Most recent at the top.
humming to the soulfuck of synapses firing create the me beyond body lies love like a rug not a cheat past god's dobermans glare as stamens from the bud light no smoking it wearies past a countertop of stigmatas posing for mobiles don't tip scales and fangs
The sky of woman shied black
back from the sea of rye
and cries and milk and silk.
Man's sword slept for the bowtie
and awoke in fairer fingers.
Now she hates to be he
and he to be she.
Rusty, dusty, squeaking, creaking,
before they built anew.
Rotting carpet, invading bees
was the CCS I knew.
Along with many an underpaid slave driver.
"Fine, smite me with textbooks; I'm a survivor."
Now I know: a dozen lasers, aimed as one;
they cut me into the image of the Son.
But I tossed by tassel, threw open wide gates,
and buried my mind in the world's wet womb.
Recut myself in full-gory faux-glory,
watered self-lauding pursuits into bloom.
German expressionist film from the 20's.
Dali's surrealist works from the 30's.
Aleotoric avant-garde post-jazz minimalism.
A hipster rock-snob with Pitchforkian chauvinism.
Computer hacking, cracking, phreaking,
leaking, sneaking, peaking.
Bitter frost in a damp pit.
Bitter and lost in my own shit.
I can split infinitives but not a boolean function.
Don't ask me 'bout parliament or writs of injunction.
How deep is the sea and how hot is the sun?
How many pounds in a metric ton?
Fraction and function, species and compound
Lost on the trail and left unfound.
But what turned my cheek back to heaven's might
Were the CCS soul-seeds of God's fearsome delight.
Laughing friends, crying friends,
Friends who let me fall, then picked me up.
Wild's compassion, Krueger's service,
Love from Newton, Newton, and Newton.
Bergman's acceptance, Reisdorf's encouragement,
Kitty's wisdom, 'koski's devotion, Pearce's joy
was the CCS I knew.
A pretty petal
Asleep in the softest breeze
Kisses sweet my palm
God smote this land,
Choked its throbbing heart
And cleansing blood,
Stripped its bony dancers
Of earthy rainbows,
Buried sweet blooms
In a bright bleached blanket,
Where I press my podstamps.
The skyfire burns cold.
The flyers fled down.
The crawlers bed down.
The cold seeps my skin,
Sleeps my soul.
Thwack! A snowball.
Her glossy smile melts me.
I thwack back.
Together we bring the angels.
Black hole belly,
Swarm summer jelly.
Alchemy Shmelchemy, so writers
hollow each mountain
of common ore,
polish its few nuggets,
Stupid fat mountain.
Purge! you snark and lie not
upon your blackened bed.
Silence! scornworthy tempest
of your browlifted air unsaid.
Cleave! no more lovers' links
with fisted stare and seeds of dread.
Bury! thyself and bud afresh
with thrashing thorns well shed.
Fuck. Writing. Hard.
Tired. Empty. Moron.
Must. Can't. Will. Don't.
Start. Stop. Stuck. Fuck.
A letter, my love, of our passion’s end
ever outpacing our critics’ reviews.
Arrows they have pessimistically penned
pierce imprints left by our fast running shoes.
Their thoughts in confounded pretzels ensnare
for they do not draw each breath from your sighs.
They have never lost themselves in your hair,
nor danced to the melody of your eyes.
Look at me! I’m rhyming! I’m rhyming!
Writing beautiful nonsense for you,
my dismembered thoughts in strict timing,
you always serve as my blushing muse.
‘melody of your eyes’ – what rotten cheese!
‘lost in your hair’ – what clichéd muck!
But I’ll form these coprolites when you please
For as long as they get me fucked.
Long ago I had left the nest
Now I have to find my own worms
I do now what I think is best
Living only on my own terms
Poor mother bird back at home
Sees her children fly away
Taking off to wander and roam
No more ear for what moms say
Yet still baby bird encounters
a mother's wisdom manifest
in complication that deters
ignoring mother's best
So he returns to serve this dish:
'You know, mother, you're the bomb!'
And at least once a year to wish
a 'Happy Birthday!' to his mom
With cocksure smile and soulful gaze
Hoping to cast her in a daze
All dressed up in my Sunday best
Spouting aptly jest after jest
For with such words I did aspire
To ignite in her such a fire
That burns brighter when I draw near
And coo so softly in her ear
Her giggling and playful winking
Led me justly to be thinking
I had mounted my white steed
And completed a fearless deed
Precedent goaded the return
Of Extempore Extraordinaire
But alas, the jury was novel
I was forced to beg and grovel
Tears, kneeling, and kissing her hand
Did not clear the line in the sand
And she departed from the shore
Leaving me to miss her evermore
When divine wisdom I incurred
My omniscient Father answered
“Though I crafted her sightly kind,
Even I can’t trace a woman's mind.”
A flash of lightning, a haunted face
They snore, a creak just behind the door
Seeping, creeping with a silent pace
A sudden strike and they snore no more
The world, it seems, with monsters teeming
Baneful, cursed and filled wholly with rage
Laying grounds for excessive screaming
Playing each night on my cerebral stage
Falling, dying, calling, and crying
Always active, tossing and turning
Losing breath but never just sighing
With hellish fever ever burning
It worsens as I maintain the dream
Blades slash down and bullets fly toward me
Demons and devils assail and scream
And I awake
I grow ever more impatient with subtlety.
Why should you use a whisper to help others to see,
When a stamp and a shout will work effectively.
Some people are too meek to jump into the fray.
Most never have a thing that’s worthwhile to say:
their thought is too dull to be a point, anyway.
It is a sad kind of life that is so resigned
to never confront at risk of not being kind,
so much that compassion becomes an iron bind.
Please, do not be so nice that you cannot be true,
or else you’ll find yourself beneath your friend’s shoe.
And if you don’t speak up, I’ll walk over you, too!