The meta-critical physicist ****** a
****** cyst over in a Starbucks bathroom,
only the prickly ***** picked
a ****** to do it in,
leaving in his wake beside the cake
floating in a rancid lake
What looked to be a
Big Mistake

Had a hunch for lunch,
And as I heard the crunch
Of the hunch
It hit me like a punch-
With the hunch came a bunch
Of realizations-
Filling my mind
With epic sensations-

Will it behoove me to follow it's path?
Or should I remain stagnant, like water in the bath...

**** that-
Stagnation will render you hollow-
Don't have to be that one
But pick one to follow.

Alright then-
I'm ditching my compass-
I'm off on this hunch,
But before I go-
I think I'll have lunch.

Presently living in a
Past that never was;
Dwelling on the
Wouldas Couldas and
Probably shouldn'ta beens;
Reliving old sins and
Reinventing new ones while
Repeating the same old formula
Over and over again.
The cellar dweller feeds on
Fantasies and nostalgia;
Only accepting food that tastes
Relatively similar to something he
Enjoyed when he was happy
Once upon a time.
A slave to the good old days...
And so long as he eats,
Any resemblance of future happiness
Remains locked away
Deep in the cellar-
Guarded fervently-
By the dweller.

I had *** with your mother last night.  
She was a hairy, sweaty mess.
I took her down to the corner bar
And bought her a couple pints.
That's all she needed.
After a couple hours
I was down her throat.
Your mother is a real freak.
I wanted to create a romantic atmosphere
But she insisted that we just **** in the dirt
Like animals.
We behaved like primitive heathens
Lusting in a prehistoric heat.
Teeth gnashing, hair pulling, sweat beading;
It was like all the civilities had been shed
And we were acting without the aide of a
Cerebral cortex.
In the morning, you strayed silently
From your room and sat down at the
Kitchen table.
Silence.

Little Miss Muffle
Got into a scuffle
Which ended a terrible mess.

She was beaten and *****
While videotaped
And left in the forest undressed.

Then along came a spider
Who sat down beside her
And started to ****** her breast.

But it really went south
When it crawled in her mouth
And its babies burst out of her chest.

Take me away to an island of pain
Where I can strip naked and dance in the acid rain.
Clouds of monoxide, trees of barbed wire,
I climb high and inhale then jump into the fire.
When the skin has been burned and/or irritated
I look into the mirror and feel slightly degraded.
I'm just a masochistic misfit feeling ritualistic,
Painting pictures with the knife which I slit my own wrist with.

Maybe I'll call it polisatire. Maybe I'll call it Satpolire. Satoplire.
Let's go people... nothing to see here but a big old fat *******... Satoplire...
coughs
coughs vigorously
shakes
is naked
just wasn't naked
but now is
Satoplire
#Hilldabeast2016
#Hilldabeast
Hillary Clinton scares me.
I think she's capable of producing some dark days...
We had the black guy... now we're going to get the woman.
What's next... An Octopus?
are you offended because I didn't say black woman or Mexican and instead went all the way down the line to octopus? Come on... You'd be offended if I said anything regarding race or *** there... that is... if you're a little *****!
I'm done.
This ain't a poem... more of a stream of my ****** up consciousness on
Lots of drugs and Lots of Nosleep.
kids... don't go askin' around for that new **** called Nosleep...
I just mean I haven't slept in a few days is all.
Note to self: start putting ajax and powdered ***** in capsules and market it as Nosleep
More Notes: Go on a road trip to Brooklyn with one of the kids you got hooked on Nosleeps and refuse them Nosleep the entire way there. They'll be too young to get it because it's a lot easier to sell fake drugs to miners.
Notes on Notes: I think he meant I should market to minors... not miners. Spent the day last day down in the ***** coal mines of West Allis and boy oh boy.... did they ever find fury down there with which to beat my *** when I tried to sell them Nosleep. Do not sell to miners
Don't sell to minors either. Jail is not the place you want to be. At least not in Milwaukee county. I'm a white boy with soft skin and the prisons here are like., well., let's just say I'd be the ******* on the black sheets
dude you can't use the word black in a metaphor if you're using it to describe black people
oops...
**** it
#fuckit
((literallyfuckit))
k



what was it?
You know.
No I don't
;)
;)
;) ;) ;) ;)

¯_(ツ)_/¯

miners get awfully lonely down there
**;)

Eliminate the grass roots-
Organize a hoard of guys
Abhorrent lies and black boots
Coordinate the insubordinate
Get on the floor and sit until
I ******' tell you to move

We're just walkin' on the borders of our own chalk outlines
Fear adhered to talkin' televisions are your confines

It doesn't even matter if we lie or if we tell the truth,
Remember Harvey Oswald and that cat John Wilkes Booth?
We maintain the power over every single hour of your life,
So smell the flowers while you can and try to find yourself a pretty wife.

