Posts tagged poem

the master
plaster
of absurd
words kicks
slick
shit
that sticks
like slime
to minds
who conceive
of beliefs
like space and time

you can laugh at burning your hand on a stove and you can cry while making love. you can sense when something is not right, right outside you window.

perhaps there is no monster under your bed. perhaps there is but it doesn’t matter because it needs to see a doctor. in any case, you are older now and don’t believe you have the time for idle creatures.


is this a mistake? do angels protect you when you ride your bike?
the alphabet has taught you that there are many more alphabets. most similar to others in respect to chronological ordering.
what year is it on this Planet? you’ve heard of a few. the alphabet of the angels would tell us the Date doesn’t matter. for us the Date doesn’t matter in insect terms. so does time fly or is it a glacier slowly moving?
or do you really not care as long as pay day is here?

where does all of you money go? is the money really the consumer, and the goods and you are the consumed?
a cross road of currency exchange and labor. eight hours of sleep would be nice. the boss wants to talk to you tomorrow about your work ethics.

morals hinder the actual development of a human being. as well as science and religion, government, the arts and mathematics.

witch craft and astrology are the most advanced arts to use in understanding the meanings found in meanings printed upon this universe and everything in it.
those other universes can fend for themselves.
you’ve gotten this far because of persistence and hard work. those poems would have never written themselves, someone had to take that shit. someone had to flush that toilet.

this is your abode. your water bill that hasn’t been paid for the last several months. your divorce and revolution.

live your life.

make the mistakes and get fined. run for office and go to prison.
the greatest biographies are the most eccentric biographies. the most eccentric are the greatest.
somethings don’t need to be proven.

who doubts the space ship Hale-Bopp isn’t really there? jack did climb a bean stalk and did return with the goose that laid the golden egg. there was a boy who could play the guitar as easily as you can ring a bell.

don’t be so sure about Heaven and Hell though, some theories end up biting you on the ass even when you’re paying the closest attention to them.

you have been lied to at least once today.

probably lied to by yourself.

how much does you getting ready for one whole hour before work everyday really affect the world?
a butterfly does flap its wings in another part of the world.
somewhere two people are giving each other oral massage:
a descriptive number in it’s shape. astrology itself holds this symbol in regard.
a dog has just been hit by a car put out by an assembly line.

i just thought of the most miraculous conception: how i’m getting hungry. what is your least favorite food?
urine stains can be seen fairly easily on white fabrics.

vomit has a distinct taste. awful is the best description of that taste. fruity, a far second descriptive word. strangely, it doesn’t resemble the taste of stew a majority of the time.

start eating your vomit. how do you know you aren’t supposed to?
cows do.
cows come home.
we do. who produces milk?
cows do. who consumes that milk?
we do.

there is a strong bond between man and cow. we are both cattle.

go to work and pay your bills on time. the supermarket closes early on Sundays. your privileges are few, wrapped up and presented as many.

you have been lied to at least once today.

love may not exist. this is scary.

attraction can last an entire life time or fade as soon as a person opens their mouth.

I saw you standing there in that blue dress with blood on you hands. You said you didn’t mean to cause any harm. said you were tryin to make things better, and you started crying. the baseball bat slid from your fingers to the concrete floor of Mr. Smith’s Dine and Dash. you asked me to put you to bed and stepped out the shattered front window, stepping barefoot on shattered glass on your way out.

everyone has told me to lose you, to push you off my train as it embarks on yet another miscalculated destination. i could never listen to any of them. you intrigue me as much as my older brother’s pheonix wings he had grafted to his shoulders when he went to see St. Nick of the Psych Ward.

i rented us a room for the night at Old Lady Medusa’s Temple and Breakfast; you paid for the room. yes, you did. i stole the money you had tucked inside your bra as you slept in the passenger seat of my Novacaine. you didn’t wake when i nudged you to come to bed, you slept in my car; and i fucked the daughter of the Master on the dusty basement floor.

when morning came, and i as well, i stepped into the sun, cleared my eyes and went to my car. you were not inside. left me a note stating you were heading to Mount Olimp Pussy to bury your collection of virgin clitorises and Satanic folk songs under the Wondering Tree atop the west side of the mountain.

i couldn’t follow you, and after three and a half months, i opened a novelty shop and paid my bills and ate my lunch.

one winter afternoon, as i was locking the front door, you appeared behind me and told me to give you all the feces inside my body. i shit my polyester pants, took the dirty things off and gave them to you. you then asked if i wanted to go get some coffee at the Bean Bucket three states over. we got into my Novacaine and headed west until the sun rose and fatigue set in.

i took a nap in a farmer’s human corpse garden for five hours. at this time you got us gas money by running down third graders and stealing their lunch money. when i awoke, you were standing over me urinating and chanting Mother Goose Nocturnal Rhymes.

i threw a decomposed elbow at you and asked you what you thought you were doing. you just stood there, menstruated panties round your ankles, laughing. i tripped you and ripped off your shirt. i pulled a razor from my boot and began peeling the flesh from your back. when i finished, i gave the razor to you so you could do the same to me.

as you began slitting, the farmer, drunk on absinth and wielding a gun, walked up to us and shot salt rock into our wounds. he was baffled when we asked for more, and he ran to his house. we shrugged our shoulders and got back into my Werewolf Hearse, the Novacaine.

we drove for the next twenty hours, playing “spot the road kill” and “let’s see how many hitchhikers we can fit in the trunk.” when we got to OkillhomeA, we rented a small room off the main strip and fucked each other’s back wounds, peeling off the scabs and feeding them to one another. we passed out satisfied.

