Love's embrace, once gracing comfort,
Encased in blackest shadow slumbers
Through the sweetest, softest pleads
And leaves hearts heaving, wrought with need.

A creature's wail for understanding,
A confusing nuisance to the neighbor.
A gruesome scream all too demanding,
Taken lightly by a stranger.

If love could do a dove one favor
And reassure it of its safety,
Maybe she could quit her labor
And fall asleep just like a baby.

Though strong bonds ensure endurance,
A chirp unheard turns quick to hurting.
Deserted birds incur the worst things,
Left to wonder if it's deserved.

A foolish choice two hearts arrange,
Songbirds sing without an aim.
Love, which always starts with play
Ends mainly with its victims maimed.

That's just how it goes for most:
The greatest wave degrades the coast.
Still, we light potential tinder,
Hoping once, love stays for dinner.

You haven't quite lived till you've bred.
At least that's what my old doctor said.

He said, 'You haven't quite lived till you've greyed;
Not till youre weathered, abrasive, decayed,
Not till you've worked your own bones to the grave
And believe life's a grand play without meaning or make.

'Doctor, I feel bad,
Negative, scared.
Sometimes I don't bother
Brushing my hair.'

'Ah yes, I've seen this,
Many times before!
Clearly, you're INSANE! I implore you not to attempt a self refection.
You need my own intervention.'

He called my soul's crying a shocking anomaly.
He gave me these pills that 'will give me autonomy';
'You've got to be medicated in this **** economy.'

I got a new doctor, but that doctor ***** too.
Why does this happen to me? What should I do?

'How I love you, how I do!'
Said the hammock to the noose.
'Thank you kindly, much ado,'
Fled the bluebird from the goose.

Then said the bonnet to the bee:
'I've been there for you all along,
'I'm so patient, caring, strong;
So why's it that you don't love me?'

'Sting I must and sting I do.
I have my reasons – good ones too.
This doesn't mean I don't love you.'

He leaves in a hurry
I need him to stay
Otherwise worry
Becomes my day-to-day

A dozen short poems
Forgiveness abound
In order to show him
I want him around

I tell him I'm broken
I need to be fixed
He says that he's hoping
I'll get over it

There she goes again, weeping
Can't she see I'm trying to play Minecraft?

There she goes again, screaming
Banging her head into the floor
She's probably banging other men too

I said:
Maybe if you spent more time on dinner
You would have a healthy outlet
To distract you from these troublesome emotions
And there she goes again,
Weeping

I counted meticulously each mark on your marred body
Realization: More freckles on your left hand than days we had left together.
Shedding tears: in the Japanese restaurant.
A couple of them fall into my Miso; you scold me.
I'm sorry.

Great, another Bukowski dickrider (me).
We get it, your substance abuse issues are your muse,
And you're very,
Very misunderstood.

My mother informed me
That Fireball the horse
Had passed on a temperate Fall night.
She'd waited to tell me
Till I'd finished my course,
And assured me things at home were alright.
We'd called him Fireball because his chestnut velvet
Glinted auburn in the morning sun,
And endowed with a massive pelvis,
He kicked hard as a hot son of a gun.

Fireball was just like Dad,
In that, if you, weary, had ever needed a lift,
They'd both have carried you on muscled backs.

Grief ridden in the big city, I grew ill.
A meddlesome misery settled unkindly
As I thought still of Fireball fondly.
Then a thought dawned upon me:
If Heaven's so mighty,
How will Fireball find me?

The small-bodied, spotted sparrow
Perched perky on my red wheelbarrow.
All day she spent pecking recklessly at my red paint –
**** that peckish, speckled devil-*****!

My brand new wheelbarrow, chipped!
A certain someone had to pay.
But that scheming little ***** had dipped
As soon as I'd seen the decay.

I cried hard inside my domicile,
Wishing witch's curses on that bird.
I wish she'd die by homicide –
A gruesome death would be preferred.

Departure from a dream shook my body
And as my brain forced re-entry, I raged
After months of senseless self debate
And with certain truths uncovered
After much undue confusion
Recently, I reasonably concluded
That love is one unfeasible delusion.

His parents, so wrinkled they crinkle as they walk
Die a little more before his eyes each dreary day.
The engine of his humble Honda, which propels him to his moderately paying career at Some Office,
Has been producing increasingly strange sounds.
If it breaks down now, he won't be able to afford the vet bills
For the one-legged burden he never actually wanted.

God have mercy on this awful creature
Whose wife does not **** him,
Whose daughter does not love him!

