Awakens not my wolf-man to the moon
For that it shines a silver discus full,
For he may rise when clouds the thickest dull
The round moon’s lustre, or when the clock strikes noon.
One sorceress alone doth have the pow’r
T’arouse the beast, and he doth her obey;
And from her side the beast doth never stray,—
So loveth him the witch and the witching hour.
Yet, by my troth, the wolf-man hath no love
For her and hers which greater is than mine:
By daylight, blackest night, or moony shine,
My love doth neither wax nor wane nor rove.
However, unlike the love the beast doth keep,
My love can’t wake, for it doth never sleep.

His better days were long ago done:
He's a bitter old man at thirty-one.

O.O

He’ll spare the rod only to spoil
The gagging throat with castor oil.

O.O

With curvy spines grow all the trees,
    As though they passed round scoliosis
Like people pass a cold and sneeze,
    Or swine-flu, or tuberculosis.  

O.O

Fingertips ******
   Dig, impose,
Pick at a crusty
   ****** nose.

O.O

A sound like none you’ve ever heard
Is Gulda on the clavichord:
Sublime and strange, the player roasts
The music of the land of ghosts.

O.O

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3KD2RlcEkPY

Let health-nuts wear out running shoes,
   And let them eat their Wheaties,
While we enjoy some Mountain Dews,
   And drink to diabetes!

O.O

The alcoholic spirit,
   When by it I'm possessed,
Makes me crazy, (or near it),
   And often much depressed;

But the good spirit Mary
   (Belovèd Mary Jane!)
Is Alcohol's contrary:
   She makes me peaceful and sane.

O.O

I’d lie, or cheat, or steal, or ****,
Or all my blood thus gladly spill
Then drink, or all of the above,
To spend a night with you, my Love.

O.O

Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen
    Beneath a streetlight casts a shadow.
He'd hoped to find a sunny, green
        Elysian meadow.

Barely a man, at sweet sixteen
    He's gone where none who love him can follow.
He drank his cup of bitter teen
        In one large swallow.

Where he has gone,—to what demesne,—
    (If we in life are ever rooted),
Is all conjecture very mean,
        And much disputed.  

He's gone, and yet he still is seen
    Suffering love's disdain and panging:
Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen
        Is dead weight hanging.

O.O

Ignore the slither and hiss:
      Unsprung
The asp desires a kiss
      With tongue.

O.O

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
Children are born not of love but lust.

O.O

The tangents on my clavichord
Were fashion'd from a ****** sword
That slew a man who music made
Which ought like him to be decay’d.

O.O

I crack my knuckles: nor any pleasure lingers.
I’d rather break your hand and all its fingers.

O.O

A consort of viols plays an air
    Over a slow descending ground.
A dirge depress'd and darkly fair,
A consort of viols plays an air
Within a graveyard ruin'd and bare.
    I list and love the gloomy sound.
A consort of viols plays an air
    Over a slow descending ground.

O.O

My snow-globe is more rare than rare,—
A strange antique most singular:
Crafted by one in magick skill’d,
Its contents cannot e’er be spill’d.
It started as a crystal ball
Enchanted and invincible.
A snowman now doth dwell therein,
Blasphemous, foul, and wicked as sin.
He only dons a scarf and sneer,
This angry, deviled, little dear.
He bears within the globe alone
An endless blizzard’s blast and moan.
The little thing is largely mean:
He rages still and gluts his spleen.
He rages while the storm doth blow
Alike the thunder in the snow.

O.O

She said, "Your wish is my command,"
    And sat down on the bed.
I knelt before her, kissed her hand,
    And whispered, "My Love...play dead."

O.O

When I sit down to write a poem, I like to write in pen:
I dip it in inky blood, lick it,—and then I dip again.

O.O

She dwelt within the dripping wood,
    Beneath a drooping sky:
A boon for Evil, a bane for Good,
    The harlot had to die.

She didn't drown, but should have drown
    For her own Soul's dear sake,
When trialled by the nearby town
    That burned her at the stake.

O.O

When people exclaim, "Well, holy Moses!"
I find it funny.  The guy drinks doses
Heroic of wine and loves his boys
Like ***-wee Herman loves his toys!

O.O

“Poor Harry Gill” I will say never,
Yet what a fate befell that wight:
For dead and buried long, still ever
He shivers morning, day, and night.
And so long chattered all his teeth
That not a tooth his sad mouth owns:
Pass by his plot and hear beneath
The clattering of frigid bones!

O.O

.
      My lute doth sound
With music soft and sad this pitchy night,—
      A plodding ground
Largo e sostenuto play'd by a wight
Long dead, and living yet to his despite.

      He gins to sing.
His voice is strange, and ghostly is the tone.
      The song, a thing
Witless and wordless, compos'd is of a groan,
And a long, drawn-out, agonizing moan.

      About his *****,
The plaintive melody painful is to hear.
      The song recalls
A time long-past—a very distant year—
When they were clipp'd to please a sadist's ear.

      A throbbing pain
Resonates, sounds in every sombre note;
      And like a rain
Of wept droplets from a sad fountain, mote
Forever be the weirdness in his throat.  

O.O

It's any fool can shrink a head:
The art is making it also undead.

O.O

You'll live your life from grief to grief:
   Rarely you'll be relieved.
But, fear not, your strife will be but brief
    Till you yourself are grieved.

O.O

Since I would rather take
    A chainsaw to the gut
Than have my heart to break,
    Instead, Love, bust my nut.

O.O

Not through your ******, your ear, or your nose,—
Your sphincter's the place where your sphincter ring goes!

O.O

A single drop of “acid rain”
Will drive you mad, then fry your brain!
The trip will take away your breath:
Just do one drop, and trip to death!

