Poem: All the World

First of all

there is nothing, and nothing ever matters,

because your brain is nothing but sparks and dials and levers

going haywire on a loop

over and over, but what about beauty?

 

Shaolin vs. Wu-Tang is a story about friendship

where the two styles merge, choreography superior

fetishistic circus of movement, kung fu inferno

never translated with a meaning, iron eyepatch

villainy inherent, there is always more.

 

Nothing and more there is always there, behind

all time and space, depending on how you look

through one eye alone, see vapors evaporate

into joyful progress, every day a new door

made of candy, stars bursting chewable

red and blue and purple, but probably not.

 

That would be madness, panoramic obsessive

without paranoia, you’d be locked up

believing that, there never was tomorrow

in the first place, because all of us can feel

that we are the same, marrow and saliva

leaking out the folds, memories of pain becoming.

 

Shadows receding slowly, clearing your head

of detritus, nothing is ever at all

without a passion, stories die as reborn

becoming all places, characters and statements

at the same time popping a brain out your eyes.

 

Love is in everything, forever onward

omnipresent dreadfully looming

horrors of the dawn dusk in between and end,

search for a kernel of joy, that’s all there is

when it comes down to it.

Poem: All the World

Poem: Waking Nightmare

If you see a nickel on the ground don’t bend to meet it

because it’s likely a disease nest, an assemblage of noxious

viral pathogens, it will turn your insides to jelly

after it steals your voice and makes all your holes leak

fluid the consistency of paper mache, or perhaps it will pass,

who knows in this uncertain age, where our leaders are a pantomime

circus of dung and vomit, society is a sideshow slideshow

erupting from our own minds as we look into a mirror

weeping “Why!?”

 

We would ask god but his ears are plugged

with the fact he doesn’t exist, not in any way

that would make a difference as far as you or anyone

could ever really know, making religion a drug,

not an opiate, but a benzodiazepine pill

because of it’s predilection to cause aggression

and behavioral disinhibition, which combine

messily to make for mass shootings and genital mutilations.

 

I watch the news and hear the wails of the prostrate

penitent prison punks, guards jam nightsticks

where the sun shines not, just for fun is what one would assume

given the way they smile, but the world is yours

if you can convince yourself its worth taking

by the handle, because at least you can blow

your brains out with it.

Poem: Waking Nightmare

Poem: Cloudcover

What if we couldn’t see the sky?

Ever, through the constant sheet

white water vapor, the sky is nothing

but blankness pervading, we couldn’t navigate

our way through the stories

of the night sky, no future above

or any hope below, in the capsule

world all existence is a shame, for the gods

all faceless, mirror nightmares

overtake us, we’d all be dead

probably, suffocating en masse.

 

Imagine a dreamless world, we might

be better off without the space above

making us believe, could the dreams be

simply different, stretching below

into our own dark souls, ocean colonies

would be tomorrow, probably

whales would be god

until we killed them, conquering the spirit

world shows us the end, without ever knowing

each other soulless, but we can assume

seeing nothing in the water.

 

Imagining this world, I can say

that love comes from the sky

in catastrophe, and that solar

is more than hope, energy from the sky

spelling the center soul

of the universe, the sun is the future

of god up above, never showing

its face, but hearing its heartbeat

makes us hope, for tomorrow to be raised

higher than has been ever

seen in the day, I anticipate

hotly the future burning above.

Poem: Cloudcover

Poem: Gross #1

Got a message from the future but it just said “sorry,” one kind of a thing

that fucks with your head on a Wednesday, to read that in the sunrise

with your tea in the smog, knowing that a hero never comes unless

it’s from within, feeling hollow is a way to avoid the effort stretch out for

a fruitful folly, but all you can smell is the sick scented fart of madman god.

Poem: Gross #1

Poem: Church

Barabas is blameless

like Pilate, Judas is a hero

who built your church,

pleasure is pleasing

so do it if it feels, god is not

a wanting, desire is yours

for righteousness,

selfish bleaching in a box

with a partner, how about just

no judging anymore,

chastity and abstinence

are the sins of an egotist,

selfish and stupid, if there is

a god he is snapping his fingers

in church, scoffing an eye roll.

Poem: Church