Will his Mazda SUV keep the lorax warm at night? It probably will.
Tag: poesy
Will his Mazda SUV keep the lorax warm at night? It probably will.
Happy Birthday from your Stalker.
I know it’s your birthday today
But I know you don’t want me to call
So I took your last text message you sent me
And changed the meaning so all
The lines are opposite:
Thank you for your gift
It was very thoughtful.
It all turned out just as you hoped
I want us to be together forever
It was the perfect gift at the perfect time
I’m so alone without you
Please keep sending me love letters.
Happy Birthday
I didn’t mean to turn love into
Stalking.
Happy Birthday from your Stalker.
I know it’s your birthday today
But I know you don’t want me to call
So I took your last text message you sent me
And changed the meaning so all
The lines are opposite:
Thank you for your gift
It was very thoughtful.
It all turned out just as you hoped
I want us to be together forever
It was the perfect gift at the perfect time
I’m so alone without you
Please keep sending me love letters.
Happy Birthday
I didn’t mean to turn love into
Stalking.
I remember
I MISTILY remember my very first
Plunge. Wrapped close in vodka’s sweet, warm blanket
I stumbled with my giggling Aphrodite.
She was, to me, the entirely beaut-
Iful, but so drunk was I, a moist fruit
–
With cored-nook, more than Heaven (even bru-
Ised) would have been. But her eager wet-
Ness, warmed with woman’s flush, began that night
Of febrile fumblings, synthetic starts and
The weakened will of Desire’s wanton wand.
–
At last, with volcanic idleness, Influ-
Enced by dawn’s golden glimmer, dormant yet
No longer. Life’s spray captured in her tight-
Ness. My vigorous fountain pooled then, in
Nature’s flawless chalice. Then sheath to bin.
Untitled 2.
IMPERFECTIONS yet superior still
To Circe’s substance. An empty fickle
Heart yet more intense still than scorching, brill-
Iant Sol, scalding, past Time’s sickle,
–
My withered shuck; shackled by Memory’s
Insidious, insipid influence.
With a late lapping longing I barely
Breathe without recalling still her sens-
–
Ual soul. I seek oblivion from
This ever flowering, chaotic obses-
Sion. No respite can I detect; no brom-
Ide seclusion from this one weakness.
Life’s Simple Designations.
I am much my own emotion’s victim.
Its smooth sheened sphere helplessly hangs, hover-
Ing expectantly, waiting for some glim-
Mering error. Some glimpsed lapse to take her
Inevitable vengeance for my im-
Possible failing. Sleep seems much better.
Smoothly blue.
Smoothly blue.
wuntu, wuntuthreephor… Aaaaaaaaaaah…
crazee… diggit down, reelmellow down, yeah;
ooooooohhh
sha
sha sha
la la la lala
ooooooooowwwweeeeeeeeaaaarrrrrrrrr oh yeah
yeah; yorragonnaluvvittt, hmmmm.
man…
gidown huh gidown baby,
aaahh ahhhh.
thankuverymuchladeesngenlemen…
ur2kynd, 2kynd.
Airfooddrinkyou
The air is full of many things
That make my body thrive
Oxygen and Nitrogen
Both keep me very much alive.
–
Of all the food that I can eat
Your body is my favourite treat.
The Little Things
Untitled 1.
THE WORDS melted wetly together
Slickly sliding across the page.
I was dubious; unsure whether
I could, should, would control my rage.
–
Confined to this fibrous vehicle
The seeping slowed gracefully like
Honeyed thought. Soothed by the treacle
Glow of newly found delight.
–
Then it’s liquid limitations
Congeal, curdle; all thickened.
Each wet syllable, parched then, shines
With a light, cloyingly hardened.
Drunken Whinin’.
Oh now help me dear Lord,
What am I gonna do?
I’m so very drunk-tired,
Gotta hole in-ma left shoe.
*
Been wanderin’ since…
Been wanderin’ since…
Been wanderin’ since…
Since you threw me out,
Out of your heart,
Your barbed-wire heart.
*
Temples pulsate with off-
Ended remorse. Whiskey
Guilt’s a-flowin’ and I’m gettin’ me a cough.
