poetry

unless notified to the contrary please continue to write your horribly distasteful (that is, bad tasting) poetry

poetry

boiled and fried and steamed if you will
a little bit more and the stagnation
ought to settle in exactly as i anticipated
this thought of yours would rest on the
shoulder of a miniature fly (that is a fly
much smaller than a normal fly – a fly
so small in fact it could never be captured
and thrown against a wall so hard as to stun
it and then have a piece of hair tied around
it’s little neck to be kept as a pet because
you see its neck would be much too small)
or at least it would stay that way until next
year sometime in the autumn of course

liars world

poetry

these are the liars rules
you must put on the liar shoes
learn to lie like us liars do
walk the path we made for you
the quandry of freedom understood
but we keep it like any liar should
in the shadows no passerby could
see our eyes under our liars hood
a liar can bend what’s in the light
any decent liar knows the liars might
that could take the day into the night
infecting everything in the liars sight
the liars spread throughout the land
and no one dares to lay a hand
on the liars lines, drawn in the sand
but what you can’t do, a liar can
no one can know what a liar sees
the words he speaks carry his disease
all the liars wonder who the liars could be
it must be you, it surely can’t be me
in the liars soul is a black hole
that is eating up everything we know
this liars world is growing cold
with these liars rules, etched in stone

conservatum in memoriā

poetry

upon the cusp of morning
lies my awakening
my time of revelation
my time to light the torch
to guide, to lead myself through my time
my scale has no differing weights
the lodestone knows no black nor white
only what is before it
through the brightening storms and icy breaths
I do not wade, but open my eyes
to see not water, not lies
but truth, the timeless battle
there is no water
that is more pure than fire
that is less pure than fire
no darkness is devoid of light

black and white

poetry

this city white

as the moon rears
its glowing head for the
first time in months
hours before the sun
will see the light of
day we drag our feet
through streets of coal
breathing the toxic
air as we run full speed
chasing the exhaust of
this bus in front of us on

these streets so gold

grease covered gloves of
white hold hands fixing
rust and old metal fused
to plastic pass by our acid
leaking batteries we neutralize
with the coke we drank
for lunch the same coke
which failed to neutralize
the chicken fat covered
patty of cow meet we

devoured this place

decay

poetry

smell it all the damn time
in the gutters of the streets
in the hallways
in my room
smell it all the god damned time
the decay
creeping into your head
to my head
follows me all the time
like a shadow
or a bruise
manic and inviting
follows me all the god damned time
creeping into my sheets
fowling up my room
the stench that follows me
talks to me all the time
it’s voice a shiver
down my spine
all the time
oh all the god damned time
hiding around corners
and mirrors
and monitors
and pictures
or thin air
the smell of decay

alone

poetry

practicing your poetry with perfect punctuations and no room for fluctuation built up your forces and your stations and your place where you play patron with your cut-out cardboard population needless to say your alone
(alone)
and your best friend is you
one the color red and one the color blue
and both are you
but which one is you you couldn’t guess who
might as well be self-absorbed
because everyone else either leaves or robs your grave when you are dead and to keep these thieves around requires you to play pretend and it’s such a lofty game that you just wish that it would end or be alone
(alone)
that’s the magic word of today
lone like a wolf with it’s predicessor a
lone like an alcohaulic
or god
alone like every word you say
sentences like their friends

what kind of monster am i?

poetry

all the times i’ve cleaned
this mirror still the monster
is there vomiting his orphan
words
crying
as am i
this has got to go away
like cell phone rings that
never rang or waking up from
dreams mid-drive
leaving
town
trying to become an ant by
pill or smoke or shrinking
machine
i could lift my own weight
and many times more
not be such a monster
with a hunched back under
the weight of all the
miles i can’t ever reach
or with eyes
so large
making
the
villigers flee
seeing them run away
for minutes, and understanding
why
what kind
of monster am i?

The Bus

poetry

Don’t look my way

It’s too early in the day,

Your soul is not tucked in yet.

Romeo coughs at the back of the bus

Here comes tuberculosis.

An old Juliet shouts repeatedly to herself

“Shut up! Yes God I know. I know. Shut up!”

Dorian, the unaltered beauty, sneers

Give the lepers their bells back

So they can sing their melody again:

“Unclean, unclean, unclean…”

Jane scratches her invisibility cloak

blood under her fingernail is the same

ghastly red as the “Stop requested” sign.

The metallic box spits two people out

While Tarzan bites his nails thinking

“I hate my mother. Does it me make evil?”

Inside the bus, one happy thought lingers,

“At least I’m not suicidal…”

And outside, it’s better to hate God than your mother

Otherwise, you better have tales that would make God vomit

and reconsider his creation.