A **** Pope
Lynching rope
Candy dope
Cancer soap.
Drunk talker
Kid's stalker.

Angels bleeding in the night
after their morning's flight
cry angel tears as we fight
addiction's horrible delight.

It's a grand adios
taking your dose
of the morphine
softens the scene.
Visit first lover.
Your dead mother
begs your mercy
father so angry
in war's terror
a simple error
over and over
blood in clover
float in a dream
last shot unseen.

Boys play at growing up and shaving.
     Girls bleed into the women we desire.
     I smelled you bee to honey a craving
     you set my little world a madman fire
     Love a solemn hymn on the black keys
     in church before humanity we swear
     kneeling on painful wood on knees
     have hold better worse hospice care.

I just want to go home
  and die in peace alone.
  In my bed and pillows,
  not the sterile gallows.
  My Quincy cat will purr.
  I give treats. I hold her.
  She sees me with one eye
  and purrs loudly as I die.

You'd never believe what I saw.
Staring into the gaping maw
I saw Rusty's puppy paw
took him in my heart raw.
He died on the 4th of July
bombs exploding in the sky
I held him tight and knew,
it broke our hearts in two.

I walked into your room
morphine alarms in tune
you in brilliant dreams
mouthing lover's screams.
I left you to your death
back after final breath.

Hospice room's machines
a healthy noise harmony
song of the Opera queens
perfect pitch is the irony.

The end is always near
morphine drip constants
dreams of lovers so dear
death gets what it wants.

The final absolute end
with her infinity reach.
Flowers mourners send
Hymn a buzzard screech.

We exchange our vows
blindfolded hostages
shotgun wedding crows
wedding bed a birdcage.
Never more to carouse
pregnant bride of mine
we rent our tiny house
play at marriage time.

I'll throw my lived out life in
  a duffel bag to carry another mile
  to another Hostel I'll call home
  greet strangers with a phony smile.
  Please don't ever forget my noise
  I was here no matter the little while.

I wanted to make you proud.
Your first born boy namesake.
March 23,1949. You were back
from war nerves on edge and
work was scarce and you kept
exploding in rage and we all
vibrated with fear and felt
your pain and war's hell and
pitied and loved you always.
Mom closed the windows in
summer so the neighbors
wouldn't hear and we went
to our rooms and mastered
the art of disappearing.

I wanted to make you proud.
Your first born boy namesake.
March 23,1949. You were back
from war nerves on edge and
work was scarce and you kept
exploding in rage and we all
vibrated with fear and felt
your pain and war's hell and
pitied and loved you always.
Mom closed the windows in
summer so the neighbors
wouldn't hear and we went
to our rooms and mastered
the art of disappearing.

I'm ****** and Genghis Khan
Chuck Manson and Joe Stalin
I'm the monsters under beds
evil clowns coming up stairs
who denied Christ thrice and
left my kids in an orphanage
while I ****** a fallen nun
in Boston. I was saved against
my will. Shrinks gave me pills
to keep hell's hounds at bay.

My sand is almost spent
hope for time to repent
forgive broken humanity
the scars of our futility.

I bought some gasoline.
I bought kitchen matches.
I went home once more
looking for my childhood.
Scary and pure pleasure
in innocent treasure.
Set fire to ancient wood
ashes bury all they could.

I've nothing left to understand
   that makes this any more real
   so we can both pretend it matters
   living inside our life of cards.

   On the wall in graffiti in the
   stall I spot God's truth. We live
   inside a clock. Wheels keeps turning.
   Gears align. Time keeps ticking.

My mirror hates me.
It never lies it shows
my horrible imperfections
at every angle with lights
hard or soft or darkness.
My ankles are fat and my
feet are caveman's feet.
I hear my lover's voice,
"You have a flabby ***".
Your face is wide. You
have tiny eyes. No lips.
No hips, like a boy.
I'm 10 in Daddy's room.
Touch. I remember touch.