Think I’m gonna rest down under that ragged tree;
*
It’s old and twisted, cracked and rough,
Just like me.
I lean back on some creaking bough,
Sinking then into dreams free-
Dom:
*
While the Cocytus flows into Acher-
On’s course; Interlaced in abhorrent em-
Brace, dithered along their fractious borders.
*
Nothing proven remains true.
Time’s initial casu-
Alty, grasping, hopeless love.
*
In her was contained all perfection.
There’s no doubt, she gave me an erection.
Touched.
MANIC depression,
Anarchic aggression;
Deep-felt obsession:
Meandering digression,
(Auto-suppression)
Nullified oppression.
Snap-shot.
*
When the sky, for brief moments, stops.
Leaves no longer rustle as, briefly
Everything ceases. Drops
Of molten reality, unceasingly serene,
Drip, in shimmering uncertainty,
Sluggishly down like some surreal stream.
*
He drinks in that empty moment.
Savouring it as some trans-
Ient truth he knows must melt. Penitent
Yet, despite the gloating ignorance
Of the Hollow Ones, with their tidy, superfluous
Charm. That icicle spear glance
*
Shatters the moon-pool calm,
Like dreams twisting the empty ill-
Usions of a drenched emerald balm.
Now, creaking Time, casually recommence
In your random, untidy precision, kill-
Ing with every division all sense.
Five-lined poem.
I began this to occupy some space.
Now I see that I have made an error
In judgement. There won’t be five lines but brace
Yourself for less than that; merely these four.
Hexagon.
What is it?
Do you know?
Can I ask you?
Will you go?
–
I see you,
Standing there.
What do you want?
I don’t care.
–
This is me,
retreating soon.
You can stay; please
Leave the Moon.
11. Me without you.
A diver without an aqualung,
A paedophile without the young.
A camel with no hump,
A boxer with no thump.
A clown without any fun,
An American without a gun.
Strawberries without cream,
The BFG without a dream.
Communism without Marx,
An underwater adventure without sharks.
Christianity without the philosophy of Greeks,
The Welsh stereotype without leeks.
A monk without a cowl,
An archaeologist without a trowel.
A Catholic without the guilt,
A Scotsman without his kilt.
A gun without a bullet,
An 80’s pop star without a mullet.
Sex without any sweat,
Rolf Harris without a vet.
Santa without a reindeer,
A pervert without a leer.
A war without deaths,
A tramp without meths.
The Psyche without the Self
A ninja without stealth.
A widow without a shroud,
A mushroom without a cloud.
Four horsemen without an apocalypse,
The Queen Mother without broken hips.
Jack without Daniel,
An aristocrat without a spaniel.
Hercules without tasks,
Balls without masques.
The police without crime,
Coleridge without a Rime.
Muslims without jihad,
Addicts without rehab.
Gaffers without grips,
Fish without chips.
Roman Emperors without insanity,
Fair without the Vanity.
Haunting without a ghost,
Sunday without a roast.
Christmas with no suicide,
A playground without a slide.
Meals with no eating,
The Olympics with no cheating.
Pull without a Force,
Death without a horse.
A storm without the rain,
Fisting without any pain.
Silence without peace,
Pain without release.
An Italian without a scooter,
A six-gun without a shooter.
Depression minus the manic,
Start of the century without the Titanic.
A sniffer without glue,
Is like me without you.
A foot without a shoe,
Is like me without you.
Caged animals without a zoo,
Is like me without you.
Treading Pitch-Black Paths.
Speeding like a freight train,
Running from the great pain,
Ending with a jarring strain,
On Time’s last sand grain.
–
Sticking to the path,
Sticking to the path,
Sticking to the pitch-black path
Of His soul.
–
Tearing at the last Fiend
As the Devil’s scream
Echoes…
–
As it echoes…
As it echoes…
As it echoes…
As He echoes
–
In my head, in my mind
Searching for a freedom;
A freedom I can’t find.
Old Man Bone-bag.
“I live between the cracks of a mountain’s
Soul”, The old man said. His great time-carved arms
Stretched in knotted leather strength; his skin, tan
With Nature’s bruising intensity. Charms
Hung from his gnarled neck in casual
Superstition, shaking with his calm drawl.
