hb
American
I write poetry in English, most days...Sometimes it's not very English at all, but more Rubbish. Sometimes it's nothing but smut. Written purely for my own masterful entertainment, using every last one of my attention deficit thought patterns. Terrible humor mixed with a dash of the macabre, an obsession with obscurity, and food. Because food is sexy. That, is what you'll find here. / / Enjoy & Welcome to my Insanity...
A bite of meat
I dare not eat.
I'll have some fruit instead.
No milk for me
Why, can't you see?
I'd rather have some bread.
Faces haunting
Proteins taunting..
I don't want it if it's meaty.
You like to eat entrails
and brains,
A bit like zombies--beastly!
Hormone laden,
Child-sacrifice
to make the thing called "Veal".
I can't believe what you go through
for your tasty high priced meal.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
When I read, I speak,
And when I speak, I read
Words rolling off my eyes,
Filling my tongue full of free--
Style rhyming and rhythm.
The canons of thought rolling out with a boom.
Pachelbel changing your direction of flow
Through some Perverse, Obscure, Rehearsal
Suddenly Reversed.
Back where you started,
Starting over again,
With a pen in your hand
The words crowding your head.
Gotta jump and tumble
To the jiggle and flow
Of the individualistic,
Unrealistic,
Even cannibalistic
Creations that grow.
From your stylus,
Rife.
Words.
They're the stuff of life.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 7:47 PM UTC
Hoarfrost lipstick
Touches not-dead-enough lips.
She's limp and entangled in branches.
Unfeeling fingers
Snap newly-formed buds
Breath puffing and gasping, he glances.
"Pretty...
...my pretty...my pretty cold doll!
See how the snow on her dances?
Almost...almost finished.
Just need the rest...
That last one got covered in scratches..."
Bone-numbing cuffs,
Can't scream from the gag.
She's trembling and sobbing in snatches.
"Shhhhhhhhhhh...
I just need your arms...
such pretty white limbs!.."
He picks up his shears, and advances.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 7:34 PM UTC
Sliding fingers over alabaster shafts,
crevices and nooks catching at delving digits
as they seek between the ****** ***** of
remov-ed meat.
For before the bones the meat.
And before the meat the scalpel,
Running liquid through the tendrils
with its clever carv-ed lines in the
succulent,
decadent
dead.
The gore on the board.
Seen in rivulets of scarlet,
A tracery of cuts,
Multi-layered and exquisite.
I taste the smell of this corpulent finery.
Hands reaching into the layers,
slick with blood
pulling at the fat.
Sleek and deadly
I ply them, my tools.
For I am the butcher
And you will eat my meat.
Feast upon my carnage,
And leave me with the bones.
And leave me with the bones.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 1:01 PM UTC
Spectacles slipped into the mine-shaft of mine own thoughts.
What was I doing leaning so far over, looking down the mirror?
To dig them out again, is to reach into my innermost and cry with vengeance sought
after fallen imagery.
A downy trap to trip me,
crawling,
to the bottom of The Well.
It is well-thought to pick up the spectacles before climbing back out again.
Naught but a pinprick of light, a shining shaft,
to guide me.
The crevices of luck leading back to the place where my spectacles can be of use.
Here? It is the climbing, dark, murky
Raiment of the rocks around me.
The dimmest glow surrounds,
and I
climb
UP
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 6:35 PM UTC
Is it blind to see from different perspective?
Perspective is reality.
Reality is what you make it.
Make it....your perspective.
Respectively we decide to make it ours,
Ours which can't always be theirs,
So should theirs always be ours?
Or is it ok to be blind?
Blinded by theirs, blinded by ours,
Stuck in a single white-rabbit hole of clarity,
Thinking it's reality.
Waiting for the smoke to clear,
So we can see which way was ours again,
So we can see which way was theirs.
Then blind ourselves to every-which-way but one--That One.
Self-blinding vision,
is this reality.
Now hand me the ******* mushroom, please.
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 5:47 PM UTC
Scruffy and unkempt,
The manic look of someone who's stayed up 36 hours.
Still drove 10 hours for a bunch of strangers.
Had no idea what you were getting into.
A chance greeting of "Hello New Friend!",
The taking of an empty seat.
You had never cracked a bullwhip--I know, 'cause you confessed it.
Your mad scientist brain instantly found the perfect chemistry:
Bad jokes and photography.
A bit of flirting.
"I'm not looking for anything right now".
Still talking by the campfire at dawn,
Arms wrapped round for warmth.
You shoved your number in my pocket,
Hot pink marker scrawled on a scrap of paper.
Phone calls and g-chat.
Mostly **** jokes and bad music references.
Some serious stuff too..
Confessions--you're more 'you' around 'me'.
Midnight and both of us complaining-- not getting enough sleep.
Stretching it out until 1 AM, 2 AM, 3...
Left each other with squid-diddled desirous tentacles,
Havoc on our senses.
Senseless at work.
And you're actually being honest--don't have the backbone to lie.
You're not greedy, or sleezy, or trying to use me.
Course, you're killing me with those unsigned divorce papers...
No dreamer--realistic.
But ****** if you don't hit every weak spot.
Walls broken, just the hint of a smile.
**** good thing there's a few hundred miles between us.
Black and hell and triple ****
..I miss you...
When are you coming back?
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 6:36 PM UTC
Let me lean into your hair and breathe in your warm, clean scent.
Tackle me with tickling fingers, knock me over, make me squirm.
I'll nibble on your neck a bit, and make a ***** joke.
You'll drag me up and down the block, till we've searched out every coffee shop, and reading nook, and weird demented new-age store,
With scary guys with scary hair leaning over the counter offering you 'Fairy Dust' for good luck, or maybe this book about trolls?
Then I'll drag you back down a different block, and through the city and all the buildings.
Looking up and up and up.
Falling over our own four feet as we race the dusky-shadowed building monsters from one end of the bay to the other.
Exhausted by our chase, we stumble into yet another hole-in-the-wall to steal some warm recuperation.
You wrap me up in arms and drink, while telling me all about your life.
Then you **** me for details of things I never talk about, and make it seem like no big deal. I mean, hey, it's only you after all.
Next you grab your camera in one hand, and my hand in the other, dragging me back out the door, already clicking fast the shutter.
But it's night! So what? It's the city, there's light.
So you keep right on clicking and posing and grasping at figments, air where you think you might best find a shot, that would hold me to you on the screen later on.
You keep clicking and clicking, till I finally get tired. Then you, sensing me, make up for my sudden lack of enthuse, and drag me further to a club strobing with lights.
We dance there for hours, till the club's shutting down, catch a yellow-topped cab, rumbling and slow. You hang up your camera, I hang up my coat.
Time for a movie and popcorn, hot chocolate in bed. I'll fall asleep, wrapped in comforter, my pillow still breathing. You might wake me up, after the movie is finished, just in time for a few pre-dawn kisses.
A few hours sleep, my head tucked under your chin. Dreaming separate dreams, together.
Our limp-tangled limbs greet the shade-prying strips of sunlight with unconscious aplomb.
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 9:39 PM UTC
To write with tongue in pen,
Saliva dripping ink.
The heady-remembered sensation
Of flavors long forgotten.
Sifted with fingers floured,
Arms limp from kneading
To have them
Penned to perfect succulency.
Until they are coined to smooth and creamy texture.
The rich-written smell of impatient waiting
For oven-crisped words, over-penned with
Timer-gone-slow.
The salt and pepper of a final read-through
Always spelling disaster to our over-spiced and cooled,
Now cookie-cut words.
The souffle sinking deep in the pan of it's paper-page dish.
Till loving eyes scoop up that first tender-tasting bite,
Till the sound of a thought drifts over two lips
With a satisfied sigh.
Our long-awaited, frustrated, penful recital:
Experimental, new-dished-out, tempting
A-rivals.
Bellies full, read-through finished, enough of the sauce.
We clear the dishes with the simple act
Of turning over the cloth,
To the next blank page.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 8:00 PM UTC
Dead dog sleepin',
Lyin' down.
All limp, and melted
On the ground.
A twitch, a snort
A slurp, a *****
Seems to me,
You've got it ruff.
On rocks or mud
Or feathered-down,
This dead dog's sleepin',
Lyin' down.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC