Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Homunculus Aug 23
After all, it has come to this as our
Laughter falls dumb and a mute glum persists while
A once gorgeous flower now reeks of rank **** in

An **** of power that seeks to dismiss that
A siren song hides a great serpent's grim hiss in
A dire long ride to a fervent abyss, but

A glorious hour now seems to persist as
A warrior throng's rising insurgent bliss
Is igniting wrong's righting, with glee

In a fight long and tiring they refuse to desist
In the night they stay strong as abuse gives its kiss
But they KNOW what is right and must make it EXIST
and when new order comes:

Homunculus Mar 22
. . .(and the narrator asks:)

Can someone tell me, where did
all these basketball sized mangoes come from?
Why is the sky purple, and
who is the debonair, pinstriped,
feather-brim porkpie hatted man in it,
twirling his diamond handled cane and puffing his pipe
into clouds, raining splotches of
incandescent dark matter?

See how it congeals into forms.
Watch how the forms animate . . . .
. . .****, how many cigarettes is that, now?
Could swear I'd quit months ago . . .
LISTEN: Now they are communicating!
    "Zeepa Dappa Doppa Dooba Dooba Dee Dao!"
The ghosts of deceased jazz musicians?
Louis! Is it you? I'm not Dolly, but it ain't no folly of mine!
D'ya wanna puff on this here ******, have a swig of this here wine?
Wait, wuh-wuzzat?
My FEETS' too big?
FATS!!!!!!!!!!! IS IT REALLY YOU?!?!?!?!
Cuz if'n it be, I must confess, I HAVE been misbehavin'
S'pose that's why I'm here, after all.'

This world is dense and immense
and it makes less sense
than a fortress guarded by
an inch-high ironclad fence

(. . .and 3 days later the narrator awoke and aptly asked:)

Where did all my money go?
Where is my left kidney?  
Why is there a tattoo of Icarus on my forehead?
Why am I in Colombia?  
Where is my passport?
Homunculus Mar 22
Hoard the **** paper,
I'll use rags or ties, but
**** with my milk, and
I'll shank out your eye
You think I'm joking? **** around and find out.
Homunculus Mar 7
There once was a man from Peru
he tried ******* with his shoe
but at the wrong angle, the laces got tangled
and now his junk's mangled and blue
After reading Gravity's Rainbow and all the stupid songs and ***** limericks Mr. Pynchon managed to weave into that magnificent monumental monstrosity of text, this poet just can't help but feel inspired to try the form.
Homunculus Mar 4

Eyes taking survey
of immediate surroundings.
Habitable? Yes.
Presentable? No.
At least not to anyone
lacking the neuroses which
with such resplendent ecology
were given perennial bloom
in the mental landscape
of this peculiar creature. . .  

Dwelling, as he does
within plaster walls
upon concrete floors
beneath fluorescent lights, as they
quietly hum a low B flat and illuminate
filth and fur amassed in quantities
sufficient to reconstruct entire animals,
and perhaps even ecosystems...

Drugs in their various guises and dis-guises
paraphernalia indiscreetly proliferated
Musical implements, instructions, and instruments
supinely littered, almost as profusely
as the mountains of literature courting
avalanche from the rigid repose of
each supportive surface where they rest

Brooms weeping in neglect of their sweeping as
spiders nest betwixt the bristles, but
at least they keep the bugs out...

Records in crates and stacks with
no particular organization. Hmm.
That last line sums it succinctly.
"No particular organization."
Yet he still unaccountably knows
within this squalor where
the minutest of objects reside

His thoughts and actions
are sporadic, leaving linearity
in want of apt expression
For him, it seems the shortest
path between two points
is a frenetic scribble

Getting things done
in a timely manner? Possibly.

Getting sidetracked and forgetting
the original plan? Probab-  HEY

                                                  ­       THAT?!?!?!?!



                                And    ­                  
"Whoever lives this way, cannot be well!"
Someone might say, or, perhaps even yell.
Erelong might this assertion be dispelled
                 With them and their opinion. . . . .
                STRAIGHT TO HELL!

For now the music of Debussy fills the air,
  and now this vagabond has found a locus
  a flag and bond of jouissance and care
  arresting him  in implacable focus

Inhaling the aroma of the night
  he raises up his quill with great delight
  and sets the implement in fervent motion
  and bathing in the passions it ignites

He yields to it in rapturous devotion
  and as if under spell or magic potion
  his brain and nerves and muscles all engage
  in spilling forth the fury of an ocean

Society has trapped him in a cage
  ensnared him in frivolity, it seems
  but his ink abounds in freedom on its page
  and guides him to tranquility from rage  

As Luna pours her iridescent beams
  into this weary poet's dreary head
  his mind illuminates with fate's esteem
  and ruminates through labyrinths of dream

As everything he's seen, done, heard, or said
  becomes a tapestry of order, woven
  with chaos as the impetus that's led
  this blessed magnanimity has shed

A light to guide the way; a path to show him
  to Athens' martyred sage whom he's beholden
  who espoused the noble maxim he's now chosen:
"Look deeply in thyself and truly know him."  

Look deeply in thyself, and truly know him!


"If a cluttered desk",
a man once asked,
"Is a sign of a cluttered mind?"
"Of what, then,"
he continued,
"is an empty desk a sign?"
I have ADD or ADHD or whatever they're calling it these days. I was diagnosed as a child, and the condition has persisted with me into adulthood, presenting undeniable challenges and difficulties. This piece is an attempt to illustrate the manifestations, both outward and inward, of what it is like to live with this condition.
Homunculus Aug 2019
Observing the gait
of the irksome stranger
the intrigued spectator
commented thus:

  your manner of walking
  is a monument
  to idiosyncrasy"

At this observation,
the stranger responded thus:

"You are mistaken,
  for I do not walk.
  The ground moves beneath me,
  and my steps rotate the Earth.
  The world shall lament
  the day of my death,
  for as I depart:
  so shall the passage of seasons.
  Each hemisphere will abide
  in the perpetuity  
  of ever enduring climes:

  Winter for North
  Summer for South
  Autumn for West
  Spring for East"

"And what of the center?"
Inquired the spectator.

"****** if I know,
we're just characters
in a poem, anyway"
Replied the stranger.

"If you pay close attention,
you will notice that our bodies
are composed not of parts,
but of letters and punctuation marks."

"So what you mean to suggest,"
  observed the spectator
  is that we are merely ideas?"

Replied the stranger
"Poorly conceived ones, at that."
Next page