“I tread the blanketed paths of your long
Forgotten past” he continued. “I seep
With the Memory’s flow from the Lost Song.”
I left Old Man Bone-bag, for he was mad.
Toast-Footed God Monster.
Semolina sperm boy eating
A dated doughnut porn ring.
Do you cry in your acid tears
Bitch child? Whip-crack shifting gears
Accelerate’s the corporate worm
To a feverish wet-squirm.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Bitch.
…Creeping septic: acid bath
on a first [time] dive… to the end(?)
Of a (hermetic happiness) hearth
That cannot succour… the rend-
Ing real [dragging insanity]… garnered from… the crazy. Pointless
Whimpering of; … God’s worst guess…
Dreaming peacefully.
She’s Weeping in a piercing hopeless pain
At smiling, sharp boned anorexics cut-
Ting the air with their razor-edge framework.
A treacle leaking wound smears the dark drain
With slick wickedness as you stretch idly. But
For her crouching apathy she would leave lurk-
Ing for a fleshy existence; without this strain.
As it is she remains here, strut-
Ting like a toxic, bobbing cork.
Bubble.
In thoughts lowly ditch
I cower and moan.
As hope glides on by
I tremble and groan.
A pocket of Hope
Holds me awhile
Then bursts it’s own bub-
Ble to continue my Trial.
Capitalist Whore-F****r.
The subtle noise of
A kangaroo exploding
In the twilight heat.
Creamed hardness of tof-
Fee, desperately kneading
The supple dough, with each criminal beat.
Subterranean Thoughts
Prodding dreamily at the space under
My chin. The space where the shotgun would fit
Snugly in. Thoughts that vaguely meander
As I rest under this gnarled tree’s bough. It
–
Seems that it would be no trouble at all
If I was to fall from this place and rest-
Lessly crawl on through. I just need to call
On that one moment’s decision; a guest
–
In no time of neck-snapping Death who yet,
As my host, ushers me beyond.
What remains; a whip lashed marionette,
Shattered and twitching, that will not respond.
Twitching Rigid
A moist fuck
In the temple of taboo.
Siamese duck
Made into stew.
–
Suck drenched wet cunt
As, after dinner, grandparents
Ruttingly grunt
In their political tents.
The Marxist Ferret
Frying pan clam-shut cat
Drives me, distancing future from that
Future I planned on my vernal mat.
–
Torpor conquers my feverish terror
In a rigid battle to close the door.
Leaves
The leaves are bronzing over, as umber
Shafts of the Autumn’s sun, tent-
like, shade folly’s of a forced mortal year.
–
Of life’s rich liquor; mulched rot, a blotched smear
On her flawed, lawless cycle of some transient
Phase of decay. A shining veneer
–
On a crafted, sharply piercing, dream spear.
Grinding to the obsequious pause; lanced
Through Nature’s grim drab soul; an empty tear
–
From her nascent eyes drench, with a clear
Banality, the children of a spent
Future with a haggard, wasted fear.
Brevity
Drifting in the terrible scream
Of a trembling explosion. Neat
Victims seeming to shimmer in the melting heat
Before thudding crisply dead as in some padded dream.
–
Water’s pure rainbow sucked dry into steam
At the elemental border. Manufactured order, Great
Like an old War, its fire squandered from the grate,
Fractures as Nature’s chaotic unfettered seam
–
Is mined in a panoply of rising octaves.
Life craves for it’s own empty, forced continuance
With every dirt soaked breath a horrid struggle
–
Until that essential calm meets and greets us to our graves.
A tidy randomness that not even the web of Science
Can stave off. Just ensure the space in-between isn’t dull.
Sapling
She is standing before me in
Some wretched sharp-boned pose. Dreams shift-
Ing light pierces translucent thin,
shrink-wrapped skin. Her glorious grin
–
Dispossessed by fraught, frightened eyes.
Now, with thoughts obsessions first
Caress, each part of me that dies
Sees another path; the less cursed.
–
Stumbling in my own dark, bleak cor-
Ridors I fiercely hunt in love’s slow,
Impotent style after hope or
Hope’s trailing, tragic shadow.