"feculent" poems
chants from red states and blue
and of course the tea partied new
blend into wicked white noise
and with complete lack of poise
we have become a nation divided
not that we were ever truly united
but our rhetoric is now so blighted
that whenever we open our ears
we are inundated with feculent fears
that our country is no longer grand
perhaps we were never number one...
except in matters of money and the gun
but when measured by the yardstick of the soul
did we ever really achieve a transcendent goal
or were we listening to our own lyrical lies?
‘twas not enough to denigrate
-those of foreign birth
-those of color
and the welfare ingrate
now we all chew and spew equal portions of hate
and probably deserve our feckless fate
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
It is a truth universally
acknowledged
that people in love
are people found.
Even if one tried,
one cannot escape from,
nor ignore one’s
strongest muscle
that emulates a
desperate caterpillar’s.
This muscle is a muscle
of the heart
that is eager to break
free from
the claws of conformity,
which it is bound by
from the moment it is born;
where it’s rebellious limbs
instinctively practice
within and against the laws
of physics and nature;
laws that appear
to relentlessly sustain
the creature’s
seemingly pointless,
externally influenced,
and
perfectly molded
and orchestrated
existence.
That is, until
one day
when the caterpillar
blossoms into a
creature with wings;
a thing with a
real purpose
that springs into
action when
faced with
the highest form
of adversity,
like dealing
with the stink of
French blue cheese
that leaves behind
its cheap perfume
in a room with no
ventilation.
Death of the senses,
birth of a soul.
And there, on a sofa,
begins and ends
the story
of two lost souls
aimlessly meandering
around like
headless politicians
clinging onto something
they no longer have.
(Dysfunctional penises,
your time is up).
And all that remains
within these quietly
suffocating walls
of love and loss
is the eerie
stench of pain
mixed in a ball
of anger,
confusion,
and the
feculent funk of
French cheese.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC
Life is a wayfarer.
On some days Life will plod round in the city,
Immersing itself in the quotidian
Feel daft in the company of meaninglessness,
Feculent friendships.
And I will miss my halcyon days
at the helm of such an existence.
‘This too shall pass’, that’s what they say?
So, life craves for wanderlust (and lust itself, indeed)
Something that infects it with fire from within,
A feeling that sunbeams flow in the lining of the skin;
I crave, I hunger
For the one that will never abandon me on the shore
Of the heart and mind that I grow my roots in
Life will live for this consuming passion,
This tempest that I’ve witnessed will gradually quieten.
Now in this free, really free verse
I shall tell the extraordinary futility of Life.
Memento mori
About why, like Life, I should bother
Betwixt overwhelming agony and spasmodic pleasures;
Crawl over many little deaths:
Life nestles into Death, and cracks it up
Like a butterfly opens its cocoon
Into an afterlife of pulchritude.
Life is just in one long slumber, and Death
Merely a friend who awakens it.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
Your eyes are black holes,
Concave and parallel to your Convex slanders.
The sockets fill with ghosts as
You spin galaxies of rancor across my tongue
and your thoughts are brutes
that ferment in my soul
leaving a thick film of sour solicitation
And I will taste you for millenniums
In empty bus stations and forgotten highways
In my feculent sheets after they spoil
And you will always remind me
When I eject dry heaves at 3 a.m.,
Just what it means to be alone.
As Plaintive howls hang limp like busted ankles
Pretending to be flickering stars
Their loyalty is embarrassing
And I will weep in sentences
Just as broken as me.
In syllables just as hollow
As your wearied body in my arms
On your last birthday.
I should have never caught your tears that night.
They were meant to sewer through the spaces in my fingers
I could have let them linger on your brims like death
Your cheeks were always landing strips for missiles
I would rather be deaf,
than hear the sound of your diseased sobs.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC