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: Hock Loogies

Where’s my fucking Fanta, motherfucking cocksucker

and you’re not even good at it, artisans take pride

in work done well

but you’re not of them, are you?  You’re just pumpy pumpy

spurt goblin madman, a lemming over the cliff

praying for a better tomorrow, stupid, take no pride

in your punishment, been asleep for months

in a great coma, now where’s my fucking fanta!

 

You don’t know never knew and won’t ever

understand the breaks or why they happen

the way they do, see this is the god finger

going right in your eye, we’re all pawns

in a maggot blender

begging for scraps, man, so take what you can

get when they throw it away, dress it up

marking it new, off-brand lazy philosophy.

 

With your new threads they will call

stylish, convince yourself of purpose

meaning and progress, stepping banana peel

abbreviated misgivings

of short counts, the world is a poison pit

all and sundry escape, eventually, so no

point is farther than simply to enjoy

what you can, spit on the ground.

Poem: Hock Loogies

Poem: Record Store Clerk

“Nothing short of epic” was the name of their first

concept album, copyright 1978 RoosterPrick records,

after reaching #364 on the Billboard charts, they retired

undefeated, having beaten their new rival,

#365 on the Billboard Chart, a pop-punk outfit

from Spain called Salida Del Sol, which translates

into Sunrise, but what was I talking about?

 

Oh yeah, pointlessness is not an enemy, it’s three

letters in spanish, GOL.  But anyway, this was the band

that truly had no name, but think about that, or not.

 

This is the history of a Band no one ever imagined, or maybe

they did, who knows or cares about something they never

even saw, so the doomed do exist, lucky bastards.

 

Are we though?  Really?  Will we see ourselves, soon

showing us that leaflet binders are ballast, cast asunder

with unremembered passions, they are also unforgotten

clay bound bricks, because no one remembers

the orchestral circus, but the love in sound waves

will be diminished, not even by RoosterPrick’s

other touring band, The Beetles, who dressed as bugs.

Poem: Record Store Clerk

100 word story: The Fatalist

Hanging on a ledge by my fingertips, I jeopardize myself like this, and I know this, but I’m not worried.

I could die today and it wouldn’t really make a difference.

Not to me anyway, and they would all get past it eventually.

Probably, really they’d be better off, and let’s face it so would I.

Imagine all the heartbreak and pain I wouldn’t have to experience, and all the disappointments I would never visit on my loved ones.

It would be simple, and I’d never hurt anyone again.

But I’m only ten, and it’s my birthday party.

Oh well.

100 word story: The Fatalist

Poem: Birthday

I wish suicide was rare, because then

I could do it and still be different, instead of a hack

filling footsteps of those who aren’t

even my godheads, Plath and Kobain

are hero’s sure, but so are Brooks and Byrne

living in peaceful production, Spinoza was a prick

who couldn’t even get it right, so Camus and Hartman

had the best path, but I can only hope

that the accident finishes me

this time, and I’ll leave sadness

in my wake, just like everyone

else, oh shit there’s just no winning.

Poem: Birthday

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