******* poets are we
slinging
crying
and singing
misnomers and malaphors
scratched into rust-colored doors
smeared in intestinal gore
across **** sticky floors
papered in Charmin strewn moors
like the wastelands of yore
distended and sore
wretching on all fours
expelling the night before
cheap ***** dripping from every pore
praying for death or horrible more
clinging
tingling
barely blinking
desperate to be free
of this porcelain soap box
its dysfunctional lock
the ghosts of **** dripping *****
and passed kidney rocks
unwelcome janitorial knocks
and quizzical stall walks
amid foul tossed jocks
and the occasional **** crusted sock
doom scrolling TikTok
and its bizarre philosophical flock
of fame addled crocks
helping dislodging this ******* gut block
thinking
cringing
and cramping
just needing to ******* ***

They took all my ****
and I didn't really care
So thought my dream self

enwombed
among the
sullen pine
gritty
grainy
grungy
with
past friends
of mine
here we stand
where once
we fell
to
buckskin glove
and
pitchfork tine
on
needled duff
drunk
on
honey wine
alone now
among the
sullen pine
entombed

we are
all of us
junkies
who said that
Burroughs maybe
some
behavioral scientist
some article
some ******
meme Steve
as I lay here
sleepless
helpless
basking
in the glow of
my anxiety abyss
my dopamine
doom box
my window
into the lies
of the reality
to which I
enslave myself
pondering
salvation
and
slavation
thinking
Maynard was right
we are
indeed
in need
of a good
flushing
from Mom
thinking
I knew a girl
who knew a girl
some hog goblin
who used to
blow him
whenever he
passed through
Dallas

one day
you too
will
not know
you never
existed

And they sat as equals in the first times. Those who measured the eons as days. The Morningstar and their Creator, watching the People. They will love what I gave them. The sun, the earth, the air, and the water. Their love will be praise, their tribute to my Creation. The Morningstar, keener in the ways of the People, disagreed. No, some will see your gifts as their blessings, and theirs alone. They will band in like mind and hate others for their ways of praise. They will become keepers of their own truths. Liars in guise of your Word. Their praise will become death. This they will call Religion. As they spake, it became so, and the Devil was born. Hell soon followed, in the wake of the Morningstar.

Reality is
most real
at 0300
**** the
Witch of November
that dizzy *****
ain't got ****
on the
titanocunt of the morning
angel
The proverbial Kong
to our collective
Denzel
That hag
cuts cold
cuts pure
like the
fine Colombian
of
fabled yore
Cuts deep
through the hazy
procastinatory fog
of the day's
delusional din
Hey Nineteen
ye
I remember you too
Sleep tight
you Simple Minded
sonofabitch
And
don't you
don't you
forget about me
'Cause I'm acomin'
comin' 'round that corner
with
Krueger claws
and krugerrands
'Cause this old man
is definitely
too old for
this ****

Mostly
he'd just
like to
sleep

Forget that
bad moon
The shitstorm
currently rising
will assuredly
drown whatever
devils dance
its pale
lunar glow
Forever eventing
the pimply
horror horizon
of our
collective global
political shitshow

Who felled the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
Who'd do such a thing,
who'd want the rap?
Someone weak of knee,
I think.
Wanting of wood,
no doubt
(it reaching no more than three,
you see),
and in dire need of its
robust and ruddy sap.

Who planted the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
Its seed ensconced,
mayhap,
a hundred years past
(or three),
by a wigged wiggly lass,
sporting and wee,
riding wild a
brigand Dragoon
on some fine
Imperial
British afternoon.
The sewn and
sprouting stone
assuredly
shaken from
her silken
pantaloon.

Who felled the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
I dunno, prolly
the Russians.

Holy wars
Holy land
*******
that is some
toxic *******
Unholy desert
sand

**** bottles
and
mummified diapers
countless
broken bottle shards
twinkling among
innumerable more
road beer remnants
long since tossed
hubcaps
random
other bits
of chrome
license plates
and the odd
abandoned
*******
America the Beautiful
echoes with
each passing
semi
laden with the
necessaries of
capitalist progress
and
good
old
Christian
morality
shining bright
in the tears
of the
bypassed Native
crooked crosses
and
plastic flowers
mark and
memorialize
those lost
to the pursuit
of the
dream

We all hover
at the edge of
an abyss
of our own
making

A bit
hyperbolic
that

Certainly we
should allow room
for happenstance
in the
manifestation

But surely
our own doings
comings and goings
thisings and thatings
and raw
human
fuckallings
help shape
the void