a loud knock woke me at four in the afternoon. a detective was at the door asking me questions about an incident that happened the day before, five counties over. he told me many college students were missing and that people described a red hearse with a nonsense poem in black paint written down the sides, was seen picking the students up and driving down the road.

you were sleeping on the blood stained mattress, so i told him i was busy all night trying to have a baby with my new bride. he shook my hand and said good luck and turned to leave. i motioned for him to stop with a shotgun aimed at his head, and when he turned around, i explained to him that my sperm count was low and i asked if he could go into the room and impregnate my wife, you.

as he was thrusting his cop cock in and out of your crusty pussy, moaning the Moranda Rights in a falsetto voice, i, understanding your passion for the blue suit, got into the Novacaine,  and headed to the Bean Bucket for a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin.
i borrowed a pen from the cashier and wrote a song in your honor on a a coffee stained napkin:

if holden caulfield ran for the Presidency with paul kemp as his running mate under abbie hoffman’s freak flag party, endorsing soylent green and proclaiming Bokononism the new state religion, we, the people, hypnotized by television and convention, will shrug our shoulders like atlas and allow the world to come tumbling down.

“Samson and Delilah” got a “China Cat Sunflower” from a “Black Muddy River” that passes by “Franklin’s Tower” with a “Ship Of Fools” whistling a “Bird Song” as the “Sunrise”. They then started “Throwing Stones” around a “Fire On The Mountain”. “Mama Tried” to get me a “China Doll” by “Playing In The Band”, “Loose Lucy” cried, like some “Estimated Prophet” “Dancing In The Street” to the music of “Uncle John’s Band” in the “Cold Rain And Snow”. She knew she had to keep on “Truckin’”.

“Agitation” as I’m “Walkin” like “Nature Boy” beneath the “OLd Devil Moon” wondering “How Deep Is The Ocean”, for I’ve been told, “You Don’t Know What Love Is”, you’re “Gone, Gone, Gone” off your “Rocker”. “So What”! “It’s Only A Paper Moon”, “Dig”? “It Never Entered My Mind”. “Madness” and “Denial” “Miles Ahead”. Like “Freddie Freeloader”, I drink it “Straight, No Chaser” with “My Funny Valentine” “Round Bout Midnight” as we “Smooch” in our “Sanctuary”. “Darn That Dream”! Am I shooting a “Bitches Brew”, causing this “Deception”? My “Footprints” “Fall” “On Green Dolphin Street”,telling me “There’s No You”.

i’ve got myself a facebook

with daily narcissistic posts.

if you take a quick look

you’ll see what i love saying the most:

i bitch and whine

about your life and mine;

i’ve never nothing pleasant to say

which is probably why people stay

away from my wall most of the time.

if you cared, you’d think

“how could this person NOT drink

while living this life

they present on my computer screen?

no wonder they scream.”

perhaps i should filter the things

i post for my friends to see

before they get the wrong idea about me.

An apple fell from a tree

landing right on me.

and that is when,

there and then,

I wrote gravity.

my lungs,
  weazing like some out of tune song sung
by a deaf alley cat in heat.
the pink has tattooed itself black
  with tar and my fingers
   yellowed with a smell that burns
the tongue
 as if i’d been grilling the flopping muscle three hrs.
on an open flame in a desert park on the surface of the Sun.

caffiene soars through my veins like the traffic on Interstate 94 @ two in the morning.

i am awake, more so than
my eyes can take. they bulge,
search for sanctuary:
 a soft bed covered in rose petals and
the sound of the Atlantic
  roaring like a lion with a toothache,
through my skull, the prison
   of my disconnected thoughts
all protesting, wanting
  to be released through my charred tongue
and loose teeth.

i am in pain.

my feet, a slaughterhouse, smell

  of rotting pig
and my hair grows faster than our

national debt.

bringing in twenty-ten with a bottle of dry gin and my friend.
stove was made heater and emergency candles, tea candles= illumination.

five weeks no work.
can’t pay bills, haven’t in months. thus, no civilized lifestyle.

who needs a drunk to shine their china? who wants a loneliness to fold their laundry?…A:not The Dine-N-Dash cafe, nor Books For Sale shop.

while employed for the latter, i felt a full bladder in the room, and knew soon, like a sprint to first, that bag would burst an i’d be wet.
but i did nothing and my jeans stuck to my leg.

thinkin made me think some more and i grew irritable. to be drunk and irritable!
this is how chairs get broken, cement chipped. people bleed in these situations! children cry! i know it, been there, caused that.

i coulda raged out on his tree, but my friend wasn’t the problem: the weather, time, me drunk, and my shrugged shoulders! those mine enemy and i, their master of ceremonies.
i hadda relax, like passin gas and not wantin no one to know, or passin out head spinnin next to a heaterized oven.
there are far worse things twenty-ten can usher in then drunk with a friend sittin in his granparent’s kitchen listening to Bob Dylan’s “Blood on the Tracks”, discussing back in the day when all we did was play in the yard after dark til our moms and dads called us to dinner. i.e.:

court dates, eviction notices, last pay check, empty gas tank, foodless fridge, and no alcohol!

so, without the but-for-nows, and hows-ya-beens, i grin, knowing tomorrow my resolutions will be remembered and i can write em down on a calendar and hang the calendar over the hole in the wall next to the dining table where Style’s anger took action last helloween after he lost three too many poker hands;