We knew all along
we weren't happy but
neither had the will to
start over for another
bout another fight
sick of endless rounds
with no KO's just punch
drunk slurs and morning
shame and mute rituals.
Amazing how good we became,
amnesia and kiss off to work.
Who knows where the time goes?
Will either of us have a shred
of life left when the other finally
dies to lie naked with a stranger
just to sleep with your memory?

Heart attack.
  Stroke.
  Cancer ate me.
  Suicide.
  Overdosed.
  Murdered.
  Bullied.
  Abandoned.
 ­ Dingo ate me.
  Aborted at birth.

A long hair bearded man sits on a toilet
reading poetry by Whitman and Frost
and Auden and Elliot and Dylan Thomas.
He works night shift as a janitor in
1956 and the beats are screaming for truth.
He saw the best minds crawling
through the city streets at dawn
looking for an angry shot of speed.
He wrote truth on Howl's page
plant the ugly seeds of rage.
A Bible for the changing Age
sings his hymn on a sacred stage.

Ginsberg's Howl
  The Poets vow
  Gulls squawk
  Gossips talk
  Allen's strange
  Seasons change
  Drunks stumble
  Empires crumble

We are old wolves
howling at tonight's
full moon starving
for yesterday's feast.
We gnaw spent bones,
dream of better days.

I want to Howl like Ginsberg.
  Shock you with the ugly truths
  slap your face with my ****.
  I want to be arrested like
  Lenny Bruce for blue comedy.
  Ride the rails and be a Beat Poet
  while I wring every ounce out.
  I want to suffer 'til I can puke
  it onto the page at 3 am and
  ring your bell and hold on
  all night and wake sane again.
I seek truth in needles. I Howl!

Ginsberg's Howl is full of
   people and places, food, music,
   suicides, ***, madness, drugs
   and unusual language. Earth.
   He landed here from the moon
   and cracked the poet's world in 2

   I write of *** madness drugs
   and reluctant blessings from
   those doomed to love me always
   Let us dance on the head of a pin
   and vanish in a puff of smoke
   while they all lose their minds.

I'm not sure which of us is dead.
  One alive in the other's head.
  Underage found our way to beer.
  Young drunks toast without fear.

  We have Gramps show the way
  how men live brutal day to day
  without complaint in silent pain
  through time it's always the same.

  We visit in bars at end of day.
  My time machine is Chardonnay.
  We remember and laugh too loud!
  See you in tomorrow's drunk cloud.

I'll die like we all should. No drama.
I'll leave things unsaid and apologies
never mentioned and sorrow and joy
flotsam and jetsam left forgotten.

If I knew how to live a life
my daughter would talk to me.
She left me dead like a ghost.
Neither of us can actually be
the best of ourselves the most
forgiving. Please set us free.

I desperately need a manual for it!
I've failed miserably at Love.
I tried harder at it than anything.
It's more complex than Biology and
Chemistry and high school Latin.
I would copy Aphrodite's test.
Is there Cliff Notes for How to Love?
Don't confuse it with Lust which I often do.
Lust is so easy. There are no vows for Lust.
None are required. We all Lust endlessly
day to day everywhere we go; grocery, PTA,
church, confession, the loo, AA meetings.
The rich with mistresses might have it right.
I'm of modest means and want to want my wife.
I think the world of her, I'm in awe of her!
I wish I were blind. I would desire her anew.

I don't know how to save a life.
Yours or mine life of any kind.
Fragile hearts will die by knife
cut wrists until they bleed blind.

Read it like a ****** having ***.
It means something different to
each of us. It can be painful or
funny or full of **** or falling
like Alice down the rabbit hole.
It can mean different things at
different times and circumstance.
It makes us feel in a Chemo Life.

Read it like a ****** having ***.
It means something different to
each of us. It can be painful or
funny or full of **** or falling
like Alice down the rabbit hole.
It can mean different things at
different times and circumstance.
It makes us feel in a Chemo Life.

