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John Hosack Jan 2011
Silver screen athletes
quitting soccer teams
to join homophobic friends
(redneck quasi outdoors-men)
who just want to **** animals

angst must be vented
lest it boil inside
and form a much darker concoction.

I beat the horse
'till I couldn't get it wrong
even then
the faceless desks of power
endorse eugenics,
and high profile lawyers  
sentencing me to a life's term
teaching Sophocles
to an uninterested fifteen year old
too busy stroking a Ritalin limp ****
to star censored ladies on Vegas stripper cards.

And he said "Watch your language"
when I said "What the ****?"
John Hosack Jan 2011
iocane powder
in anticipation of my vengeance

dreams of
dim witted gentlemen
on vials of their own arrogance
allow joy
through the sacrifice for ironic justice.
John Hosack Jan 2011
A lucky conscious
so much so
words without meaning
form under the clicking of my fingernails.
Plugging in, and swapping out
with algorithmic precision.

My hands know something that I do not.
I envy them.
because they are the maker
behind the mask.
The unsung and unseen hero
of my conquests.

My conquests,
but my hands
separate from my mind.
This is not self-envy (if that's even logical).

Just like passing that test
you didn't know the answers to
I feel I cheat the world.
Claiming rights to words
not mine,

Only a part of me.
John Hosack Jan 2011
A nascent society gluttonously feeds
on the palingenesis of hyaline paragons
forged by stolid and archaic eremites.
A whilom friendship leaks a susurrus
of tristful regret,
while pernicious ***** maunder
puerile attacks on munificent
intellectuals who only wish to
augment risible souls and divagate
from vertiginous roads too often traveled.
Such a chimerical respect for tradition
is too rigid to be broken alone.
John Hosack Jan 2011
The blue eyed man’s piercing gaze peels back the layered shell
To my heart, and though I cannot hear what it tells me
Magnificent waves of purity radiate through my subconscious

His divinity is certain, but its properties are so ever elusive
deep blue iris’s crippling,
Smiling ear to ear with quivering lips
prison bars shaking from the rampant tears of joy
that tremble within the prison of his mind
experiencing an ever present beauty

Everything that exists is beautiful
As seen through those eyes

And just as the far off galaxies disappear
When the telescope zooms out
Beauty dies in those blue eyes,
No freedom is found in death.

I cry
I cry

And just as words on crumbled paper seem
poems never meant to be read
A beauty dies in those blue eyes,
destined to remain unseen.
John Hosack Jan 2011
of Medusa's eyes

visions hardening
then crumbling
whilst still distracted
by the unwaivering allure
of come-hither eyes

oblivious to the dire
realm of quickly evaporating reality
left with thoughts, though
no choice but to revel
in the vampiric kiss
of a beautiful apocalypse

finding only empty castles
void of jest and princess alike
not lonely, but alone
crowned king
of thoughts already spoken
and days already dead.
John Hosack Jan 2011
Hungry stones line the narrows
a jagged, muddy trail
aspen trees as pharaohs
gaunt columns of massive scale

Broken wagon pieces lie
testament to treachery
splintered axles cry
hopeless dwell in reverie
only insects fly

Lonely road disintegrate
loose shades of beige and brown
fallen roadsigns instigate
nature steal the crown

Hungry stones in narrows
still are left unfed
bodies strewn with arrows
death they do not dread.
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