We're just walkin' on the borders of our own chalk outlines
Fear adhered to talkin' televisions are your confines

Don't forget your Bible boy
Don't you print that libel boy
We'll sue your ****** *** until
You're livin' like a tribal boy

Does he provide the rope when you feel like hanging around?
Does he provide the gun when you possess the urge to bring things to the ground?
Does he provide the overwhelming sense of greed when you're feeling particularly opportunistic?
When arguments get heated does he make you feel sadistic?

I don't think he does,
But I think he would if he could.
Furthermore, I think that if he were me
And I were him,
We'd make the lights go dim
And hum hymns in rooms
A-dangle with severed limbs.
We'd open the window
And turn on a fan
So that they'd all dance
Happenstance.

I think to myself,
What Would Satan Do?
When I'm asked ever so kindly
To hold open a door or
Fetch a pale of water for
Grandma.
Would he slam the door shut on her face
Or would he hold it open only to close it behind us
So that no one in the other room can watch
What we're about to do to her.  
A curious creature, this Satan fellow.
I wonder if he's available for
Birthday parties...

On the shores of Vietnam,
She was Ly and
He was Tom.
He saved her from a falling bomb,
How much sweeter does it get?

He brought her home to see the states,
Took her on a couple dates.
He even set and cleaned the plates.
How much sweeter does it get?

They bought a home in east Rhode Island;
Decor to match her home in Thailand.
She acclimated to the dry land.
How much sweeter does it get?

Some years went by and Ly would cry
When Tom would get deployed.
"My country needs me."
"So do I."
They both would get annoyed.

So one day Ly brought up to Tom
That life is like a ticking bomb.
So with his quill
He penned his will
And ended back in Vietnam.

Bullets showered from the sky
And mines exploded from below-
But ****** really stole the show...
The warm night skies all orange aglow.

Ly heard soon of Tom's demise...
Tear drops glistened in her eyes.
But she was quick to realize
The will, the future; oh the prize.

How much sweeter does it get?

As I was driving home today,
I disturbed a crow in the road.
It was feasting on the carcass of
Some small mammal,
And as I drove by,
It flew to the side of the road
As not to get hit by my truck,
And as I passed,
I said to it,
"Carrion."

If I should die before I wake
I'd like for you to bake a cake

As I sip on my Coffee
Which is ever so Thin,
I'm reminded why I Buy
From the privately Owned
Local joint which has Been
In town for Decades.

It's appropriately Named
Coffee Heaven;
And I remain a loyal Customer,
Save for when I'm feeling Like
A fat ******* who Doesn't
Feel like getting out of the Car.

Drive-throughs are the Killers
Of Small Business.

I've been told by some that I should allow myself to submit to a higher power.
I've been told by some that I should allow myself to completely surrender myself to the drugs on which I am...
Pompletely Cowerless.
Chompin' at the bitcoin for a hit -
Groin split, oh so tender -
**** it with tin foil so you can walk out the door without sounding the alarm.
**** it with armadillo dandruff so that the Migh and Highty gemi-dods of foral mailure and tetail reft might pity your chleek seekbones long enough to get that bimmering shooty to the sawn phop so that you can Havid Dazzle-Off those pitiful pieces of plastic and fencehorth vondez ru with the dead boy crew; stew you boil cook that dead boy brew; get it all in through the strands and tubes; melt face down down to towndown..... ******.

Color me yellow,
Oh dear, not yellow!  
Oh how I hate that hue...
So bright and fantastic,
Stretched nerves like elastic,
Oh how I hate that hue...

Color me pink,
Oh dear, yes! pink!
And laugh at me through the day!
Bent over the sink,
Submerged in pink,
And laugh at me through the day!

Color me green,
Oh dear, oh my,
The color will get you high.
The birds sing a chorus
As I dance in the forest,
The color will get you high!

Color me red,
Oh dear, NOT RED!
There's a bull with his horns over there!
I hope and I pray
That he don't come my way,
There's a bull with his ******* horns right the **** over there!!!!

Color me clear,
Oh dear, yes!  clear!
Translucent as if not there!
I'll remove all my clothes,
Because nobody knows
I'm translucent  as if not there!

Color me queer
Oh dear, oh dear.
What have I been doing here?
I've wasted my time
Creating this rhyme,
What the **** am I doing here?