Tinge the darkness
ever raven

Don't call me
Shirley
my mind bellows

That

That likely
accounts for
much of
my problem

I want to feel the weight
of the decades
in each turned page
Inhale the wizened nicotine effervescence
of the past

Ponder the origins
unclean
biological
ontological
*******
maniacal
of the sticky stains and splotches
amid the typeface

Spy the minute grains
of illicit substance
clinging to the binding
junkified
rarified
*******
hospitalized
truly unbound
screaming
through the ages

Hark the shoeless
crackhead cackles
Christ is Dead
*******
Gimme a dolla
instead
That I  
might better mark
the pages of this arcane
insanity

You see
her gstring is still wet
from the pole
and I would like to keep
these pages
as bright as
those holes

How would you
describe yourself
Dull and witless
Like Colin Meloy
No
I think he was
being
cleverly ironical
In my case
its just
sad
literal
*******
truth
And he already
snagged
the username
Ye
Ye
Welp
good luck with that
buddy
K
thanks

I will
remember him
when in the mountains
and in the valleys
between
On the dusty trail
over old bones
through the legends
unseen
Where the rain
runs off the stones
And the ghosts
of the past
wail forever
alone

I will
remember him

Hey you
don't you
Hide and Seek
in my driveway
don't play there
don't you
drive there

I'll have to
put a bullet in
you

Hey you
don't open
my car door
don't you
sit there
don't you
dare

I'll have to
put a bullet in
you

Hey you
don't knock
at my
house door
don't you
put your
hand there
don't you
dare
touch
there

I'll have to
put a bullet in
you

I don't like
you
I'm scared of
you
And since I can't
put IT in
you

I'll have to put
a bullet in
you

round the corner
lay a folly
whose folly
reads
immortal
time
immemorial
the asp
great coiling
wispy
and
ignorant

can you
imagine
betwixt
the paint
the ****
the ****
and
the Blow
blown away
lay
a Basquiat
a SAMO quote
in Sharpied SAMese
or a Warhol can
wryly scribbled
while getting
blown
in the can
for a good time
call
Todd

fish
they just see the
bait
they don't take the
time
to look down the
line

I honestly
couldn't give a ****
is my new mantra
Why the ****
did you ask
if you didn't want
an answer
Just wanted
to *****
I get it
Just *******
say so
I'm here
to not listen
to whatever
contrived pettiness
is in your
heart
I can hang
with the best
of them
usually

on the slow train
out of my mind
listening
to the slow rain
of my decline

I did it
I helped her
get it

How did
you do it

I listened to Ministry
and licked goat ***
and made incantations
to Martha Plimpton
Queen of my ******
and thereby gained
unnatural powers
through
a demonic deviant
Fallen
among the fallen
Asmodeus
I think
The ability to
dematerialize and
materialize and
spirit
my ***** sinners
to murderous intent

What was it
What kind

The goat
Anatolian Black
I think

No
Male or Female

Does it matter
when youre licking
goat ***

This all true

Yes
it is
absolutely true
All goat ***
tastes the same
Jourgensen
will back me up
on that

It is
also possible
I just drove them

my Sisters
my Mothers
my Daughters
my Friends

It is
after all
the very least
I could have done

What lies
beyond the fog
of the deepest sleep
The void
vast
black
and
harmonic

armchair patriots
fair weather
brothers in arms
foxhole liberalists
will fight for your
freedom
but not if you ask
not if you really need
liberation
and
only if
the financials
square
and
the fiduciaries
concur
and
you know
the polls are
favorable

It's just a
matter of
clever simplicity
or
simple clevericity
said I to she
It's more a
question of
earnest felicity
and
abstract electricity
said she to me
though we both
could agree
*******
is
*******
however masked
implicitly

1.5 oz Bulleit Rye
0.5 oz Gallo Extra Dry Vermouth
0.25 oz Mezzetta Olive Juice
3 dashes Angostura Bitters
Stir with
3 cold Mezzetta Garlic Stuffed Olives
on a Frankie's swizzle

Drink this and remember me
It is the depth of my sorrow
The shallowness of my pain
The blood of my anger
My testament
Bear witness
to the sins of my father
Writ in the ugliness of me
Drink this and shudder
It is my undoing
The unraveling of light
A consummation of the dark