These ancient bodies so full of knowledge
    dismissed by youth's hubris carry on frail
    ***** and parchment skinned. We were you.
    We traveled hormones. We scorned advice
    from elders like us. Ignore us as you must.
    Soon you'll wonder where your years went.

Life was a huge mistake
turn we should not take
choice we should not make
hearts we always break.

I drink myself as stupid as I can
each night at Happy Hour
but I can't ignore the plan
to harness all the power
into a pinpoint of light
one world order resets
Soros reigns in the night
Humanity sends regrets.

Sands so white
and seas so blue
God left us light
we never knew
wrong from right
Human's stew.

I have dreams.  I have nightmares.
  I hope for the best and fear the worst.
  I'm just one of God's creatures in a zoo
  called my mind. Walls everywhere I can't
  go beyond. Gravity, time, our biology
  keep me inside my tiny world tethered
  to my appetites. Will death set me free
  to live again in nightmares and dreams.

Our crop failed another year.
Naught grows in dust and wind.
I'm weak with thirst and hunger
and have no more tears left.
I can bear doing without.
My hungry child's desperate
eyes bring me to a brink I never
knew existed. I'm perched on it.

2 lost souls met at Rugby's and
  crawled into each others heart.
  We loved 3 days and rose again
  into Southern light's fresh start.

2 coolios met at Rugby's and we
  crawled into each others heart.
  We died for 3 days and rose again
  into Southern light a fresh start.

I draw my face on a bar napkin.
    I look like the night we met.
    Take me back to that night again
    when we hadn't touched just yet
    but yearned for Love and touches.
    I draw our family on a bar napkin.

As I ascend to the heaven of her shot
  I think of your taste and smell and
  almost get an *******. Blood flows in
  veins of her creation. I almost love
  you more than ******. I did in rehab but
  it seems so long ago now we are together.

I'm a forgone conclusion
    and an empty promise.
    My words fail to inspire.
    My loves are always lost.
    Trouble always finds me.
    Read between the lines and
    find the real me with you
    in my heart on my sleeve.

I'm a forgone conclusion
    and an empty promise.
    My words fail to inspire.
    My loves are always lost.
    Trouble always finds me.
    Read between the lines and
    find the real me with you
    in my heart on my sleeve.

I still hear your voices
concerned with choices
I made while living
oddly now forgiving
live inside your shell
under the matrix spell
can you hear me running
for my precious living.

People in relationships
are not half of each other.
We are complete in ourselves.
Just complement each other's
strengths and weaknesses,
when you meet the mothers.

I make the laws of nature after all.
What lives among my vast reaches is
looking at clear night skies in awe
wondering at their reason for living
and the cruelty to die never knowing.
They created myths of God and Heaven
and a place to punish unkind acts
owned by Devil and called it Hell.
We are endless infinities' mirrors
rain falling forever with my tears.

I believe in air
and growing hair
patches puberty,
free me liberty.
All lives matter,
same old batter,
never quite right
too dark or light.
We live too long
to love a song
or smoke a ****
or love her ****.
Oh My God, I do
confess it's true.

I'm not equipped to be an easy love.
I don't know why. Women can be the
nectar I need and ease my aching heart.
Desire is always offered with an
enormous cost that I'm unable to pay.
I try to make a silk purse from a pig's ear.
I give her pearls and lipstick.
Party girls don't want to meet the parents.

I'm not equipped to be an easy love.
I don't know why. Women can be the
nectar I need and ease my aching heart.
Desire is always offered with an
enormous cost that I'm unable to pay.
I try to make a silk purse from a pig's ear.
I give her pearls and lipstick.
Party girls don't want to meet the parents.

Beauty and perfume
I'm in love with you.
Drunk and dry spell
what else would I do?
*** all the week long,
eating in then eat out.
Turn it up louder song.
MIA at work ants shout.
What is the fuss about?
Fierce *** is never wrong.