I told someone:
I believe people
should write
from their gut—
and maybe their
gut was an atom.

Then I laughed,
while my dog
was laying on my chest,
and went on
with more comments.

An hour or so later,
while watching a show
with my girl,
sharing my screen,
I decided to check on AP.

"That guy who was
a **** to you
on your awesome poem
gave you a 1-star
on your comment."

I read my comment again,
looked at the 1-star review,
and we laughed
even harder
than I did by myself
an hour before.

My dog spun around—
his *** turned to me
as he decided
enough was enough
and the world
had done him
no good deeds today,
and that warranted
sleep by my socks
much like guts
that are the size of atoms.

After that,
we continued to watch:
Six Feet Under.

You are the butterfly
that softly whooshes
between my ribcage
and that flutters
around my heart
aiding in its job
of moving the carcass
that is my body.

Even if you oddly
revert your
metamorphosis
and stay still
next to me
and rest in a cocoon
allowing silence
to rule for a day or two
perhaps
I've hurt you
and that's your way
to regenerate
from my unintentional
hurt.

As I lay in bed
I do the same
I go back
to my own cocoon
I shelter myself
out of site
but I'm no
butterfly.

I walk the dog
after he's done
with his dog affairs
I walk back home
go to the kitchen
and give him water and dry food
he starts eating.

Then I head to the balcony
and do the same
to my bunny
as he hops back and forth
until I feed him.

Then I feed the hedgehog
(wherever that antisocial
ball of ***** spikes is hiding)
I never see him.
I only see trails of ****
and empty bowls.
then I feed the hamsters
and circle back to the kitchen
and it commences:

      oin oin oin oin oin oin oin
                          oin oin oin oin oin oin
     oin oin oin oin                                
                             ­       oin oin oin oin oin
                  oin oin oin oin oin oin

"So you ignore me all day
and then cry
when you crave
veggies, huh?"

oin oin oin oin oin oin o—
"alright, alright!"

I grab his bowl
clean it as best as I can
as he continues to cry
in the back ground.
I sprinkle some salad
and wild arugula in his bowl,
grab a knife
curve my fingers,
slice some cucumber,
and dice some
green pimento
and shove it all in.

oin oin oin oin oin oin —
" I heard you the first time, *******!"

I go up to his cage
and there he is.
holding the bars
still crying for veggies
I place the bowl
inside the cage and he bolts
towards the veggies,
and finally shuts the **** up.

If I knew a Guinea pig
would be this demanding
I would've taken my driver's license,
quit my job, find another one,
got to a bar, have a pint,
smoke a cigarette, join a band,
write a novel, ****** someone
and burry the dead body
somewhere those **** cries
would never reach me
even if their cute.

I scroll down
on poetry websites
such as All/Hello poetry
and I read the poems
on both of them
and they're all the same
either with too much
imagery and metaphor
they remind me of that saying
less is more.
Then there's the ones
who rhyme and they sound
like children's books
they don't understand
how writing
a good rhyming poem
is harder than
committing ******
and getting away with it.
That's why I avoid them at all costs.
And finally,
there's the fictional poems
often tied to contests
and they're often either
nursery rhyme poems
or drift store Picasso imitations.
I don't get it.
Why don't people just talk
about their day and how
folding the laundry
or scrubbing the toilet
somehow gave them an epiphany
that made them write a poem
about their most recent ****** encounter
with their wife that was way better
than their previous one?
If they would apply this philosophy
into their poems
then I wouldn't be stuck
reading about
the sick, the dying, and the dead.

The government
fell again
it's the second time
this year.

It was corruption
same as last time.
I don't vote
there's no point.

The same 2 parties
have been elected for 50 years
here in Portugal.

It's raining outside
there have been storms
floods on and about
and while I was walking the dog
I noticed a tree fell over.

I wondered
how long it had been there.

Some men
like to say
that taking a ****
is one of the best
feelings a man
can have
that it gives you
pleasure.

I don't know
about all that,
but the log
I just dropped
in the crapper
was a huge relief
both physical
and spiritual.

It's a shame
that when I
read poems
on this website
and I refresh
the page
I don't get
that same relief.

"you know
with a smile like yours
you could knock
ANYONE
off their feet..."

"oh really?
remind me of that
the next time
I'm in a bar fight."