wonmcx
i am a wombat
who's drunk? meeee
time for summer

they say death comes in threes
after 2 friends, barely 30
gone,
the prospect of a third frightens me

when she crossed the line*
Exactly as expected it would be
a snowy Christmas, white and colored bright;
(by strict request) I hung her favorite lights
about the house, so that the neighbors see
together we're a happy family.
She'd picked her gift, but what a sour sight
when, Christmas day, I didn't get it right.
And all was fine until she asked of me –

the last she'd ever ask of me. She tells
me "I don't like your underwear." She reels
off, "we compromise our comfort" (that bold
*****). "I'll be your man, but know my manhood holds.
I'll never change my boxer briefs" which feel,
in icy weather, warming." Comfort yields.

Hey dummy,
wanna sit
on my face, ace?
i’ll what your mouth, and bust
your blouse, open
your lips, give it a lick, kiss your clip-
ped fingers, your must have fun
rough and tumble, gargle and gumble,
oozing *** appeal, i feel
like a crazy person when you stare at me, see
my bulging, iron bind and rewind
you to find a little bit.

If I am a robot
then I am your sexbot.

That's a lie,
I'm a guy

you know,
i think you
‘re
probably pretty

easy to kiss –
i mean that
it’s effortless,
something
we both

just do. me

and

you are mine

and also yours. are the bees
having trouble
kissing the flowers?
no,
that is what i mean by easy.

Emptiness&horniness;&hungrinessAll;
feel the sssaame, slithrin’ like a snake baked’n fish oil
some callit desiree but I’m thinkin like I toil
hard to the soil. Y’know I need a fence era wall
to keep all them whatsabits outta here. Don’t stall
they’re coming tonight. We’ll put on the fight&boi;;
some pasta & F like we oughta *•••••”’ recoil’s
the worst part about having some FunwittaGun
You think she cares bout bein in there Wait – a crow’s call
Yall be quiet now, now now, now for You my one
I’ll eat you myself, then get welth&helt;;&MON-;
-EEEEEY – again with the crow, I’onno know wher its from,
maybe he smells ya, or ya babies, baby, beast time to
Feast and face the East or West or ******* You!

Encounters**, though encountered as perchance
are calculated quests of happenstance.
Though man is subject to his journey's end,
the road is paved by beasts of circumstance.

Our free-well, then, just navigates the bends
and all roads lead to paradise – I mean,
we're probably all parasites, it seems,
the physical expands beyond the soul,
unless the soul is physically controlled.

Consider physics' undisputed law:
all energy's conserved from see to saw,
but what about from saw to sea:
the sun I see set on the sea –
it clearly still takes energy?

Ah, envy
that sits on your shoulders
and wraps itself,
like a scarf, around your neck

until it steals some magic
from moses’ staff
and whispers(as
eden's serpent)

“eat from that tree.”

Every pretty girl
is skinny. "Beautiful?" No,
he'd never mean me.

in the head.
go to bed,
wake up and wed,
have some kids,
then you're dead.

you leave
i lose. my liver
starts to quiver
the snake can't slither
and my heart
needs to ****.

it's just gas, don't know why i'm such a drama twist

yule tide outside, an
arsonist alights
a dead evergreen, and the
cunning fox trots
tirelessly to the fire-
man who gathers the
ipish pipsqueak.

You laugh far away, much
later.

Eyelashes: feathers
for your angelic eyes. Gaze
in mine and I fly.

faces, faces, funny places
everyone untie your laces
run up the mountain,
implant the fountain
and let the nymph ***
if the wet moss'll be

Non stop ringing
The hum drum dryer
life is fluff

when we met again*
In February's blank and blissful air,
my inhalations thin and quick and dry
were only halted by your frigid stare;
to me they wondered where I'd gone and why.

That one-night-stand was fun for both of us,
though neither of us seemed too satisfied;
when your first words burst out within the hush
my face grew warm and, caught off guard, I sighed.

"It's Valentine's," you said; your smile said
much more. "I figured we could take a walk,
cause what we did before was fun. You're red?"
We both knew why, but still I couldn't talk.

