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: Polling

Non-college-educated white voters, is the worst band name

I thought of today, so far, though it’s early

in the day, I’ve hours, miles of inspiration

to traverse in silence, I press on

though it could take hours

as quick as I can to polish

my knob, is I’d say probably

three minutes on an average afternoon

in window light illumination

or a computer screen, that’s from erection to completion

which skews the data in my favor, or would, I suppose

should I take any, but I’m confident

thanks to my girlfriend

in my dick size and shape.

Poem: Polling