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Dan Cocks

Poems

you see i party in front of my box

while all the good folk are cleaning for the *****

you see i clean when i want to, and there is nothing wrong with that

all the ***** are teasing cause they wanna push me back

just a few more hours of listening to the cool band kiss

where you have a few hours trying to clean your house

oh yeah i party, like brian the cool person does

i am not ***** like the rich ***** are

i wanna rock and roll all night and party every day

the ***** only party when they have approval by the big power of attorney

just a few more hours, before this concert is over

and maybe i will tidy up, but it’s always clean when it needs to be clean

party party party let’s fucken have a party dude

and rock and roll all night and party every day

oooooohjhjhhhh black diamond

you see i am a poor man, never gets what i want

from the big fat rich arrogant ****

i believe in loving life, even if people tease me

cause brian the cool person can handle anything

you see i hate those rich conservative *****

they don’t care for us poor people at all

i say i need money, the ***** say, here is a ball

you see i hate those ***** all so much

they don’t care for that we’re poor

as i said they will just give us a fucken  ball and tease us, saying play with it
ConnectHook Sep 2015
ϖ↑∅⊕↓☺↨☼♀


The dawn is nigh at hand. The clouds
begin to lift above the grange.
Arise, O Phoebus, bless the crowds—
let poultry roam the range.

I’ll bind a broom of gathered hay
to sweep the hen-house free of hate.
Let roosters hail the crack of day
and chicks with ***** tempt fate.

A fractured self and a challenge hurled:
they left the shell, but found it rough
because our bigoted barnyard world
cannot get queer enough fast enough.

They flutter through the *******’s farm
subverting gender’s useless role.
We feel their pain, and mean no harm—
yet question this progressive goal.

They cluck a brand-new barnyard song:
Gender Identity Obsolete!
(As long as they claim God hatched them wrong,
biology signals their defeat.)

While poultry scratches rhymes for “hen”
and chicks are combing crests for *****
let’s ring the dinner bell and then
we’ll synchronize the global clocks.

Let Mankind’s unmanned race delight
at Jesus’ gender-free return.
Soon Africa shall see the light
and Araby’s sun more brightly burn.

Then dawn shall break o’er Russian plains
to liberate the Tartar races;
loose their limbs from Gender’s chains
to stride with polymorphous paces.

China too, and Southeast Asia
swift shall follow in their train
celebrating ***-aphasia
joining in the West’s refrain.

Hindu multitudes will rise
to vanquish gender, caste aside
and shake the slumber from their eyes
with metro-ambisexual pride.

Carib isles, with Latin kingdoms
From the tropics to the mountains
Shall announce they too are Wisdom’s,
drinking from de-gendered fountains.

Juveniles, raised to simply be
shall pioneer new modes of life;
explore horizons happily
set free from biologic strife.

Then shall our earth, in glad array
***** dirt upon Tradition’s tomb;
unshackled from that dark dismay
to grieve—but nevermore exhume.

Alas, the global dreams descend.
We’re back in the barnyard, gender-queer…
where hens have ***** and eggshells bend
transcending Nature’s reign of fear.

The henhouse still votes hetero;
their eggless chickens cluck for rights
biologists, ex utero
are born to further futile flights.

(Because I was almost one of them
I’ve earned the right to make fun of them.
Time alone will tell if the trend
remains coherent to the end.
)
There they are
drooping over the breakfast plates,
angel-like,
folding in their sad wing,
animal sad,
and only the night before
there they were
playing the banjo.
Once more the day's light comes
with its immense sun,
its mother trucks,
its engines of amputation.
Whereas last night
the **** knew its way home,
as stiff as a hammer,
battering in with all
its awful power.
That theater.
Today it is tender,
a small bird,
as soft as a baby's hand.
She is the house.
He is the steeple.
When they **** they are God.
When they break away they are God.
When they snore they are God.
In the morning thet butter the toast.
They don't say much.
They are still God.
All the ***** of the world are God,
blooming, blooming, blooming
into the sweet blood of woman.