Drink this and remember me

suffocating and suffocated
under the weight
of my own failure
to recognize
that which
was
right
the
****
in front of me

great
life is great

the cold
reality
of a painted wall
usually just a blur
in the backvision
but sometimes
you look close
focus
see the chips
the old paint jobs
the smudges
the stains
and sundry
ad nauseam
shadowed light
texturing
the otherwise
inert
to show
fiery grotesque
demons
wings ablaze
or malicious eyes
watching
what those eyes
may have seen
may best
to have been
lost
to history
perhaps
the best
are
wonder which
are not
fights
drunken pleas
bad ***
sad ***
no ***
sleepless nights
certainly a lot of
ESPN
perhaps
perhaps this
is the
last place
I will ever
sleep

I miss her
Where did she go
Her voice
The calm
Her glow
The sway of her hips
Hypnotic and slow
A classic bit of
to and fro
I assume we all eventually
took our toll
Too many wanted a piece
Just a little too much of
her soul
Wore her thin
Blocked her magic
Devoured her flow
I hope she's happy out there
Maybe somewhere
in the snow
Strange to
miss someone you don't
really know
I just miss her
sometimes
That's all I
really know

I'm tired
of those nights
staring out behind
my eyelids
across the cold horizon
of reality
The bleakness of a future
dying twilight
twinkling
at the break
Nothing but
impossible choices
and hard truths
breaking the visage
Thoughts of tomorrow
and eternity
intertwined
like
Dark Lovers
screaming
the ecstasy of a
shared doom
in their embrace
on the distant shore
The reverberations
of their
passion
ricocheting
through my skull
in a constant dull
hum
Christ
that **** really *****

I dreamt he sent
a care package
A shabby box
filled with
wall sconces
from his
******* apartment
half filled tablets
thoughts and doodles
with a note
to not abuse
substances
and a really nice
vinyl pressing of
some nineties
spoken word piece
with one or
another unknown
ska
alt rock
grunge
band
That sure was nice
of him
I must have
sent some good
psychic *****
Spirits
they call it

I think what I liked most was that she
liked me or seemed to for a time Elegance manifest tall and slim red pixied hair cool and chic another word for elegant

you get the point

She was magic between the sheets they dripped imbued with her I began to believe that she loved the idea of me as much as I loved the idea of her

But

We had agreed it was just a moment The city called it needed her I knew it

she was made for it

And yet the want it called it needed that high Insecurity and vanity won out or just grew until the butthurt set in

And we ended

All things pure are ruined by
butthurt boys

I want to cover the bathroom walls in vintage framed prints of Europe Really class the ******* up a bit with street scenes of Notre Dame and Westminster Abbey After I die they will remove the prints to find the spaces between yellowed with age or wonder if I just ****** on the walls over the years A little probably but not that high up I am not a savant But perhaps I am That would be cool Something to hang my hat on A story for the generations That old man really was something

I am
an American
******

Cruising the waves
I cruise
aside a brunette beauty
in tanned glistening nothing
with lips that taste of
nicotine and Dentyne
and portside ***
and her

Whales breach starboard
majestic and grand
Other whales breach nearer astern
aflail french fries and ranch dressing
oppressive and loud
always half dressed
in too little

Two too young girls in too little still
stride the decks
all peaches and cream
catching lecherous gazes from old men and dried ketchup kisses from
little boys
blown
astray

Breakfast at noon dinner at six
coladas and beer every half hour between
and pizza by the plate after **** drunk
*** 'n' Coke
sing alongs with Lizzy to
Billy J. and the Eagles

Santiago
Captain of the salt stripped
El Pablito
shows us where
the Pacific and Cortez
****
amid sea foam
and sea lion ****

No gracias
echoes
down
the
shore

¿Maybe some mota señor?
or
¿Candy for the nose?

Aboard
Tomislav serves teeny 'tinis to
mustachioed **** in
sport coat bravado
smoking ****
dropping the ashes
in their
frosted glasses
sipping slow
waiting
to dance
or sing
or both

thinking

about this
Miracle
we cruise

I need a Bleh Book

Somewhere to dump the random cacaphony of **** ricocheting against
the thinning vault of my skull like a prison yard handball

Nowhere to go but in perpetual motion nonetheless

Drolly counting a cadence without the revelry of enlightenment or the hope of release

What should be pearls of wisdom precipitously condensed by the weight of time within an elegant carapace formed under the irradescent glow of a witches moon are just chili seeds gathering dust
in an old septic tank rusting under a dimming streetlight in an Albuquerque back alley

Hard kernel remnants of rellenos long since evacuated

Maybe this is it
My book

So
Bleh *******

You
are
welcome

I would be
Savage
but
Meticulous
take my time
Explore
Peel
back to the
Workings
I would need
to see
the soul
Rip
Savor
the gasp
of the end
Would it be
enough

