Friday, July 29, 2011

Sunday, July 17, 2011

what's yr anthem, motherfucker?

if

you

only

had

the

surface

of

a

skull

to

scrawl

yr

anthem

upon,



what

would

it

say?



everything

else

is

fucking

retarded

bullshit...

this hurt

this
hurt
cannot
be
hijacked

just
the
poem
mimicked
by
the
fucking
posers

Monday, July 11, 2011

the sun, the cunts & the masses

when i was 7 years old
my father slapped me hard
across the face
w/a fat sunday newspaper
b/c i was rummaging
thru the junk drawer
& interrupted his breakfast

i happened to be looking
for a pencil

he was the first motherfucker
to get in the way of my art

there has been many after
besides The Father:
(not in this particular order)

women
so-called writers
so-called friends
teachers
bullies
bosses
general pricks
general cunts
the masses
this shit existence
the goddamn sun
etc...

& the struggle still exists
full force
& i cover my face
as the arms of the sun, the cunts
& the masses keep swinging
their dumb hooks at me

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Death please come scratch my soul

all the pharmacies
on the planet
cannot cure
this metaphysical itch...

only Death understands
existence is a disease...

she hides in walls

she claws down a section
of the old, thick paper
& presses her tiny spine against
the cool, splotched surface
of the raw wall
then shields her melancholy shape
w/the two jagged, torn-down fragments
& even tho her fragile, scissored arms are visible
she feels momentarily camouflaged
from a world of unrestored loss

no rivals

you can talk shit
all you'd like

yr no rivals

you'd have to possess
talent & fucking guts
to be considered my rival

& i see nothing but soulless
hacks to attack

a dozen lines is all
you'll get from me

now get back to yr machines
& weakly try again

sunday morning homesickness

a terrible sunday morning ache...

the beams through this window
reveal a deep homesickness

the squeak of door hinges one flight up
mocks my no-where-to-turn-ness
even more so

but my tears won't arrive today
so i sit here biting my nails
& sifting through the ashes
as un-whole as one can possibly be...

Saturday, July 9, 2011

& i am drawn to everything sad

even
on
the
brightest
days

there
is
a
rustling
of
tears
in
my
blood

a
sobbing
in
the
vessels

originating
from
a
built-in
sorrow
in
the
marrow

&
nothing
can
bring
on
a
smile

Thursday, July 7, 2011

the blood of the flower

barefoot and in a trance, she makes her way to a field on the side of a highway. curious cars slow down to observe the young girl slowly moving along the shoulder. when she arrives at the center of the field among the flowers and broken-down, trash bags the sun is shining on purple and lavender petals and dark sacks of waste . without hesitation she spreads her shape out on top of the flowers and the garbage. her immaculate hair and tiny feet rest on the black, wrinkled bags and the buttons of her spine press against the faces of wild flowers. they find her body days later. her self-sacrifice startles the sleeping world with a realization: youth and sweetness and the blood of the flower are all sisters to the master chemist called the compost heap...

great poems

great poems should leave you
w/insomnia
w/ambulance sirens in yr ears
w/yr spleen lumped in yr throat
w/a headstone on yr solar plexus
w/a bouquet of dry sticks in yr hands
w/phantoms in the branches of yr lungs
w/the sensation of the buttons of yr spine
against the cold steel of the morgue drawer

The Boundless YES of the Universe

There is this thing flashing
beneath all loosening skin
beneath all dwindling meat

There is this thing flashing
beyond the marrow of weary bones

There is this ageless thing flashing
within all fading shapes

There is this inextinguishable strobe
beneath the temporary coat of a body

There is this weightless light
that crushes the limited NO

There is this thing, this thing…

A bright bouquet of deathlessness

we all meet again in its beam…

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

a day full of sun is like a machine gun

a day full of sun
& visible human skin
puts a pound
of lead in my guts

give me midnight
give me marrow
give me a grave
beneath a grave
give me all-night
rap sessions
w/fucking maggots

hit the machine

there are a lot
of poetry readings
but hardly any
fucking poems

sharper than scalpels

love
w/out
knives

does
not
exist

hate
contains
blunter
blades

up to my armpits

up

to

my

armpits

in

sorrow



the

only

thing

that

offers

buoyancy



joy

is

a

black

sack

of

stones

little dead girl in the wisteria vines

there is a little dead girl
half behind the wisteria vines
only her legs sticking out
a youthful pair slim as roots

i've lost my love, her sad face weeps
from the wisteria's tangled arms
& i hate the universe now
how dare it steal his shape away?

there is a little dead girl
half behind the wisteria vines
not quite safe from harm

i can't bear this emptiness
if only these vines would
wholly swallow me up

i'll gladly wait here
until my prince returns home
& sorrow ends, her sad face moans
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.

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