O.O

Let me to kiss your chewy lips,
Draw drops of blood with little nips,
And **** them up in little sips.

Your teeth, as white as yellow snow,
Crooked and spare, do seem to show
Like rocks of rosin in a row.

Your forkèd tongue did lately taste
A cockroach fat; now, should you haste
To **** my breath like solid waste.

To me there is no greater bliss
That heaven could hostage than your kiss.
Come, kiss me before I take a ****.  

O.O

For ***** and giggles, and moans and groans,
Allow me, Love, to jump your bones.

O.O

The moon tonight doth wear a shroud
    Of crimson-orange ether,
And seems a pumpkin with flight endow'd,
    Nor with a rooted tether.

The night is warm; the breeze doth loll
    Upon the shadow's creeping;
And autumn very soon will fall,
    And bring with it more sleeping.

                              August 29, 2015

O.O

A poet lies here very often:
When not about, he’s in his coffin.

O.O

A gummy connoisseur,
The worms that I prefer
Are red with human blood.
They're just so ******* good!

O.O

One and the same are God and the Devil:
The God of Good is the God of Evil.

O.O

The guy bangs awful, horrid creatures:
    To touch these things you wouldn't dare:
And undeterred by beastly features,
    He'll stick his slimer anywhere.

O.O

Why use a gun
   To ****?
Where is the fun?
   The thrill?

For taking life,
   I attest  
A butter knife
   Is best.

O.O

Have ever you heard
   The crows sing sweetly?
A singing bird,
   They sing discreetly.

They caw to scoff
   And to berate you,—
To **** you off
   And agitate you.

O.O

Because I love the sound of people choking
    Nearly to death,
Please, take this cigarette, and then start smoking
    Till out of breath.

O.O

Desiring timeless lines of verse to write,
I place upon my desk a sheet of paper
Empty and blank,—a void of ghostly white,—
Stare at the flame that leaps upon the taper,
Dangle but loosely in my fingers’ grip
A pencil that I drag in aimless ways
Around the sheet, (so lightly touches the tip,
The sheet, once white, is now the lightest of grays),
And call upon the spirits of the dead,—
The poets old and great who penned sweet lines
Of potent poesy, read and still reread
By him who still for sweetest verses pines,—
That one may pluck a leaf from out their bay,
And drop to me what will be green alway.

O.O

They call me, kids, the Kool-Aid Man
    Because I mix it well;
And when I mix the Kool-Aid, man,
    It hits you hard as hell!

The trip's a scream; it's rotten; it's mean;—
    It casts an evil spell;—
It's a fast, full-throttled, steep careen
    Into the bowls of hell!

And only heroes can drink it, kids,
    So, pour it down; it's swell
For erasing egos, erasing ids,
    And making heroes as well!

O.O

The very finest cat-man stew
Is made and served in Kathmandu.  

O.O

**** me off?  You really shouldn't.
If I were you, my friend, I wouldn't,
Since I would make it then my goal
To chain you up and ****** your soul.

O.O

Cuter than those
With the plague, or rabies,
   Or fungusy toes,
Or a bad case of scabies,
   Or one extra nose,
Are zombified babies.

O.O

The apex of pleasure,
   (There's nothing more pleasing),
Is reaching the ******,
   Then powerfully sneezing.

O.O

I saw a man.  An open book,
    He looked me in the eye;
And I could see within his look
    His great desire to die.
Yet, as I killed him, he forsook
    His wish, and screamed out, "WHY?!"
Perhaps it was all the time it took
    To cook him whole in lye.

O.O

You know you've got a problem
    When candy is more than dandy—
When all you want is sugar,
    And start trading teeth for candy.

O.O

.
        Flying, flying
        Away and dying
Across the night air is the cackling of witches.
        Flying, flying
        Away and crying
    Are children abducted for wickedest fun.
        Flying, flying
        Away and sighing
Are night winds that murmur in ominous pitches.
        Flying, flying
        Away and nighing
    Their lair, the witches have only begun.

O.O

Tonight the poltergeists will come
    And rip you out of bed,
And pound your walls, and drum your door,
    And hammer in your head,
And leave you writhing still alive,
    Though rather you'd be dead.

But fear not these; they merely prank;
    Instead the demon fear
That frightens away the poltergeists
    Whene'er it doth appear,
And screams a scream that makes to bleed
     A stream each mangled ear.

It comes for you, your soul to possess;
    And I do sadly tell,
You have no chance yourself to save;
    So, sleep, and sleep you well—
Enjoy another tender dream
    Before you're dragged to Hell.

O.O

On difficult days I often have resorted
To wishing (and wishing hard) I'd been aborted.

O.O

It feeds and grows within the host;
It stretches the skin and swells the belly;
It dwells as warm as buttered toast,—
This toothless pulp of genes and jelly.
It soils the lair in which it lives
And wallows there within the waste;
And not a single **** it gives
That *** is an ever-present taste.
It sickens her and spends her strength
And causes her, the host, dismay,
Till it outgrows its den at length
And exits in a dreadful way.
And where the creature takes its leave
Is almost too terrible to believe.

O.O

How sweet it is to deep into the night
   Let percolate your dreams in dripping beads
Of glowingly inebriate delight
   Distilled from gurgling rills of amber meads,
And then in threads of starlight finely spun—  
   All witched by frozen moonlight, pitched in black—
Suspend your limbs (made heavy by the run
   Of daily cares), and lay relaxed and slack
Till, saturate with drowsiness, and high
   Within a space of jewels and gems and jet,
You fall into the black hole's empty eye,
   And all the world and all yourself forget.
How sweet it is to all your life forsake,
Forgetting you had ever been awake.

O.O