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Waverly Feb 2012
Two things happen
when you get old, your *****
are scratched more
and used less;
your *******
itches more;
two things happen
when you die,
your *****
get ****** up into your esophagus
(two new tonsils)
and your *******
becomes a Kandinsky.

This is not poetry;
but I like to think
about what will happen
to my *****
and
*******
when I die,
and it's humbling
to not know what's going on
down there
when I'm not looking.
Waverly Feb 2012
When things were going great
we'd eat transcendental dinners,
we'd take livers
in rainbow saucers
and ladle them
in tartar sauce
until our mouths
were full of salt,
sometimes we'd go to Thai China
and make interstellar fighters
out of the wise guts
of
cream-colored Starships.

But the nights when we went
to Burger King were the greatest,
we'd have simple dinners:
99 cent burgers
and fries like elephant ears,
we'd sit in our booth
in the corner,
you farting ketchup
out of like
twenty packets
into a red **** pile,
and I farted
like
twenty farts
out of my ***,
but I like
simple things;
they are natural
even if they don't sound
that way.
Waverly Feb 2012
Because before they meet each other
they accentuate the bad in themselves
that want someone
to say
that there is bad in them,
to validate that fact
so much so,
that they intentionally push the good down,
They want to feel evil and ugly
and horrible, because those feelings are safe.

So,
I think, when a lover meets another lover;
meets their residual and their main source,
they feel something beautiful,
something inexplicable,
something they can never put to words,
and so the ugliness returns because
they look at their lover
speechless,
they can't say what they truly feel,
it is the encroachment of everything modern
and fleeting that holds them mute.

But when they see a flower,
they see
something that grew
from a seed,
out of the dirt,
and out of sewage
and ****
and ugliness,
to a stem
climbing against
forces whose entire reason
was to bruise it;
to a bud
holding optimism in its womb,
to a budding,
to the final bloom
to those naked petals
luscious with the perfection
that is watered with pain,
they feel beautiful
because the flower is natural
it remains unspoiled even though
that is not to say there have not been attempts
to spoil it
because the flower will decay.

But
that instantaneous, and inexplicable oneness
they felt when they first encountered the flower
and the beauty it encapuslated;
that moment of clarity,
that moment of pure euphoria
so wordless it became a hurting void;
that feeling will never die.

So, they give each other flowers,
because that memory of instantaneous
and irrevocable beauty, in all of the work
it took to create;
inasmuch as it seems spoiled
and hidden underneath
a canopy of weeds
or in the millions of commercial growhouses;
returns constantly when
they are together,
because humankind has created nothing
when it comes to love,
we have classified it,
objectified it,
destabilized it,
even destroyed it,
but we do not truly know it,
only the unnameable
and inexplicable forces
inside of us
can name it.
Waverly Feb 2012
Every guy has a ***** ball smell,
a putrid essence
that takes a lifting of the sac,
and a not to thorough examination,
to detect.

I detected mine
while working out,
I was on the treadmill
going 7.5 miles an hour,
when I smelled
sour milk.

Ball maintenance
is very important.

I spent about five minutes
down there
with a judicious wash cloth.
Waverly Feb 2012
I am hopeful.

That is all I can be,
hopeful
for redemption
from whatever pain that has been caused,
redemption for those
still plagued by demons.

I do not know
when
your pain will cease,
I do not know
when he will return to you
as the baby
that was always yours.

I am hopeful
that he will return,
and that you will return with him,
not to me,
but to him
and that he will be
with wet wings
for you to lick
dry,
to the hope
that once made you whole,
to the goodness
deep inside of you
like a taproot
that still reaches out,
I am hopeful
for the sun
and the hunger
for
radiation
and so much
heat; heat
you wouldn't believe;
heat that makes humans,
human again.

I know that you will eventually
be all right,
I know this.

Do you know what?
I've changed my mind.

Maybe hope is stupid,
maybe hope is just something
people use to get out of bed
and not **** everyone,
I will commit a homicide right now,
with the gun of my tongue
and say,
"I am no longer hopeful,
I am sure."
Waverly Feb 2012
The times
were great, greater than
most;
the pulse
was rapid
and fired constantly;
the worm's
saliva
was sweet
and made the earth rumble;
the coffee dripped and
my tongue looped
to my intestines
to lick caffeine
off of the inner walls;
the sanctity of the mind
disintegrated;
the fabric of it
became singular
disconnected threads;
everything became drastic
and instantaneous;
my teeth dissolved
because they could not survive
this tongue of destruction;
I will eat again
but it will taste like iron
that has been grounded
into a soupy meal;
the mouth is a bitter place;
its bacteria
are swollen
like the arteries
of a vacuum clogged
with desolation
and *****.
Waverly Feb 2012
A girl flicked a lighter next to me,
she flicked it on
as the whole room pulsed
and I felt strange
because her skin was on mine,
and Stephen rolled
on stage.

The cloud in the room
was thick and it was
a fog of Marlboros, Virginia Slims,
Menthols, Menthol Lights, Kools,
and all other sorts of ghosts.

Stephen made fire with his hands,
flailed like a marionette
and let the spirits loose.

He blew a baritone:
"I feel like we can really get close to each other,
in this tiny room."

Demons
can rise
and make fire;
can rise and make your belly feel
like hell
and molasses:
black and sweet.

Demons
can rise together
and make love
in a tiny room
that crackles.
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