The abominable man, made from supple flesh, brimming with consciousness and autonomy, gifted with a tremendously tender human soul,
Marred only meticulously to allow for contrast and distinction –
This incredible creature, crafted by a most divine creator, was designed, unfortunately,
Mainly to toil in complete vain!

Most nights his subconscious
Gifts him the same dream:
Sirens sounding, feet pounding
Suburban pavement, he's just rounding
The corner and another group of police cars are
Staked out waiting for him,
So he drives straight into the nearest vehicle
And dies blissfully.

The man, upon waking,
Dutifully forgets his dreams,
Careful as he is
Not to be carried away by escapist whimsy –
7 am on a Tuesday, though,
Is an exquisite time
To eat a wheat bagel
Before cutting your lawn.

After tender feelings fade
And hard ones follow suit
I still think about you babe
And I still think you're cute

After we knew for certain
We were done being in love
We closed the final curtains
And pushed it all under the rug

But darling I adore you
Even more now than before
And sweetheart I implore you
To remember what we were

A little despair got in despite my locked doors and windows
Despair buzzing through my apartment like a mosquito
I put on some Jazz and, pressing my ear against the speaker,
Listened until I heard something new:
Tinnitus.

Despair
Bore a sense of smug entitlement
Spread out with an impudent disregard,
Cooling carelessly its hot thighs on my Italian leather

I admit to inching closer,
And tweaking for another taste
It reached its warm hands over
Towards my pallid face

But nobly I pulled back before
The thing made me its prey
Then I sat there waiting for
Despair to go away

A divine creature sweetly dying
(The swan with sprained wings
and bald spots from digging her broken beak into the skin beneath the feathers)
Falls apart no more or less gracefully than a China-made toy.
Her pieces, once disassembled, make tragically languid laps around the surface of the lake.

Arbitrarily I decided that day would be THE day,
The day I stopped loving you.
I decided instead to go floating.
But to be honest with you,
I didn't feel like a swan.
I felt like garbage.

As the day grew to night, I realized it —
No one was coming to pick me up.

Last night I gleaned the bean within a dream
I picked him up, to sneak a closer peek:
Small in stature, held in high esteem,
I ate him with a sense of awe indeed.

He fed me with protein and fiber -
Without complaint or expectation!
I washed him down with apple cider,
And shat out their amalgamation!

Lovely as all beans can be essentially
Teeming with a truly wholesome beauty
He hugged my gut somewhat caressingly
As he made his patient trek right through me.

Such a fine gentleman is rarely seen;
If only we could be that bean!

The struggling fish flopped about, needlessly,
As the starved hawk cawed in distance near.
Slapping its ugly flesh down repeatedly,
Drumming funeral songs on bespeckled pier.

The bucking trout stopped breathing,
Unconsciously consumed by dismal fear.
As its respiration grew more measly,
The hawk’s path twinkled crystal clear.

Above the sea, the hawk glid greedily
As the wind’s whipping arms flailed ceaselessly
Above the sea, the trout stared beadily
As the sea’s mouth foamed and fizzled tearfully.

The belly of the bird, how it churned so needily
And the belly of the fish, how it tore so easily.

The floorboards of my psyche
creak, aching to be seen.
None perceive beneath skin deep,
which continuously treads on me.

Finding voluntary grasp
on reality repugnant,
I made a momentary lapse
of judgement, which collapsed
into sustained abundance.

You don’t like to be arranged -
strange; I don’t think many would.
Just because you can change, though,
doesn’t mean you should.
Doing so, there’s a good chance
that you’ll remain misunderstood.

Good men penniless,
Bad men rich
Where there is ignorance
There is bliss.

Sure as the rising tide,
I'm sure to change my mind.
Much like an aurevoir,
I signify goodbyes.

Sinners fester better in the church,
those Sunday vermin
Pay rapt attention to the sermon,
Those ratdastardly *******
Listen in rapture to the pastor,
Go straight home and beat they meat after
Describe their niece into the searchbar
So they can watch some actors clap her.

What am I?
Insignificant.
Who am I?
Undetermined.

I guess I'm just a riddling troll under a crumbling bridge.
I'm angry as ****,
And I been for a bit.
******* and **** me too,
And **** all this ****.

Here she comes, a runaway train

I chase her, pleading
Please, baby
Take me back!

She doesn't hear me,
(She is a train)
And speeds off.

You disappeared into the night
and I woke up to an empty tent.
We'd gone camping, and you'd just up and left.

Dude, there was hardly any food,
and I guess my noisy sobbing had attracted a raccoon.
He approached me somewhat reluctantly
but soon, we began to spoon.

His little claws clung to my shirt,
which hurt, and he smelled sad.
He started to take this thing we had
a little bit too far;
I prayed suddenly for the rumbling
of Tom's oncoming car.

As the raccoon began to **** my back,
I closed my eyes and missed my dad.

I brought Patsy to Petsmart for a while
and walked her through the aisles.
I bought her a new collar for ten dollars
so that she could strut with style.

We went to Wendy's for dinner
and she got ketchup on her feathers.

Will I go to hell
if I fed my chicken
chicken fingers?

She spread her legs and said "eat this *****!"
I said I couldn't, because it was Ramadan.
She slammed her legs shut
like a door closed in anger
and told me to "eat ****, then!"
but I couldn't,
because it was Ramadan.

I am a man in the woods
I am a saint amongst squirrels
I am
sitting high in a tree,
giggling, pelting twigs at hikers
but only the girls

I mostly eat sticks
but there's been a stick shortage
sometimes i use mud and *** to make porridge
but for some weird reason
it makes my **** orange

fellas, my eyelids are folding inwards
and so are my innards
but i shat out some dirt earlier
so at least we have dinner
<3

From the beach I grabbed a girl
Who said she wouldn’t tell.
She was a precious pearl,
Trapped inside my oyster shell.

Next time I struck,
I stuck those ****
Into garbage bags
And the garbage bags
Into my truck

Wet from rain, I smoked a cig
down to the filter;
It was official!
I was a killer.

I murdered several more in between
But those memories exist for me
To relive in my quiet dreams.
The only one you need to know is
My final victim, Samantha Koenig.

I sewed her eyelids open wide
To take a ransom picture
And then I went inside
With my family to eat dinner.

They caught me in Texas; I was done
In by her credit card
Which I'd stolen from
Her boyfriend’s unlocked car.

I said, if my daughter doesn’t have to know
That I killed a bunch of worthless hoes,
I’ll tell you where the others are.

But before the beans could spill,
I wrapped my hands around my throat
In the small comfort of my cell
Until my labored breathing stilled
And I made my merry way to hell.

Little green men,
on the streets;
eating fake meats
and bumping sick beats.

scrubbing the grime from my skin,
cutting my nails with a knife,
plucking the hairs on my chin,
oh my god, this is the life.

taking care of yourself is in style
and being hygenic is fun;
shower just every once and a while,
and dry off well when you're done.

i pick big scabs from my flat ***
and brush my teeth until they're white.
daily, i eat eyeballs en masse
in hopes of improving my sight.

being hygenic is fun
and taking care of yourself is in style.
this body is your only one
so treat it gently like a crying child.

my boyfriend is a horde of rats,
and no, i'm not just lonely.
this is no delusion, Pat,
i feed him cheez-its
and he loves me.

i give him fancy clothes to wear;
he sleeps below the kitchen sink.
i give him little baths in there
when he begins to stink.

got an issue?
kiss my ***.
love is love,
and that is that.

fear, it looms
like jack the ripper.
midnight monsoon
oozes into my room -
shadows seethe and slither
like fervent snakes.
wild winds whir by abloom
in sharp, unnerving whispers,
leaving little in their wake -
fear: it takes, and takes, and takes
and rarely does it make mistakes.

i am running out
of patience and time
of money and ****
of my house naked

i am a product
of bad parenting
of good parenting
so buy me

bruh, *******! it’s useless.
i’m moving to nantucket, massachusetts.

ill pack my bags
and my ol doorags

and you better believe
I’ll bring Roofus,

formerly known
as the family pug —

smugly, he rests his ugly mug snugly on mine.
we think we’re better off on our own.

run out of misery
or it will outrun you
like usain bolt.

never join sam's club -
it is not a grocery store,
it is a cult.

if you get a girl
pregnant
it isn't your fault;

you'll understand more
when you're an adult.

the sun heats the water
to a scalding soup;
his skin boils like its cooking.
he rises from the sea,
untethered and free
like the loch ness monster
when no one is  looking.

he sinks into the water,
pretends to be a starfish,
and regrows his limbs.
he goes home, with sand
in his gucci flip flops
and plays him some sims.

the strangest sight does not perturb me
the strongest wind can not rustle me
i have seen the grass grow and die
i've seen the vultures feast and fly
i am a helpless standerby

i tip my hat
to the crows who land on my shoulder as if to say,
"you do not scare me,"
for i do not mean to.

