poetry

111 ways to compose your english

poetry

oh i know that you don’t know
wanna fuck my past and don’t it show
found your name on the back of your pants
i’d use it if i had the chance
mrs. princess pants
wanna break the rules wanna break the walls
i got the will but i aint got the cause
i probably could but you know i can’t
gonna bury my head in the sand
mrs. princess pants
you’re hindsight walkin’ down the halls
streaks in your hair and push-up bras
i know you’ve no mind to break in half
but all i wanna do is break your back
mrs. princess pants

She said

poetry

She speaks truth with every breath
and cuts through each discrepency
He fears he may be talked to death
but takes in stride each plead and plea

She whispers of their glory past
and says she’ll see them rise again
He whispers good things never last
he turns away to hide a grin

The fire’s burning lower now
the hearthstone cooling more and more
She stokes the last log, wondeirng how
She hadn’t noticed this before

The Lust of the Eyes

poetry

i’ve never been one
who’s got to have it
now, Now, NOw, NOW,
but temptation is strong
and giving in is easy
and even sweet, bitter-sweet
(like good dark chocolate),
passing through me
like an aphrodesiac,
sweeping me away
in a whelming flow,
washing away my conscious,
along with the dust
of a fractured soul.

smack

poetry

the fragrance of rose buds in bloom
the fragrance of my kid’s poo poo
the way you smell after a plane
the way you often stink of shame
the fragrance that you smell when all
your friends quit smoking and you
pressed on to be “consistent”
missing all but your contentment
knowing smells bring back that shame
knowing music does the same

missing the smells of your first high school
the one before people knew the real you
knowing you can never go back but
never forgetting that fragrant smack

when the fairy dust has settled

poetry

i marked the
inauguration with
feelings of trepidation

let’s remember that
“change” is not a magic
word made of sparkles
and dust, rather one
spelled with sleepless
nights, burning words,
and blood

let’s remember that
the “Dream” is not
a finish line to be
crossed, rather a reality
we must construct
first in our minds and in
our lives

and let’s remember that
our leaders cannot be God
sweeping down from the clouds
(or the White House) to pluck
you from your own troubles.

NEVER YOU MIND, DEATH PROFESSOR

poetry

the man who sees truth
sees it alone, hungover
in the television set
saturday morning. the
man who sees truth,
suddenly noticing it,
sees that it is something
still needing to be
noticed, as the world
turns antithetical to
it’s purpose. the
man who sees truth
will tear out his own
eyes if not given a
large enough heart
to contain it.

for things like this – an apology to historians

poetry

my lack of works surpassing
a single syllable seems consistently
to lead to poems with lines nearly
or at least visibly
unrelated
but the thoughts seem so tangible
when my fingers move and they spit themselves
out
before i manage to complete the thought
reminding me

i cannot think without these words
my thoughts do not form without me
speaking
farting
or writing

and button after button this
idea makes it into history.
something i’m writing
because i’m unable to simply
dwell on it

I Will Go Spit On Your Grave (10 million years from now, when you’ll be the only reincarnated elephant left screaming)

poetry

Love-acetone

the night sky wears

the layers of skin you sold for

a loaf of sympathy bread.

Hallelujah!

Grace is not welcome here

So long

So long friend

The river will not swallow your bitter tears

The ground will not touch your sullied bones

Farewell friend

Thank you for the smiles

Thank you for being the one

I shall spent my death with.

Go in peace

You’ll always be my bleeding star.