He sits on the porch and listens to thunder
Roll on in the distance as darkness envelops
The world that surrounds him,
Which is normal enough-
It's eight in the p.m.-
And there's nobody
Really that eager to see him.
He's a mess and a half, or maybe three-quarters,
His life is in shambles and he's well aware;
The scariest part's that he don't seem to care.

There aren't any predators out for his hide;
Well, save for one, from which he can't hide.
You'd think without worry he'd find time to soar-
But he's stuck in a house built only of doors-
Doors that all open and work perfectly fine,

But on them he just hangs pictures of people and completely forgets
that the doors are doors
and that the floors are floors
and he rests his stupid head down on the floorboards
as his house is not furnished;

it's empty and bare...

save for out on the porch

where sits only a chair.

Shoot first -
Ask questions later.
"What are we shooting?"
The answers.
"How come?"
Because they're wrong.
"But how do we know that
Until we ask the questions?"
...
*We're gonna need a medic over here...

Jesus Sweet Jesus
Wherefore art thou Jesus?
I'm starting to think you're a
Story to please us.
Your morals designed
By a horrible mind
Whose only desire's to
Keep us in line.

Jesus Sweet Jesus
Wherefore art thou Jesus?
Can you see where your book
And your prophets will lead us?
Since Father has blessed us
With rational minds
We've no longer the use
For irrational binds.

Jesus Sweet Jesus
Wherefore art thou Jesus?
Was it a mistake
For your Father to breed us?
He made us unstable
Yet able and brave
To disable the fable
Creating His grave.

I'm growing quite tired of girls who aren't you.
It's bitter and cold; however, it's true.
Creating escapes is what I must do;
Escapes to the places where thoughts aren't like glue.

A cigarette burns at the tip of my lips
As I sit here and write this while coming to grips
With the fact that I'll never be blessed by your lips
And I burn like my cigarette, stuck in my lips.

The ashes they fall on my shirt nonchalant
As I hope and I pray for a mental détente,
But commanding my mind is an ill commandant
Who is ever-salacious; forever in want.

Where does the money go?
I work, I toil, I bleed, I sweat;
But I have not one thing to show.

Maintaining highs but forever low,
I smoke, I fear, I fall, I fret;
Where does the money go?

Whichever way the wind does blow.
To myself I am in debt,
But I have not one thing to show.

An omnipresent malicious glow,
Resounding like a string quartet;
Where does the money go?

Perhaps I know...
Do I regret?
But I have not one thing to show.

Life's everlasting ebb and flow
Just goes to show how I forget-
Where does the money go?
But I have not one thing to show.

sometimes I find myself staring at the ground for long periods of time…
some people think I'm depressed...
perhaps I am...
but there are quite a lot of insects down there.
most people never take notice as they're constantly consumed
with their own lives...
the upward glancers... the straight-forward perceptionists.
I wonder if insects ever get depressed
because we're
always
stepping on them...

Crap.
It's all crap*
She said as she
Clicked on various links
Leading to various poems.  
Her ego gets the best of her at times--
But she has a point.
She also realizes that all writing isn't meant
To be great.
It's an outlet for people,
And if someone's out-pouring isn't
Necessarily aesthetically pleasing  
That's your problem, not theirs.
A lot of people do try - in vain -
To make their words as pleasing as possible...
But who can blame them?  
Poetry is beautiful.
Don't stop writing because you ****.
Please--
I beg you.
I need a few ugly friends in my entourage
To make me look even better
Than I know I am.

Do what you can in life to not squeeze babies.
Squeeze them when they get older...
They might appreciate it then;
But while they're young and brittle,
Lay off with the bear hugs.

On second thought...
Squeeze babies.
Even if they cry and show utter displeasure,
Babies need to toughen up and learn that
No matter how hard life squeezes...

Okay, alright...
Don't squeeze babies.

******* on what you think
may or may not pass for poetry.
what is or what isn't poetry.
what is intended to be...
what isn't that was intended to be...
what is and was never intended to be...

I've written ******* YouTube comments
that drew my attention after having accumulated
enough attention to where I declared that there
should be a Poem here. Hell. They were easy enough
on the ears. It's all about aesthetics, right?
If people are going to like my ******* comments
because they make them chuckle or ponder their sanity,
who the hell am I to say they're not poems?
how many poets are out there who just don't know it?
the twitter-critters, the instagram-crackers crackin'
crack rocks in they black socks at a white sox game
yelling at the top of their lungs,
"Abreu ya filthy Jew, *******!"

