Poem: Inscrutable Wisdom

Dream of having nothing at all, and think

what you’d be, fossilized snot bubble, skipping light

curmudgeon complaining, casting darts on the lawn in formation

spelling “THAT’S IT” or “THIS IS IT” just to fuck with people

in the morning

on their day off, they can’t read it

at first as they haven’t the angle, it takes time

to understand the meaning

of a disappointing slime leaking, it’s nothing.

 

at all dummy, this is nothing just like everything.

But people loved it, they went crazy

chanting intricately in column formations

and shit, assuming it’s a warning, filling a hole

with wishes written down and set

aflame, until a pit of ashes in its place

raked by an elderly Chinese man

wondering what the words had meant

becomes the sole symbol, showing that shadow

obscures nothing of note, and mystery is wanting

not finding a solution, the search itself is.

 

Poem: Inscrutable Wisdom

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