Poem: Dusty

I’ve never been real, I realized

too late, soul sucked, plastered flat,

surveying that this isn’t a game

anymore over and again, eyes on the horizon

thrust over, into and through, hear the birds

shriek of desperation, each call vital

audible survival, haunting hopelessness, for some

know doubt, starving in winter dusk

on a tree branch, desperate, looking without

seeing for hours, miles and ages.

 

Now to acquaint myself

with the truth, I will seize all the records

of those that came before, much may be

tattered bloody, waving lightly, wafting

breezy, whispering war

over candlelight, dim dusky deep dwellers,

loving the musk, drinking blood straight

from the source, of suffering springs a new

hope, so warrantless.

 

It seems, so anyway I am waking up

tomorrow again, next factorial stepladder

struggle of days, until it becomes life

which is death, always, we know this

don’t we?

Poem: Dusty

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