I could not reason why she grabbed my hand.
The sort of love that's lust is most unplanned.

on every corner
i've warned her
to stop fighting
i guess writing
is the answer

i want to stab my wrists
with the pain of carpal tunnel
feel the passion in my crackin knees, please
hurt me more so i can bleed the pain through +pain
and then i want to let it drain the page with pixels; they
used to say ink i think, but now that metaphor is dead. today's
youth, weave a thread through art, digitally; crack a new trail in the rift
without breaking ****; shine a light with LCD. Gee—time isticking
and so is the wifi, my brain attune to it, the birds come near
and fly away. the sky is gray because i see it that way.
i know because when i ask you if it's blue
you say, "no, i see it grey too."
and then we fight about
who spelled it right.

Hello lover boy, why don’t you take a look
at my new digs and help me change my socks?
I love your chest and arms, your rod and hook
it’s summer time, i think i’ll wear flip flops.

You can hook me, have me, and admire
but i’ll be flopping throw me back to swim
among the other fish, though on a whim
you were much fun at least more fun than him –
but cut me loose now darling; snip the wire;
I cannot breathe if we go much higher.

Ah! the splash is cool, familiar, soft
it’s free although, it’s thick and dark. I’m lost.

You cannot be my man, you fisherman,
I’d rather find my way alone again.

energy is(
cracking knuckles, popping joints
)alive in the body

my back pops
as the wind floats a
seedling

tree! tree!
how do flowering trees
spread their seeds?

flight
before man, the earth and sky
anemochory*

the leaf learned to fly: a butterfly

These flowers I have ripped from the ground:
stolen from thirsty and bright bees, humming
birds
are my gift to you that will soon die
but not before their beauty does,
and that is what you mean to me.

you do not like my flowers: throw them out;
collect the scents of other brighter buds.
But flowerless, and powerless I pout
about my lack of flowers; lack of love.

I garden and I wait, but nothing grows.
Your soil doesn’t take to nourishment.
Though I can be the sun, or man that sows
the seed; but I can find no ground to plant.

My flowers come from far, or must be weeds,
exotic, or too normal burden seeds.

But who says weeds are not exotic plants—
that should not grow and should not stand a chance?

I should just drop my seeds and let them float
on any wind that cares enough to dote.

The city sits above your eyes,
in dark mascara strokes.
Your soft pink lips are chapped and tried
unglossed, and un-baroque.

The flowers of a garden’s growth
are painted on each iris.
The laughter and the sadness, both
are on your cheeks that i kiss.

Your body sparkles, freckles brushed
are baked in your warm skin.
A bellybutton slightly pushed
by God’s last touch, thumb pin.

I found a bud,
among nothing but grass
in my garden mud,
which has not been tended as
it should.
But to pass
and awe in this flower’s beauty
is the sentient’s only duty:

to stop and to admire
as we do
with a house on fire;
and you
who bring my being to a place higher
than anywhere a thought can to –
but still you are a notion,
a sight with which my mind is in motion:

a controlled
chaos, that causes
speech slowed,
implausibly placed words, and losses
of thought. I mowed
the grasses
where I found the budding flower,
and no longer think of beauty’s deep power.

for whatever                 it coulda been
                        [reason]
makes me a seasoned senser of sensation-
alism altruism and any other ism
makes me wish
we coulda shared this
slice, but any way
i see you're doing nice
and boring

An hour editing
dashes to comma splices, and back
leaves turn

the red world
sits on apostrophes’ or Atlas’
mote of Earth

choosing
the right word
wet trousers

i rake
frail pages of my novel
after strong wind

The ******* ******* ******-up ***** are ******,
and everyone’s a ****** too, and ****
you too, you ******, **** your face and tucked
away soft ******-up secrets – **** good luck
and **** the greedy; **** more than we need.
Either you **** them, or they ******* – it’s just
we’re all ****** with ******-up intentions, greed,
******* smirks, fuckloads of ******* (******* lust),
and all seven ******* sin ******* us
more – so we give zero ***** about good
or bad but how and who we should **** less
and who the **** we can throw under the bus –
i.e. who we can ****. *******, why should
we give a **** if life is ****** to death?

no more strawberries
blueberries, fuckberries: ALL:
give me everything!

