My bed is a mass grave
My toilet is a mass grave
My kitchen sink is a mass grave
Stretched out in lines of chrysalis coke, choking the evanescent life that could have been. Straight into the empty Coca Cola can you go. A litany of atrocity in every bed, futon, desks, truck stop bathroom, camera lens, attempting to capture the genocide on film.
Alas, the lens is Covered with white, bioluminescent death.
Choking the unborn in the ****** drain.
Coffee mug refill, for but a single dime,
sweaty palms connected to strained veins on wrists,
connected to thrusting elbows.
Firing wrist rocket, V2, V1, buzz bomb.
Unsuspecting future citizens, blocks of thousands at a time.
Tadpoles, rotting in murky basement suits the world over.
The war is on.
Auschwitz, Dachau, Sachsenhausen.
Arbeit Macht Frei.
Swim for dear life

All tools are ******* symbols in the eyes of the disillusioned.
The mountains are phalli, the valleys and coves, vulvae.
Cross country crotch rocket, crevasse stretching, rough landscape.
All interconnected, like the bluffs on the beaches, with holes right through.

Ismism
Feminism?
Masculinism?
*Equalism!

Death
Is a fact of life
So what is all this strife
About everlasting life?
I think that would ****
I don't want eternal life
Because I don't want to worry
About where I go after wards
And
The answer
Seems quite simple
You go into the ground
And are eaten by decomposers
Who only get ten percent of the energy consumed
Why?
Do we have to worry about where we are going?
It seems pretty obvious to me

I browse the poems on Hello Poetry
and chance upon yours,
It shakes me to my core,
Like it was written by me, for me.

My thoughts you spread out on display,
My miseries, you named them.
How did you know?
How could you have known?
The blood shed was wiped clean,
The bruises, camouflaged accordingly.

But here, staring at me,
were details of my life,
Penned by a seemingly unknowing entity.

Inclined to turn away,
I quickly close the page,
Goodbye Poet,
Goodbye Poetry!

Life is a brush fire... dreaming.
A penumbra of the void.
Life is where God left His hammer.
A black pearl on black sand.
The one with the blue heart
and the mad men.
Life is thin air made flesh; the pinnacle of divinity-
with a blunt tip.

Days are optional. Nights are mandatory.

That's Life -
Deep down, where we live
in the Future every moment.
Life is a sad
piece.

Wince
at the sun for a nickel,
and that's almost what it feels like
To believe in your soul
but not your eyes.
Life is all
around
you.

A field of poppies
and prank calls.
A flood of Harmonies
alluding
to your
Truth.

That you have no idea
How to play your
instrument -
Is the funny
part.

That it All seems to work.... sheer genius

We are Alive,
and that
Is the pivotal intent
of the Prime
Mover.
The Lucid Grace that All Creation, Made.
A Reflex of an Infinitely Loving
Conundrum -

We are the Children
of a Living Mystery...
from clay,
say some.

But know this.

[ Life is a gift that keeps on Dying ]

and will do it for nothing....  

if you let it.


Life is a Dreaming Cause, A Sleeping Crusade;
Tossed out of Heaven's bed
Into The Cavernous Crib With The Milky Way Mobile
Spiraling in Entropy... Life looks up.
And Life looks down,
With your
eyes.

We are the null set, and the set of all possible sets.
We are the Premise that inspires Love to magnify.
That Lens between the Sun and the Ant
Is your Soul.

Life is not -
exactly.
And Death's a
lazy-Susan.
And Nothingness
is poetry
that bleeds a
moon to
ruin... as high
above -
stars are sliding
fortunes into
cookies
and everywhere
our banquet -

sprawls.

hello ? are you there ? i can hear you breathing sooooo....

here goes.

Spring is when the flowers retch
and we bow our heads. we dread what any ostrich might  dread
and carry On.
but On like
Off.

you keep the furniture but i'll keeeeeeeep the memories.
and thank you for that.
they ****
but you might come by wisdom.
the serpent always lies with truth
and you would be wise
to know the difference
at the County Fair.

just saying

i love you and that is the yes weight
and the high noon trauma.
the unborn cathedral
of tiny smart people
and the near dark
nova.
the grove of our open wound sustains
and the very love of our bleached dream
.... a godless cream
in a crimson
church.

our idols, a dim mirth. and nothing as it seems.

But -

Oh how the awfulness trumps the blue
and the black behind it
shines ! what might we, the feeble guttersnipes do ?
but save a prayer to a dead god
and march to wane fields
behind it...

love-blinded ?

what are your terms ? the Devil may ask of you and you and you ...

but the true quest is a riddlement,
a prune on the throat of a mute Sun
singing the bleak queries
of an afterbirth, after thought
has abandoned
a hazard's guess.

Tomorrow is a crumb of soft words
and a walk of the plank.
The high stench of probable cause
and the noisy stench
of a chaste complaint.
a dreary ruby
groomed in the *****
of the earth
to be the first
fool.

and the last lust.

a complete waste of light
where the darkness falls
like an anvil chanting
a hammer's
song
but tone deaf
and sparks
sadly.