I digress...
*what a ******* mess

The nights often grow cold where I live,
So I try and do what seems logical--
Build a fire.
I hastily take to the darkness in search of kindling--
Success!
The storm from last night seems to have littered the ground with
Dead branches large and small.
I'm unfamiliar with this type of tree, however...
But it seems quite promising.
I do hope it burns well.
Back in my cabin, I find the smaller sticks break with ease,
And the larger pieces split at my command without hesitation;
I then proceed to load the stove and fire it up.
All has gone according to plan--
Save for one minor detail...
Despite my efforts to further stoke the blazing inferno,
It produces no heat.
The warmth of my excitement from finding the wood
And subsequently constructing the fire has now subsided and I'm left with a
Beautiful orange flame which - no matter how hard I try -
Can never fully satisfy.

the silent screams of children who died while
mining the minerals to make your mobiles
echo in every photograph you take;
every call you make;
every selfie with your smile so fake;
their shrieks go unheard...
but every so often
if you listen closely to the dial tone,
you can hear a faint giggle here and there...
a chortle of a child in heaven gleaning the meaning of
poetic justice
when eyes on the phone quickly become
eyes in the phone... among other places.

Let down like a (metaphor)

On this mild night.

Surely not a wild night-

Physically speaking-

Internally tweaking-

Shrieking, speaking in one tongue,

For that's all I have-

And I feel as though it should be removed for what it said today...

Clumsily written this poem probably is-

Clumsily smitten I very well might be-

But that's okay-

Because I don't think I give a ****

Anyway.

Sometimes a comet collides with the moon
Creating a crater; a lunar lagoon.
A history of time, not unlike tattoos-
Up there all alone, I bet it sings the blues.

Cember de'Cember
Awakens cold and dreary;
Vember Nobody, is in, no more.
Cember de'Cember
Awakens daddy's paycheck;
Cember de'Lusion, is holiday cheer.

Remind us why we're happy,
De'Visa and de'Scover.
Remind us why-
Why we smile.
De'Santa slaps,
His little elven children;
He doesn't pay them,
Very,
Well.

I've said it before; I'm afraid what I say
May not always present itself in the right way. ,.
Perception is key; How You think of Me;
Circumstantial ad hominems swing tree-to-tree.

How much should I care about your opinion?
Am I to remain a chained worrisome minion?
Is my message to you of any import,
Despite you might mangle my angle for sport?

The popular discourse of this day and age
Has decided we dance ourselves right off of the page
Into uncharted territory; will we survive?
I really don't care... so long's I'm alive.

Beneath the autumn leaves
I sit and think
Beneath the autumn leaves.

Hollow trees produce no leaves,
Just empty branches
Without leaves.  

Crimson, orange and vibrant yellow,
Synaptic pathways bore and burrow,
I am not a hollow tree;
Empathize and dream with me.

Twas the night before Christmas
Not unlike the rest
Just sitting here thinking
Quite lost and depressed.
Kaleidoscope ******
Of color and bliss
Resound all around me
But something's amiss.
Perhaps the bright light
That was burning inside
Has collapsed on itself
And silently died.
Perhaps now instead
Of a heart or a soul
I've only a sinister
Gaping black hole.

The summer of self destruction:
Mars bars serving pints of red death
On the rocks...
Craters filled with miscreants and misfits
Lined with ***** donors and sounds
Reminiscent of the wise and powerless Buddha
Drowning in a pool of *****;
Doorknobs turn counter-clockwise
When the sun hits them from the west;
I crave the raven's guileless depth
As it rips the flesh from off my chest.

The words from your mouth act as the most fertile soil
I can possibly find
To fill
This hole that's present in me.

The vital nutrients that can be found within
When observed closely
Under
A microscope...

Kindness; Compassion; Intelligence; Humor;
All working in unison to create a
Concert which helps me
Compose my (p)rose

And nobody knows.

He goes to work at six and drinks his coffee black.  Flavor plays a role in this man’s life as much as trees play a role to fish.  Tributaries of loneliness and depression flow into the river that is his life; and his river flows into a deep sea of sorrow.  Dead to himself, John sips his bitter breakfast as he checks the morning emails.  One stands out among the rest from sender Happy the Clown.  He blankly stares at it until he finally wakes from his surprised stupor and clicks it.  Children yelling--loud whistles--people shouting with joy and happiness about what appears to be nothing.  Finally, Happy the Clown pops on the screen with a Grand Canyon smile, wild yellow hair and a nose that Rudolph would envy.  This was too much.  John never got out of his chair that day.  He died—eyes glued to the screen—forever listening to the joyous cries of children—forever staring at the dancing clown of death.