It's good to see you.
I hate you and I love you
more than anyone.

I wondered when they'd call me sir,
Now almost 30, always almost 30,
I wonder if they'll ever stop

Had I held this flower long enough to love
it, it
would have wilted,
dried, and died
by now
,

I                      sometimes see
it
breathing                                               in the garden,
flourishing
–
so
                                                                in the garden
I                      will leave
it.

who the **** cares how
you look? beautiful, to me,
you're unparalleled.

a lone tower its ivy bears one berry

seven sparrows on a branch, a truck horn makes it none

bird on the ledge sings, and when i call him, flies away

in late morning
a man on the subway
in a light coat

The sound of glasses
Clanking
through the breeze

My New York City feet
run too fast up subway stairs
for my haiku mind

The fat sparrow sits
on a sparsely-leaved branch
behind a parking sign

cigarette
does not consume my rage
humidity

windless heat
a whisper of rain-
bow, relief

THE LOST BUDS EMERGE.
SUN MELTED FROST BRINGS FORTH SPRING
FLOWERS AND AN URGE

TO WANDER, AND SING
SITTING IN THE STRONG, BRIGHT GRASS
LISTENEING TO BIRDS

WHEN ALL THE LEAVES PASS
YOUR HEAD: LOST TUNES, NEVER HEARD:
UNKNOWN WHEREWITHAL

IGNORANCE IS BLISS
AND THE WONDER OF SNOWFALL
IS MORE DANGEROUS

The unremitting motion of this earth,
unnoticed is continued in its worth.

What flourished beauty lives within your thought
is always silent fuel to beating hearts;
and all in melted paradise, must cease to talk
for passed in subtle air a string of farts.

***** he stands; (he has no midnight plans,
but one). From stroke of dawn, to coming dusk
he plays himself the song of lonesome hands:
first lost, then found, himself alone in lust.
The pleasure passes quickly; shaft will fret
through spasms rushing body (stiff and red)
‘till passion splurging, flying – white and wet –
then falls to bed in blissful blank of head.
The dripping love and ecstasy, once mine,
has gone and passed – the small false-death
of rhyme;so still, I sit, past stupor *** divine:
(the ***-less *** that’s made for private time).
So help yourself, but please, take note of this:
to play is fun – but nothing like a kiss!

Here is the poem,
a train on tracks who knows where;
"what wonderful sights!"

How do i **** this
without killing
you? You
willing to try
or lay down and die? I
don't know if I can be either
but I'm willing to meet her,
probably even eat her. Out
on the balcony, lipstick
stained cigs in the ashtray, sticks
on the ground, and the sound
of water coming from all the
******* cars on those New
York City streets.

Although I'm not a ******* car
I am a ******* person, in that
I'm a person who *****, who *****
up relationships, and the kind of
******* who pulls out the chocolate chips
from cookies. You took me to your
cousin's house in France.
Last weekend, for the first time we danced
and loved it, then again, and again
it all went to ****.

i shed pounds

of hair

when i shave
my

back,
chest,
neck,
shoulders,
abs,
and below.

It falls lightly as the electric blades become hot on my body
gashing into my un-satisified self.

i am a hairy ****.
i am a hairy ******* man.
i am a hairy man.
i am a man.

but here i am
shaving everything off
so i can be
the boy
of your dreams,
the boy of your dreams.


And now, my body burns
but I cannot bear it; looking like a bear.

i am looking for words to make me speak again.
being stuck unlistened, and chastened to my own,
your own thoughts, has me forgetting how loud
i can yell. Your name
means nothing to me— that's a lie. But I can't be close
to it. Don't worry it's a "that thing and mean" kind of
hate, where that thing is the only thing i think
about. you, you were once so significant, and now
you are depleted to ash with all your hate for me
and mine for you.

at least it makes something, writing

i bet i can make you sweat
if you let me inside, i won't come out
rejection stumps me
feeling simultaneously
empty and full of rocks
there is no happiness in
hens and *****
maybe in eggs,
but it's not worth the negs
poetry is cheap, so is whiskey
and so are those who say
"whisk me away on a boat"
i thought this came down to a vote