Poetry is meant to be deep.
deeper than the coreless ocean; vaster than the galaxies.
It's where your deepest thoughts, feelings, hopes and dreams are supposed to lie in peace.
Yet lately I feel uncappable of writing.
Every word I print feels lost with no meaning.
Broken thoughts that I can't seem to fix.
I stare blank minded at my notebook trying to spill ink.

It seems my pen has ran dry.

While constipation kept me in arrears,
asper daily writing,
     thus ordinarily straight forward
     practiced process culling material,

     (a daily endeavor generally mastered
     by your truly), this moment bares
with more difficulty, thus derriere's
functionality created backlog

     (of personal business),
     hence presenting literary chops,
     a real ****** today,
disgruntlement with ***** Pack,

     (which gripe flares
cheeks) pitted me considerably
     behind schedule, so...here's
the scoop (hoop fully solid explanation

     for my absence) amidst
     virtual chattering class
     otherwise known as Face booking,
     Instagramming, and Whatsapp

     pin with ma Jeers
zee Boyz'n the hood,
     ah...also dem "Back Street Boys"
     oh mother f*er...,

     I just learned day got eliminated
     and blocked, (cuz o' their wiped out,
     wasted, sunken,
     flushed, dumpy untidily

     bowled over appearances),
     Sargeant Scott Coreless forced their
     evacuation citing Lumineers
     as more *** toot,

hence the emcee then welcomed,
     opening dreck "Johnny On The Spot,"
     and the "The Proctologists,"
     who performed before nares

     Naked Lady sighted spectators, with
     lovers spooning within cheeky pairs
     otherwise, essentially a pooped out crowd
     sitting on their haunches,

while myself perched
     some distance away
     with my comfortably numb tuckus
     atop the porcelain Goddess

     a awaiting emetic to expel
for iCloud to finish updating
before continuing with sign out...
     from this Macbook Pro,

     which aye sheepishly pro state
as the long winded soup peer
re: or (flatulence riddled) explanation.

The charcoal glows
in soothing warm embers
shinning face in radiant light
out in blistering beyond
vapid snows are tumbling
on the hardened ground
to melt into muddy slush
cold congealed droplets
soft coreless particles
simple vacuous drips
the banality
of Nature

A million sad songs may sing
praising gloom doom and despondency
a trillion sad stories may be recorded
of tragedies and disappointments
and the inhumanity of man to mankind
but we know
they are but the soundtrack to the lives
of the depleted soulless ones
searching for what they have lost
when the Eden Paradise in their souls
rotted and decayed
leaving impoverished minds festering
in the mires of vices and ignominy
they are the coreless spineless weakened
shouting in gainless ardour
searching futilely for victims to join their caves
where they tune their sad songs
and script the dirges of their sham lives
cowering in shame and fear
hiding from the exposing light of stark reality
mincing their cadavers into the burgers
that will feed themselves and their offsprings