Author: Roger Mugs

fant-assy

poetry

i’d like a perfect ass
on which to sit
others would stare as i’d
saunter by

i’d seldom clean it
and let it defecate wherever it
should please
it’d look so good no one would mind
but stare as i pass by

wishing they had an ass
like mine
instead of gas guzzling
tin asses

mine would produce natural gas
my ass

and i’d call him Juan

friday

poetry

each motion intentionally synced
to induce thoughts of another individual
in a state of near meditation
but more active prayer
hand after hand foot after foot
precision
perfection
years of practice

night. berlin ’99

poetry

silence causing snow falling on
cobble stone empty roads
lined with trees we duck to pass
under the leaves as we walk this
peaceful night

the first time you knew snow
‘i want a flake to land on my eyelash’
you beam as we skip then walk
hoping we wont get where we’re going
passing by a statue of an italian chef
daily specials written in words we cant comprehend
we go inside to watch the air battle the
white bombardment
the ground begging to lose the fight
slowly being buried under blankets of white

walking home its quieter now
only one light on the street as our feet seek
to glide to the crevasses between worn brick
hoping for surer footing
and i know this night is salvation
when you light with joy and begin to cry

‘look look! a flake on my eyelash’

why the teaching profession is indeed evil

poetry

forcing our words
whether created from inspiration or vomited out
of necessity
requiring we turn them in
as though ratting out our own parents

these words
we say as we staple our pages together
were written to be judged
so go ahead and mark your red all over
these pages
tell me my style is inappropriate
or i misspelled things by ‘accident’

then grade these words
and throw them to the wind
unless YOU decide MY words
are worthy of a refrigerator magnet

i hear new jobs can be scary. but i suppose it depends on the field

poetry

trifle lucky not quite ready
pardon every man stand steady
trigger pulling till its coming
pointing fingers prodding throwing
pick him up without a gab
place him face down in the cab
never any quite prepared
till they’re thrown in downright scared

baked and prodded
floating, lauded

time for someone else who dared

(in the end it was a matter of blood)

trained my thought (of)

poetry

the days have been less kind to me
lately
i find myself more prone to awkwardly timed
bowel movements
than i did when i was young
depends
i suppose. what did i eat? where?
was there lactose? spice?
the days i suppose it depends, was there spice?
i find myself more awkwardly prone
to lactose timing
lately
less kind to my bowel movements
days lately. lactose and spice
awkwardly kind
where i suppose i eat
prone to when i was young
it all depends

dreams of a budding politician

poetry

i’ll dress in silk and finest cotton
thread count higher than my favorite sheets
wearing suits from companies whose
names i’ll only know once i consider
a grand here and grand there spare change

i’ll nod the the concierge as he accepts my
vip card and passes me a glass of brut
just to let them know their place i’ll shake
their hands and act uninterested

i’ll call them george, vladimir, bill, and steve
they’ll call me dr. mugs and i wont give them
the time of day (i have a secretary for that)

(butterfly). i couldn’t whistle until i was 16. i vowed if i ever learned how i would never stop. now almost ten years later i whistle incessantly.

poetry

stuck to the ground and crawling
squirming
knowing you’re the disgusting one
people feed to spiders then observe dying
it could be you in that web
having your insides made slurpee
sucked out. so
crawling into reclusion
build yourself a home with
walls thinner than cardboard
cold when it rains

emerging
i dont blame you for ALWAYS
being in flight
i’m just shocked i never see
you lounging around
basking in your own vanity