ınk a new line that drips upon a page;
poetry plays a point that letters spell.
when feet are running meter's rhyme and rage
the poet writes of love that's worth the tell.
a statement made of stanzas rings a bell
in ears that crave the rhythm of a verse
rehears'd in dulcet tones that maybe yell
at times when feeling love is but a curse.
volta Velveeta cheese an early hearse
and bathroom book of verses by anon.
musical fruits smell better smelling worse:
ıf music be the food of loveplay on.
     in octaves, sevenths, sixths, fifths, fourths, and thirds,
     poesy *****-footing plays with words.

     Corinna, wake
     For Heavens sake,
You slothful Slug-a-bed!
     May is long past,
     And June flyes fast;
Roses are cherrie-red.

     Corinna, rise;
     Open your eies;
You sleep far far too much.
     Get up, or els
     Suffer the smells
Of an oven hot and Dutch!

I go to my school’s
bathroom
and wash my face
with the cold water.
I splash it;
then gargle;
then spit it out.

Nothing but saliva
and tap water
comes out.
I stare at the porcelain, disappointed,
and lean over it again,
opening my mouth
in a hope I’d throw up;
spit my soul out,
drown my thoughts down the sink,
make my problems disappear.

But nothing comes out;
not puke,
not problems,
not thoughts.

My throat
is still
being pierced through— trapped
—by the claws
of the freedomless eagle
that my life has become.

It is silly, isn’t it?
How I tried to steep my wounds,
thinking my problems
would dissolve
along with the blood.

There once was a woman from Seoul
Who swallowed an octopus whole:
     It swam in her belly
     With fishes of jelly,
Then plopped in a porcelain bowl.

There once was a man with a flu
Who ran in the night to the loo:
     He stubbed all his toes
     In consecutive rows
While filling his knickers with poo.

Soapy hands
Frosted future
          Pure icelantic
Beauty

Memories fade in water


But grow and form with
Pressure

Resilient    but fragile
I'll never be a diamond

Here I sit unbroken-hearted:
I tried to ****, and did, and farted.
Here I sit by fate or chance:
For *******, sitting's the proper stance.

a troubled little wisp of waxy death   punches from my lips
(is it the exhaust   from many thriving microorganisms ?)
there it is   a clearly visible tiny cloud formation
(is this an indication?... the breaking down my over ripened form ?)
married also is its appearance  in the bathroom mirror
(confirmation that   it is no illusion)

i was quite casual about the event (thank you)
but not enough
              to stop me noting it here ;
call it   'the death weather report'
it shall be journaled further
i already feel observed
   as though by some bored student mortician

He sweats when he poops,
Not just any old ****,
A **** of glory,
A **** of a lifetime.

The kind of ****, that jacks your heart rate,
The kind of ****, that makes you breathe heavy,
A **** so intense that your bowels moan,
And generate a need to remove your shirt.

The cold, yet intense sweats of this ****,
Cramps in the lower abdomen, sharp and warm,
The sweet relief of tension, when that one big log comes out,
All hot and steamy.

Followed by a stream of liquidy brown,
He wonders how his body even operates,
The unholiness of what exits through,
That holiest of holes, next to the birth stump and boulders.

Pondering the consumption of two nights before,
He sits bare-assed on this porcelain mouth,
Ingesting every bit of solids, liquids and gasses,
That exit from his **** canal.

Clothes tossed onto the floor,
His ******* harden from the unpleasant draft,
Caused by the perspired glands,
That shiver from trauma and nightly air.