People want clarity
not truth
The resolution of
confusion
whether or not
resolution
reflects
reality
If the threshold for
resolution
is just enough
to whet
the mind
then the interpretation
becomes
fact
becomes
reality
becomes
so
Besides
what is our reality
if not
an interpretation
wrought by
the mind

I do not think he would
begrudge a wine tinted
smudge on the page
a blush of the blushest blush
akin to the blood of life
the cup that is filled and overfloweth
blood into wine
the Book's little innuendos
coyly writ for the quiet amusement
of chastened monks
Christ what a waste
not the man mind you
the Word
the words
lost in the compounded
ignorance of millenia
I prefer them stained red
honest on back-lit pages
Who
after all
could begrudge honesty
History it seems

Well whiskey and a Rock Springs girl,
in one Cowboy Bar or another,
waiting for the ceiling to swirl.
She says she wants to be a mother,
I just want to see her toes curl,
but I wonder if it's worth the bother.

She's lost herself to the endless wind,
thinks anywhere else must be better.
Feels her life's been pinned,
to the tail of an *** unfettered.

I don't want to tell her,
there isn't any place better.
Same **** everywhere you go,
tempered hard and stupid slow.

It's with whom you take the ride,
but God knows she's tried.
Just one ******* after the other,
and I sure as **** ain't a father.

I'll just sit with her awhile,
hope she adds me to the pile.
A drifter liar and her next mistake,
busy working the rigs for my own big break,

until my life's been pinned,
to the tail of an *** unfettered.

Square
Bland
Insubstantial
Brittle

The fairytale of America
is dead to me
Killed by a ******* in horns
Maybe my veil has simply been lifted
Long has it been so for others
while still others never knew
its comforting shade
A reverence as meaningful now
as that for Santa Claus
Was my faith so brittle so ignorant
Is it still
Seems so
**** I don't know
I need to visit those stones again
let them speak through the cold
They were never silent but
maybe now I won't be deaf to their story
maybe now I'll listen
maybe now

I love rambling cacophonies of abstraction words dripping lust plush and velvety sugared in pipe tobacco like Jack Rubys old joint no symbols to trip the flow odd bits of alliteration skipping stones slowly along the rails in legion divergent trains of thought but I am no McCarthy probing the inner turmoil of the Southern mind maybe riding I will tap out a poem about a poet writing poetry God I hate that **** or maybe something referencing my username the song Bad Company off the album Bad Company by the band Bad Company thrice I have called thy name and thus I do bind thee oh well you are what you eat I suppose to which I would usually respond ***** a bit crass maybe pretty ******* too hah **** it its just wordsandshit WordsandotherTrash

What colors are the stars?
I asked her,
a spectrum of
twinkling hues
cast against the
ceiling,
blinking from
the beast's shell.
What magic she must perceive
behind her eyes?
Ancient stories
wrought in the fabric
of her DNA,
distant memories
ages old
of times around
the fires.

A flock of sheep in sheep's clothing each of whom fancy themselves lone wolves when really they just follow the ******* in front of them as sheep are wont to do.

As we usher in a new Dark Age giddy at the prospect of renewed ignorance where faith in absurdity lights the way and opinion is fact if it's shouted loud and long and our plagues descend not from evolving microorganisms but vengeful spirits aloft and doctors become the spiteful magicians next door I find myself curious who first will burn for the sake of reality?

Confucius say...you can't fix stupid, *******, everyone burn.

There's an abstraction
to the story of the road
Moments of clarity
stitched together
behind blurry eyes
yarning the tale
Legion threads
of asphalt
singeing
singing
a web
of need
and desire
Backlit reflections
of headlights in chrome
Eyes behind eyes
guiding the way
nowhere
and
everywhere

A true
Banana Republican
he claims
fraudulent results
due to
American intervention

she left her boots
by the door
dying
she killed a piece of me
on that floor
crying
doesn't seem to do any good
not anymore
idling
the day writing
maybe strumming
a few chords
trying
to move through
not past
and my best
not to score
plying
the pages
I'll pen a few lines
and a few lines more
and a few lines more
and a few lines more

because there is no truth
not in ending
not by
the door

There are
corners for
open secrets
as in
a dream

Adolescence
cast
in long
brutal
shadows
by a waning
midday
light

Scents
of bound
whispers
echoing
through
the stacks

The promise
of fantasy
in reality
amid the
fading
week's
end

Another day
trudging a
blistered shitscape
shuffling a
burning hellscape
tripping a
melted fuckscape

Mars or
the 40
there is
no escape
I need
that pay