This is the last time
that they’ll let this
bullshit fly

No more
second chances
mulligans
re-negs

so make sure that
it counts for
something.

Something.

Pushing back the night
les petits morts de l’hiver
small missives of birth.

for there are times when
one language wont suffice for the things
we try to funnel from our brains
down and out our mouths
so we settle for adding another medium
perhaps words on the page – screen
might suffice for the

gaps we put in our thoughts
and then it hits us

three more words for the word thought
might suffice for this here thought

He was clever by sheer repetition
with his violent wonderings hidden away
But he struggled with his own position
and fought with the choices he’d already made

Though soon enough his mind sublimated
and thoughts, fears and worries were put out of sight
Well, he couldn’t see what he’d created
for his cognizance failed him most every night

He could barely find his own position
but he was clever by sheer repetition

Often my poetry
deals with the obscene,
the dirty, filithity, of grossness,
but until I reach a gross of gross poems,
I will persevere.

Onward and Downward!

The snow flies
the plot thickens
the crow cries
my pulse quickens

I’ve got a thought
to stay inside
To wait this out
where it’s safe

But I’m not sure
the rest of me
can keep up
with that pace

Damn it
swing another saber
Damn it
swing it loud and low
Damn it
swing it that much greater
Damn it
Watch it go

The snow flies
the plot thickens
the crow cries
my pulse quickens

on writing this i found the
words much softer than the
chair in which i was sitting and
upon the realization decided to
sit upon said words and insert
said chair into this poem.

hence the lack of softness
poetry

We’ve got a good thing going here
so let’s keep it that way
you shut your mouth when we talk politics
Or just leave

And we’ll grin and bear your monologue
And let you tell your tales
but shut your mouth when we talk politics
or else it gets hard to breathe

dance when coupled with full tummies
always makes for awkward funsies

Eat your piecemeal porridge
and strap on your half-shined shoes
The whole damn sky is coming down
there’s not much left to lose

Your fingers cold, my fingers cold
we’ll wander hand in hand
stomachs filled with piecemeal porridge
and our footprints left in sand

But they’ll wash away eventually
we’ll wash away eventually
and leave us with a fallen sky
to sift through

i want to write,
to be a star,
to make riches,
to believe in me
but instead
the ideas refuse to cum,
to mate and create words,
leaving an impotence
of silence;

and so i make a snack,
raid some tombs,
read on the toilet,
fix a drink,
make my brain fuzzy
as an excuse for the
non-bursting,
un-gushing,
nay-exploding,
masterpiedic,
self-pleasuring words.

Up so close
and I can hardly
make you out
So I’ll just assume
that you’re not there
it’s easier that way.

Don’t answer your phone
I won’t be calling.