Saturday, September 26, 2009

Kill Me Hardly

Puss Princesses
& Pansy Princes
Are getting sentimental

Are writing poetry

To shit styles in piss

Make too many words
Say nothing
Make too many words
Avoid transitions

Comment on the art
Want art



We're writing stuff so meaningful
That when you don't see it you aren't meaningful, go away.

It's the world of stabbing eyes
Shooting energies
Bitch worlds
When energy's there,
To mold our own vision for it,

Cracked turtles trailing blood.

Beneath the Autumn wood
You have sung me songs, clouds
Shown which path's truely good
Out of these wandering reams of crowds
That stab at Earth
For bits of worth.
Show them what you showed me, clouds?
Yeah well that's not my job
chit chat with individual wills as a mob,
...Oh but that's what you did say,
.............Above the darkened rain
Wandering wills are too much to contain
None know what each will do
This is the only thing that's true.

So did that do it, did I tell them okay, did I listen?
Fucken ell, can't I enjoy clouds without divine mission?

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

It's Time For a Drink (A Poem in Limericks)

There's nothing so great as feelings that sink
Cause then it's off with the lads for a drink,
I take up my shot
And brawl with the sots
The next day wond'ring ow come I can't think.

There's nothing so great as feelings that sink
Cause what's that? Yep, it's time for a drink.
It's only by the shot
I can fade 'way my lot
As the more I drink, the more lasses wink.

There's nothing so great as to pick up a drink
Bandy it about and wreck up a stink
Pissing a lot
With all that you got
Nothing so great voiding feelings that sink.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

A Triolet and a Tanka


Again I leave as malcontent
As slamming rotted window sills
That send up bugs dead, dust, and lint.
Again I leave as malcontent
A mutt who can't afford cheap rent
But send me stars, horizon!--'til
Again I'll leave as malcontent
As slamming rotted window sills.


Red beams give a rash
To all these shriveled up rocks
Where trees stoop down low
And waves arise from asphalt,
Baking critters on the road.

Friday, September 18, 2009


The rock that tumbled and mountains that drowned
Were cross-examined by the atomists.
They sampled its hard structure, loosened dust,
Under microscopes fed it, saw nothing:
Chemicals reacted as predicted.
Down here nothing's unseen, nothing above
Happened that wasn't predicted wasn't
Forseen. Those that died are totally unseen
In the dirt and earth; one with the mountains
They ring. Nor geologists have better to add,
They're mixed-up clay, chemically correct,
But transposed across terrain, bounced off backs
From living bone-heads to the living mounts.
No wrong no evils touch embedded ones,
Just bits of atoms
......................On the thirsty rocks
That no longer need to want.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

There Was Never . . .

There was never
...a god of restraint
though lawyers dream.

I called to Bacchus
....or Dionysus
....What do you want
to be called?
Like the one kid
the teacher never pronounces
I feel I've insulted someone
in broke lines.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Undedited Journals of What I Was Considering in the Nascent Pursuit of Literature

From school year 2002-2003:


She sings somlemnly in a yellow head.
Your blind side troubles few
For they've never heard you sing
Only ones that see love you anyway.

Moscow's abandoned
its spectacle turned bliss.
What once was full dogmatic,
now houses free-thinkers.

A bare heavy beat
when water lifts its sovreign height
and its iron ore can no longer
succeed in what it came to build.

A note to a friend during class:

We have to change our dumb blonde
class thinking into discussion thinking.
I'll disagree with something and
you agree no matter how crazy
it sounds, okay?

However in the evening
turned a departed wing,
in a week it goes ape.

Lonely muse of intellect,
where are your followers,
where are your cuddlers?

You wake up lacking rhetorical ability.
You can't perceive images, they have no value
until the night casts upon your brain,
your brain experienced from day.
It is better never to sleep.

This year, this year will be madness,
constant nights in endless thought.

Pandemonium, blossoming night
. . . things will see straight again
for now it's down to dreams,
wrecked and harmonized,
swinging forth, uncontrolled and swift.

Winter/Spring 2003-2004

The nieghbors, taking notice of my
flower-picking, scolded me and
told me to leave. I grabbed another and vanished,
rubbing them on my body. It hardly
does any good, that smell always
linguers. It's infinitely better just
to drink and be drunk.

Almost as if there are no correct
answers and everyone has their own

Love. What is love?
Incessant caresses,
painful goodbyes.

There's more, next time.

Friday, September 11, 2009

For My Friends Who Are Sick (Like Me)

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

There's no time,
when sapped of mortal energy
the casket queen
is a beckoning.

Why me?

Poh wee-wee
caught neath covers
with dis hich-up
or dey coughs cuh cuh hut hut
cuh cuh hut hut.
Foh wee-wee.

But that's the truth isn't it?
I'm 103 degrees F and it's only
21 Degrees C out there.
I'm lying naked cause
My body burnt off its clothes.

poo-head my head's
a poo-poo-wee

Yeah that last line's
How did I get here?
It wasn't by taxi.
I would have remembered
bailing without paying.

Spinny room
round and round
round and round
spinny room lost
then found
then not found
end found round.

My mucus is
like a shock of hot piss syrup
down my esophegus
and I've been balled up
on my bed tearying up
for 2 hours straight
because I know I won't survive
to write that preceding simile somewhere,
somewhere my boss can find it.

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

Why me?

I'm patenting this bed,
it's a toilet-chew toy
barf bag that you can sleep on.
Edison can suck it.

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

I know I'm being sucked somewhere,
where colors are brightly dull--
--That's the Queen's tricks,
and they're not cheap.
I asked her if I could know her secrets,
last year.

She told me to shuv it.

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

I've shuved it sideways,
upways, downtown, up over,
and you know something?
I feel better.

Cuh cuh hut hut.

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

Tell my wife and kids that I . . . hooowahhhh

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Leaving the House

I press shut my front door
Trying what it might give,
Sever the anxious roar
Pinning me to my chair.

In quick sets of hours
I've heard all clashing words
Traveling down many paths
Multiplied by copper cord.

Legs had long disappeared
In the arm of a chair
But now scream like death curred
Dragged from sleep by the hair;

For here's a fresh switch
For hive heads in circus worlds,
Full of sounds but wanting more
Wanting straight to the head,

To head out brittle-eyed,
Peering light-seered darkness
With taut holes needle-sized
Where suns turned after day.

Where those suns turned through holes,
I took down--and what sights:
Faded trees, drying air
Broken leaves, and no one.

Who'd leave a better world?

The cover of a screen
Gives what's wanted only,
Colors ray and speakers
Twist to any form wished,
And the graying world's seen
In higher clarity.

I deadbolt my front door,
Hope I'll plug one more day
Into the anxious roar
And another and more.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009


They're pouring back in, the whole world,
Done wandering and organizing
The hours into a place-mold,
As waving Scorpio's rising.

The crouched boxes let them back in:
Humming heads numb, stiff legs undone.
Latched in, they won't be seen again
'Til a birdbox squawks up their sun

And it's down the blood-stream again,
Goaded to organize the bore,
Waddle through another command;
Long done in, return to their door.

Crouch here, so blushing Atlas sees
How burdens that hold up the world
Are maintained when their dangling keys
Bolt shut behind them days wrung old.

Crouch here, lower than this hunched box
And drink from their reviving pools:
Flickering blues through blinds detox,
Washing away exhausted rules.

So blue through bolt window's cover,
That plugged bare into those sources,
Ponce De Leon discovers
his Florida and Stevens his,

Yet flows to fizzle in the street,
The long of the night won't regard,
These flickering blinds, darkness eats,
Holding its better sense apart.