This pain,
This addiction.
A love letter —
Carved in skin.
A ****** red itch.
Undenied.
My scars are medals,
Tragic measurements.
Sickening,
Precise in their torment.
Self-loathing.
Self-inflicted.
Self-destruct.

This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.

It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.

It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.

This poem is *****,
a SNAFU waiting to happen.

It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.

This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.

This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.

This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.

It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.

It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.

This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.

It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.

Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.

This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.

I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
Not like the ones we used to know
Where the hoods and robes are
making things all *****
Those kooks dressed up white as snow

I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
His uni underneath the tree
With his new Doc Martins
That he'll look smart in
To show his mentality

I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
I'm glad it only is one night
With his new plaid shirt on
This racist *****
Hia  tree...has no coloured lights

I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
What would he do if he just knew
The KKK man
Had better re-plan
His Christ....he was born a jew

I wish everyone a Merry Christmas, black or white, green or grey, red, brown and yellow. Have a wonderful Christmas Season, because it is Christmas after all.....and remember, this is just a poem, just fiction. I want a White Christmas, but, one with every colour of the rainbow treated equally, and hopefully some nice prezzies and a song or two by Andy Williams and Bing Crosby.
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

Cold War is over,
Neocon orders his drink—
Saluting *****.

i walk out the door and it's a living anti drug ad---- grannies in pink with scars up and down their legs, youth with ******* glasses chewin' out their teeth chumpin' for my change to score, leathered out n' shot up tracked all all over ***** men swaying with grins beating their heads against walls calling for MORE MORE MORE...  just one more score... skeletal grave home... street sleeping slums of lonliness

I have had experience with death,
Ever since I was a kid.
When my father drew his last breath,
Things became ****.

Mother explained that death is like mash potato,
Once you mash a potato there's no return,
And that would be the pulling of the curtain,
No show left.
That is like death, a person breaking beyond,
Coming back together.

Every now and then instead of feeling blue or sad,
Or even lonely,
I would feel like mashed potatoes,
And that's the best way I would sugar coat,
Feeling broken beyond pieces,
Beyond repair...

I've been fairly great, comfortable. I've been thinking of this as just another day for weeks. But it's here. Being a alone is no fun. I went to my brothers. Lots of people there. Even had I known them, I'd still feel alone. I have this place in my mind that rationalizes the excuses I've heard and even given myself. Everyone is justified. The excuses, I had every reason; all others as equal. But it doesn't pour into the emptiness. It doesn't patch the holes; the gaps that keep everyone who has held our heart, now cold; a little glow hiding deep that we can't extinguish or lose ourselves, our sanity, our control if we ever took that one step that'd warm us enough to restart a fire that we know would burn our soul, not sure in which way. I'd die; I'd finally live. Idk. I've no idea. Can't truly give anything a chance, certainly not a second or more times. Not sure I mean someone, though Carly crosses my mind. But you, the better, and then the rest that poured a cup or two in this gallon hole. I miss you all. I miss you. I miss not fake smiling, inwardly fighting crying all the time. Which way care and love, dreaming of the same, we all ****** up.  *****, too much to know we have anything of value, narcissistic just the same. Negatives we'd love if we knew the why. There part of the very essence of, hidden, the very reason we love. Do they answer a question we have asked for years about who we are?  But the vision not clear enough; frustrations abound, expanding the expanse, "it's their fault, my fault, doesn't matter...loneliness just ******* sux."
I miss....
Not that it matters; just another day.
I'll be just fine tomorrow

Joy as a weapon, Jah's joy's d' strangth
goodness known, damnation o'd'lie
what a concept,

in times of social turmoil
when no one is sure what's right,
and every two or three agree to fix it,

the we way, way we agree to do, and do,
or die by our own will, pop like a bubble,
mythic warrior cult trope from TV
projected to the spiritual warrior cattle
praying, Jesus, guide me, I believe,
it is the unbelieving part that's
givin' folks cognitive dis-son-dence
dense-thick wall of farfarfar out tide

- serious OD on Campbell hero story maps to DID re activation in the novel event
Now, some team of writers has writ
a Jesus Freak Super Hero,
called Utopia,
with serious Freudian Daddy *****-ity
and I am hoping
this is 2021 camp, OP Art
like wham bam
thank you mam, Batman,
circa 1961, I think, lets check, Holy
ROM AI KNOW 1966, January 12, POW
times they keep achangin'

From then you see,
this is my future you are re
balancing re
ality in mere ifity, and yes

yes we cleared the code, the Utopia virus.

Note: the dumbness in the now sense,
stupid and dumb are identical one thing.
Kant's pure is this realm's mere, Voltaire agrees.

We had this assignment in the novel.
And you, the poet in tune with the zeit
via Netflix, see
called us to witness the premier, and
some piles are seen from here as bullshat,
can everybody see that?

Truth can take a punch, by faith.
Semper Fi, tuff little devil dog

impossible in the frame of categorical
imperatives, and no
in this flow, I ai give you google agency,
fact check yo'own self.

I came back to the bookseller’s counter
advising that I wanted to utilize the new
nook.  

As I’d sniffed pages earlier,
we’d spoken of plucking guitar strings and
the benefits of
retreating into one’s office to write for the afternoon.

I used to do that.
No remorse, no regret, always cared what it meant...

after the clientele was seen, observed to be secure
in their homes,
tired eyes, hips, knees and backs noted
as required,
I left houses that didn’t belong to me,
slipped outside of lives that were not mine;
lives that I’d invested in anyway,
as much as it mattered and for what it was worth.

Slipping back into my office,
the blonde wood of the door shutting the hallway noise out
enough so that I could concentrate
on something other than the safety of some old lady,
retreating to the memory of what I’d just done
with the eyes of an outsider.

Write.
Write the sadness of that lonely old girl
out of your guts.

Write.
Write the misery of a 65 year old veteran
who’s fallen into homelessness after serving a country
that appears ungrateful but we both hope isn’t.

Resources, in the vernacular, are a slow go SNAFU,
a ***** that shows up
just as the fall breezes begin to bite
with December teeth.

Write.
(I tell myself again and again.)
So as not to cry
and do it here,
in this quiet,
paid-for space
so that you can feel like a writer,
not like a fraud,
a failure with a heart too big for your chest;
a devil in your brain who drives so fast that everything’s a blur,
a car-wrecked,
attention-span grab,
an emotional ambulance ride to nowhere good.

Write.
So that when the tears fall,
You can publish them,
Taking ownership before they dry.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021