There are those poems that complete you
and also those that abscise;
Taking a little love from behind your ribs
and a little light from behind your eyes

there's those poems that destroy you
from inside to out
an h-bomb of hopelessness
and the post realisation fall-out

A final stanza on the busy bus
can make the world freeze
so don't forget to hold onto the handrail
or when it really stops,
you'll be brought crashing to your knees

I'm not sure if death is an injury
but from the Rockies to the Yangtze
If you read any Bukowski
You may never rip that knife free

Maybe the greatest injury yet
was all too soon after we met
and with eyes and ink still wet
you tried to **** me with the alphabet

A chicken might live without a head
live many a year before it's dead
but have its heart ripped from its breast
and it'll be in seconds before it rests

but oh how its different with us
and isn't the poem the best forum to discuss
that without a head - death would appear
but without a heart. Well. I'm still right here

Soaring above the field
the pidgeon saw the world revealed
but by its own flight it was betrayed
for that pidgeon was made of clay

Floating like a summer's cloud
my love for her was high and proud
yet my heart was chipped one day
for my heart was made of clay

Beauty can't always be entrusted
to the potters hand
so build your beauty from something
that can withstand
more than the lovers arrow
at least
til the morrow

This resident hedonist
is feeding false promises, premises,
had precedents
lacks presence
get off our premises president
our countries bloodied and blemished
supposed genius turned menace
made a promising entrance
now with vehemence, menaces
subverts his messages, sentences
burn our nemesis' edifice
don't hide in the crevices
its prescience

no. poetry can be swirling
across the keyboard like a Rachmaninov
order from chaos
no meaning or rhyme
no rhythm all the time
idolising Bukowski
ending abruptly

here's a barter to the gardener who made Eve then marred her
who fathered the carpenter then martyred man's armour
I spit at the sky but He spits back harder
one roar and a flash and i'm a blurred charred marker
and while I know I'm a carper to start a rant over rain,
I'm cold and I'm tired and a little bit vain

so to the almighty all awful
why when you reign does it pour?
naught but rain until dawn
is this the law of the poor and lore for those born with a luckier draw?
I cry to the alpha to compromise his plan
and just for tomorrow, clear the skies for Sam

Sea pecks sand with tidal kisses
salt spray perfume reminisces
granular tingling in curves on shore
toe curled footprints shifting floor

flooding valves and deepened flush
foaming roar and heaving rush
'til surf sweeps scene with praticed care
a promise there was nothing ever there

her:
thin
gangly even but, frankly, perfect
perfect skin
Eve
or a cherub at the inn
(do or don't believe)
Original
with no original sin
and therein
I saw the angel in evangelism

Speak every time you stand - do not forget yourself.

Do not let one moment go by that doesn't remind you that your heart beats a hundred thousand times a day and that's enough gallons of blood...

to make every one of you oceans

whirling til I wheeze; I scream flowers
they grow from my eyes in great forests
both block the sights and sounds of god
and I look for him elsewhere

drinking til I drop; I bellow oceans
sinking, weighted, the sea drinks me
but God wasn't in death
and I looked for him elsewhere

laughing til I cry; I yell joy
swinging, weightless, in a park
the playground yells joy back to me
and god spoke in the creaks of the rusty chains
because he had been looking for me

Hemingway might have had style
but I have finesse
better than hanging
I'd leave rope in suspense

******* a sword
I'd give an oncoming train a kiss
use a blindfold as I'm crossing the street
death is an eternal bliss

toy with auto-asphyxiation
but kick away the stool
tie my arms and legs to the bedpost
and jump in a pool

she told me her saturn was returning
the icing on the cake
of a well baked excuse

I asked, 'what on earth',
but she was far from it
she felt my climate change
and had jumped in a rocket

the recipe was written on the stars
and we were following it with ease
it said to turn up the temperature
but she turned 180° degrees

I dress from my shelf of self-consciousness
hoping to impress myself with anomalous self confidence
mirror mirror on the wall
In truth I'm jealous of you all
not just the fairest
a more acute awareness
of all these greater things to pursue
on gods great green and blue

the moon pulls the tide over the sand like a blanket over a babe that turns in their sleep

It’s midnight somewhere and the waves repeat simple instructions
ssshhhh

Don't reach too far nor climb to high
there is little there for you up in the sky

and the Mona's in the Louvre
and the opera's in Berlin
and the skin that I'm wearing
starts to feel like a sin

I used to 'slippy slide' on my bathroom floor
I would slather the tiles in water and soap
and push myself from wall to wall

the closest I have come to this in 15 years
was when I slipped on my own alcohol induced *****
at two in the morning on Monday 15th (I just woke up from this)

this isn't a poem for you
It was just a really good night
and that's poetry to me

when you wish upon a star
do you ever think it's just too far
looking out the windows washing dishes
wondering if that star's run out of wishes

do satellites grant wishes too
what happens when you wish on something flashing blue
what if it supernova'd 10,000 years ago
and this light is just its afterglow

what what what's so special about these stars
in this milky way of ours
yet in this light we keep on coping
and with their light we keep on hoping

the gentle twinkle
of a distant star
speaks heavenly morse
with my fluttering heart

Woke to a grocery list.
Goes like this;
Duty, Death.

collapsing in on myself like a dying star
in the middle of the floor of some bar
on an idle Tuesday

I've already lost the keys to my car
and I've got a burn on my arm from a cigar
it feels like doomsday

don't know where love or life are
I just know I've seen them from afar
maybe they'll visit in May

and the music trickled from his fingers
and transcended / ascended through the ceiling
straight through a cloud
and the stratosphere freeing

sons die as the sun drowns on the horizon in its daily execution
love's leaves leave lovers
each unique snowflake turns the same ***** brown
spring breaks the spring step

Staring across the bar, it was love at first sight
- eyes so wide- I think I gave her a fright
She thought it was a *** look
thought she could read me like a textbook
wary of my advance
refusing me a chance
avoiding my glance
I put down my glass
and,
in a stance
weakened by my lovestruck trance,
simply asked for a dance

I'm bound to the round sound of the guitar
and I'm deep underground sleeping down with the drowned
now the lights of the town seem extraordinarily far
wound around my crown, sleep drips down from the stars

but I think it's the dope, smoke dances in my lungs
or the drink that gropes both my liver and my tongue
one long blink - begin to float roam the unknown with the young

and opening my eyes I'm awake from the sleep
the dopamine has died my aches on me creep
its time to climb but the slopes are steep
put on my tie and climb in the jeep
put my mind to the pile of files that are heaped
run with these self proclaimed wolves who are sheep
just thinking of home, the release of the deep

punch numbers in my calculator
kick off my day with a double black
thump my feet to the sound of my cars bass
  boot up my laptop
    before shooting a few hoops after school
what am i fighting for

Debussy's in the air
Satie's in the sea
Gershwin's growing in the ground
how much more beauty can there be

Einstein's up in orbit
Newton's sitting 'neath a tree
Schrodinger's both here and there
so where should I be

Naruda conquered love
Bukowski; Reality
Ginsberg Howled all the rest
what thought is left for me

I'd like to say something never said before
something of wonder, profundity
here it comes
here it comes

I'm coming up empty

Love dragged me down to the river
Me: kicking, screaming curses
Love: steady hand without quiver

Love held me under the rippled surface
silent bubbles translated my biblical verses
and I questioned it's purpose

But the one thing without indecision
was me and her in unison
and I rose from my baptism

Treating my feet to the beat I leap from my seat
despite the sleet, take my heat to the streets
the concrete is freeing
from:
the deceit which we deal in
the obsolete (which I'm fleeing)
the people we're mistreating
which we repeat and repeat and
it's all self defeating
when the elite just replete
despite our attempts to delete
or just maybe deplete...

so I retreat to the sweet beat of the blues
as the pavement meets and greets my shoes
down the lanes and avenues
just hoping for something nice on the news

a candle sat in an open field
with nothing but darkness up and round
a thousand cubic miles of night
and nothing weighs that candle down

the darkness chokes with all its might
yet the candle still endures
and if all the darkness in the world couldn't put out the candle's light
then what could put out yours

stricken by love or bitten by pain
it can be written by blood or written by rain
leave the pen on the ground if its ink's lined with lies
put the paper under your wrists or under your eyes
and drop drop your life blood
don't stop let the lot flood
so when the well's dry you'll know then
that you've written a poem

I once new a man from Calcutta
Who had an incredible stutter
Ok thats not true
I thought I'd try to stop you feeling blue
Sorry for filling your feed with clutter

I've been sitting in this city waiting for these brackish blue waves to take me anywhere but here
sold my surfboard when I was twelve but my swim shorts are somewhere
and, sink or swim, I'll get to the sea

She said sure
but I've never done this before
then she got on her knees and she lied even more

so we must discuss
why this lust and thrusts
weren't just for us

saw your flush and smelled his musk
now this tusk is stuck deep in my guts
Our trust is rusting
I'm just adjusting
injustice gusting
injustice huffing an puffing
don't mean to be brusque
but we are dust

**** and the word
they've both had their prophets
people all over the world
have used them for profits

both needed mules
to carry the goods into the city
i'm out of puns
not very witty

make or mar
and make or break
wage your war
or wake and bake

don't listen to mozart;
lacrimosa
lack any dosage:
lacrimosa
tea; no coaster:
lacrimosa
broken toaster:
lacrimosa

Stop.
Hello. I'm Sam.
And I'd just like to say
that I hope your day
was as good as mine.
#this is what poetry can do

is this poetry or is this love
is this business really something
to discuss in the tub

is this drowning or is this drinking
or are these overwhelming feelings
products of too much thinking

is this sleeping or is this blinking
because i don't know how much further
life can keep shrinking

poetry is sleep, death and rest
and while these have not truly been addressed
I guess poetry is also life's digress

is this -feeling- or is this just love
that old hormone that fits
humanity like a glove

is this my soul or is this a balloon
both are reaching for the sky
but are stuck in this room

I don't know why a balloon would be in my chest
or if even a soul resides in my breast
but both I'd prefer to divest

Yes I want a ******* poem without fallacy
A poem full of fantasy
a fabulously woven fabric without a faux facade

our poems need some faeces not facelifts
fanciful fairies dancing fandangos
NOT followers of this current fad
who have fastened Poetry... with fatality

****! I'm fine with fate. But I want to be fascinated
by a farfetched farcical fable about a fat farmer farting
something that isn't churned out from this fake factory

So, to start off here is a funny poem with a **** joke:
I call my ****, 'the truth', because people can't handle it.

Hera puts on a new set of armour
donning hairnet, yellow washing gloves and an apron
She washes the dishes with fervour
but wonders why she didn't marry Poseidon

For old Zeus was built like thunder
and she used to feel that electricity
but she know as she reaches for the plunger
that his heart feels no pity

you can write poetry without being a poet
I feel Bukowski sometimes wrote without knowing how
or why
just because he was Poetry
like how Gogh painted for love
or for his next meal
not for me
not for we
like how an athlete runs for running
and a singer sings for singing
and a sinner sins for sinning
maybe you can't become a poet
it must be in you from the beginning

and all I can think of is sad things about wood
about how from child to adulthood
it's stuck where its put
and stood where it stood
I wonder if wood would avert its eyes if it could

soaking up the blood of Hemingway's brain
and staring into the grieving eyes of bed ridden Twain
unable to scream at the Adam and Eve, twain
as they fruitfully leapt into the mortal plane

does it retain in its rings and grains
(more than brick walls and marble veins)
memories of plague strains and reining Charlemagnes

do they like their scars and bloodied stains
or is this just a little inane/insane

look at all the Leonard Cohens writing poems
filling their prose with death morose
this isn't a poem for your pleasure
x simply marks there IS a treasure