Dying one by one, day by dying day, unphased, we dug you makeshift graves, as players in nature’s ****** games. Oh, calf I sat with all night, as you went out like the light of a staggering candle - half the way I felt, smoothing out your ratted pelt, prepared me not to gaze but glare at God.

Weary, we carried your bodies and buried them in the backyard; not hard, you just need a tractor or a strong stomach. We lifted your body down into wet mud, which swiftly sunk it. Plunk - we set down our shovels. The other cows huddled in a bubble ‘round your place of rest, bereft - and then, I’m sorry, but we left.

“gas your trash paintings of jesus’ head
and exchange your cross for some cash.
It’s a known fact that god is dead; we fought,
he and i -  bashed, he passed,
simply automatic, undramatic as that.
I yelled to the sky, “the guy is gone, at last!”
I danced on his grave and bade his descent,
and the next holy role call, he was marked absent.”
-Hehehehe in Hell

“just shut it, satan,
you are the worst.
i’m writing a poem,
go eat some dirt.”
-Wisdom William

friends are not objects to keep.
they have lives beyond you,
and more important things to do.
they're ever-changing as the leaves,
with shifting values and beliefs.

solitude's a sickness, that creeps
and crawls, a savvy spider;
solitude's a sneaky snake, a viper, coiling tighter.

soon, you will get used to it, the lack
of laughter, the endless quiet.
then you will make friends anew,
but someday soon, they will leave too,
you can't do much to fight it.

starved for your tepid touch,
i don't speak, and don't ask much.

i can't give you what he can;
i can’t even be a man,

but i've never known such class
as your tapping on my glass.

simply, i like you a lot;
it's too bad i've got fin rot.

i'm a COOL baby,
i ride a motorcycle.
vroom vroom; i'm leaving.

how to write wit that resonates?
how can i break through to you?
what if i can't satiate
the reader's need for gloom and doom?
perhaps i want to write about
my dog and not my misery.
he's got a tiny snout! i shout.
he's small, yet long! i declare,
but no one seems to ******* care.

there is a look my mother wears
when she bears bad news,
like she is sorry to be speaking.
she reeked of sorrow and cheap *****;
her voice is ugly when its squeaking.
tears were flowing easy like good writing when she shut the door.
i took a bath to ruminate, and then i took a shower too,
i scrubbed and sobbed and scrubbed some more,
but nothing could clean me of you.

"A new dawn has dawned upon us,
like a spawned epiphany.
Spring has sprung, the snow has melted;
I've known love, but never felt it.
The gloom has gone, our days are brighter,
yet I've never been more tired.
Here we go again, like hamsters,
spinning in our endless wheels.
A brand new season, a brand new cancer -"

"Chill," she says. "Drink some chamomile."

frozen as a corpse
melting slowly
as a tortoise,
staring blankly,
no remorse,
solemn, silent,
almost done,
dying for
your bit of fun,
and still, still,
as the buried sun.

if you are afraid of boats
and afraid of swimming,
afraid of fighting a shark and
afraid of winning,
grow up.

She tells me to take things more seriously
or else no one will take me seriously.
I say, seriously?
An intervention?
She says no, no, nothing like that,
sitting in front of a banner bearing the words
INTERVENTION!!! with three
gaudy exclamations points, just like that.

god, how haven't you learned yet
to fix all your problems?
you forklift your issues, and in addition, you put on a front!
yes, all right, all right, but we’ve all got our goblins.
Not to mention your addictions - furthermore, your predelictions towards -
yes, all RIGHT, i know you’re right, but frankly, you’re a *****.
the banner flutters
to the floor.

The clown would’ve been beaten up and down
a long time ago, if he didn't know
how to force scowls into smiles,
bafflement and battles into laughs
like startled bells and baby rattles.

Who would he be now, if he didn't know
how to play the jester, how to stitch
his words together
like the mouth of a snitch
or a quilt of dodo feathers?

He learned it from pain: how to be a joker,
how to act the fool.
Does it count, still, as stand-up comedy
if he's just crying on a stool?

bad poems
are like children:
abundant and
abundantly
annoying,
but unlike kids,
bad poems
never die.

Biscuit, no! what did you eat?
i told you not to eat raw meat!
bad dog, i should send you to the pound!
think life's hard now? well, wait it out.
you're lucky i don't throw you in a ditch.
in this house you're a female dog
but in the pound, you're some mastiff's *****.

they say "write what you know"
so here i go:

a poem a day
will turn you gay

a poem a day
keeps the ***** away