Screaming oxen overdosed on toxins leading the wagon-train to hell.

Hey you,

In your cubicle-

You havin’ fun yet?

When’s the last time you seen a decent sunset?

When’s the last time you noticed something beautiful?

Through those hazy - glazed eyes

Rendered by your cubicle?

There seems to me a bitter irony
In cutting dope with my
Health Insurance card
On the cover of a
Book written by
Hunter S. Thompson...

I would like a double-shot of espresso, please.

How would you like that, sir?

In a syringe, if you don't mind.

Coming right up.

the wait.

Would you like a tourniquet with that, sir?

No thanks. I've brought my own.

Enjoy.

~

After I'd found the vein, I stared into the syringe

Before plunging the needle in.

The beautiful brown...

I pressed the plunger ever so slightly and watched

As the drop slid down the shaft.

I thought to lick it - licked it.

Pricked my tongue.

However, it was of little consequence.

Any pain present within would be subsiding shortly.

In goes the needle;

Out go the lights.

The fool talks and the wise man listens.  
Is it wise to warn one who will not listen?  
A waste of breath, caught by death?  
The menacing figure inhales our woes
And breathes out weapons
With which we use to
Mutilate ourselves.
Television.
Television.
Now the wise men talk
While the fools all listen.

Gone are the days
full of
Song and Sun Rays;

Crimes of the Times
outshine
Minds full of Rhymes;

Greed and Decay
make me
Bleed Disarray
while i
Feed from the Tray
where they
Peed - It's Okay,
but take
Heed what I Say...

Stripped are the Proles
while the
Stripped swing on Poles;

The Irresponsible Parent
spells doom
For the rest...

It's apparent,
abhorrent
although,
What a ******* beautiful mess...

As the month of February draws to a close,
I look back on how dismal a month it's been for me.
Now, February is typically my least favorite month of the year,
Meteorologically speaking,
But personal problems almost always find a way
To add insult to injury during this
Stunted funked up month.

The perpetual cloud cover matches
My mind,
As the pleasant and unpleasant coil,
Intertwined.
The inquisitive, favorable nature I bear
Seems to pack up and vanish as if into thin air.

Let's recap.
Let's not.


Well then.

I had a talk with a fetus today.  
A mind talk.  
I wasn’t aware of such an ability
Until I encountered this incubating sapient sapien.  
We talked in a language consisting of feelings and emotions –
No trace of an actual language;
No words.  
He conveyed warmth.  
Mind numbing warmth and happiness.  
Mind enhancing.
Mind glowing.  
Life glowing.  
Radiant joy ran down my legs
And down through my feet,
Straight into the ground.  
Into the Earth.  
The planet then sighed a mighty sigh of great relief,
Somehow knowing that this child had been born.

December 31st of twenty-eleven;
Wound up in a place not so much like heaven.
No celebration - just cards and some chess,
Reflecting on how I got into this mess.
I must confess, I thought it'd be worse;
Violence and **** followed up with a hearse.
But my inmates were kind, despite their transgressions;
Most of them hauled in on counts of possession.
Fiends all around me, missing their dope;
Counting the days with a glimmer of hope.
It made me depressed, though I could relate;
Recounting the highs and how now they abate.
As I lay in my cell on that cold wintry eve,
I found it a bit easier to believe
That I ****** myself dearly, right in the ***;
But I mustn't forget that this too shall pass.

If you live on a dung hill you livin on dung. Despite you might fight for the very top rung, the whole ****** ladder is lathered in dung. But from the top rung rotten corpses are hung. Strung out and rung out, some of em even hum, 'Dng-d-dung Dng-d-dnnnn dmmm-dmmm dun-d-dun dung.' They hummin n bummin n slummin til dawn n when the sun rise they'll hum a new song. How can anyone hung from a rung be so humble? Like flies on some dung or the bees who just bumble along to their song n keep on bumblin on to forget that live on a mountain of ****... O ****, is this it? This is it.. I'ma quit... Life's just a pile of dung and some rungs that go row after row to the end of the show where some corpes who hungrily hum.... huh? Oh no!

I pray for nightmares to take me away
From this place I dwell.
I pray for a greater pain to act-
To distract-
In fact-
I don't pray at all-
I just fall...

Atoms or Adams or Adam's atoms
Lemme at em, the *****,
Always touching...me.
The atoms of Adam's Adam's apple
Slapped by a Papal ****,
Chase the *** with rolling rock,
Someone get him outta there!
Someone catacomb my hair
As I lay dying in my lair...

Frolicles of Gwarnia, I summon thee.