable

horrorshow systematics, naught is to be done

but draw the shutters.

 

But buck up, chucklefucks, for love is real

whether or not it matters.  You can believe your own lies,

so sing them in songs that rhyme.

Poem: Straight Horizontal

Poem: Irony

A Peddler rolling through

jingle jangles, peppering bawdy

riddles by the pound, of fortune

cookies saying “TRY AGAIN”

next to a smiley face, upshot eyebrow,

emoticon grin, but they aren’t buying

translated laughter, so buy billboard

pasty faces, that will work

is the thought, strike again

to an 0-2 count, so he goes big

on a bungee over skyscraper

color platform, unicycle juggling

accordions, everyone laughing

to a gasp when he fell,

oh well, at least he was funny

once, an awful droll joke.

Poem: Irony

Poem: Gas

Speaking for me is thankless

drudgery like all other things

they tell you to be the best

empty at the bottom of a pit

with no pen parcel parchment

paper that would be no help

any way to quench the thirst

crippling your soul in time

eternally you too will suffer

hoping justice soon comes

though I bet the other way

which is sad to say seeing

all we’ve done is shreds.

OR

Rhythm makes everything

beautiful flowers everywhere

smelling fully all worth it

to have pain in your hands

over the fire in cask of love

shaping and forming a solid

plan to ask your feeling

in the face of fearful folly

loving what I tell you though

you’ve heard it once again

sounding like raindrops

on tin musicality percussion

glowing with joy in the world.

SO

Falseful and farcical forces

flashing ludicrous dichotomy

in stacks of paper blood

oozing over everything else

like a spark of inspiration

roiling under the sheets

coaxing love to fullest out

spreading the red farther

than ever in past distant

memories of war-torn sex

gospels being preached

to the penitent reticent

masses of foolish farts.

Poem: Gas