"gerbils" poems
. revolution?!
what revolution?!
i can't see a guillotine!
****
hey! guys! there's no guillotine!
there's no talk
of a revolution
when there's no guillotine...
your talk of, a, "revolution"
would make Marquis de Sade
cringe,
and shout down a toilet
than out of window
of the Bastille..
this isn't a revolution,
it's on;ly 2018....
you have to wait!
why are tthe people so slothful,
yet at the same time,
eager, to work?
we're looking at "changes"
come 2045...
the year...
that apparently stabilized
the 2th0 century for
20 / 30 / 40 / 5...
no...
let's keep it with
sucker-punch Billy...
i love being a drunk...
makes all the sober
people look...
******* stupid;
and i don't even mean that....
it's just a military
fatigue...
it akin to:
coulrophobia...
yeah... big time... women making
excursions
for fatigued wool and silk
dresses...
one question does the job...
*honey, can i play the clown
at our honey- berry's birthday
party?*
do women go into
mascara parlors,
window shopping,
with a man tagging along?
honey...
do you really need me to tag along
while you shop for
make-up chemical
parade of tested adherents
for your beauty of your
expectation of fur...
Mike and Moany - the gerbils...
i thought you liked them?
no...
i can do the sheered
woolen artifacts...
when it comes to spreading
lipstick on frogs
and testing their
pyrotechnic susceptibility potential...
watching the Mike Myers' twins...
no... really...
count me out of
the necessity to make
an argument for a race...
i'm out...
done...
i never liked the English
existentialist argument to begin with...
too individualistic,
too finite...
too much of:
enjoying a hell
of a good time...
it's a simple economic logic
focus...
what you're selling?
i'm not buying.
it's that simple!
i don't have to buy what you're
selling!
stand with it all stacked up...
i'm not buying!
somehow i think
the English intellectuals
forgot the basic principles...
i'm, not, buying!
savvy?
god... ugh...
i know the French are bad...
about their oversee of diacritical
application,
and how they make no
sense when syllables
come into play...
and the Germans... yeah yeah...
i get their scrutiny of
method and dedication...
their teutonic charge within
the confines of ******** screws
into place...
but i'm still not seeing
an clearer...
there's talk of a revolution
in the English tongue...
so...
where's the guillotine?!
oh...
so...
what revolution?!
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
It’s unclear when time stopped functioning like a linear candle,
but at one point during the night my words echoed
for hours
in a loop.
The conversations became gerbils running on exercise *****
while black holes transported me to vast distances
forward and back within the conversations.
Now I know what power the “if-there-is-a-god” “God”
enjoys.
Having enough time and space to examine a conversation from any point
in any space, volume or time.
As we continue talking,
I notice the conversation coming to the ******
But abruptly it jumps to the end.
My friend looks to me for approval,
and all I can say is that I must retrace my steps
in this moment,
For I arrived sooner mentally, but not spiritually.
What they don’t tell you in the Bible
is how hard it is for the omnipotent asexual being to
processes a conversation from end to beginning.
Imagine starting out with all the facts, and then quickly giving them away,
yet you still had a vague idea that you held all the facts at one point
In the timeline of this conversation.
The awkwardness is so palpable,
I could cut it like a cake…
but only I’m aware the cake is poisoned.
When a slice is handed to me,
I think to myself, “Don’t eat that, it’s poison.”
It’s tough being for the audience to tolerate this.
You know I must eat for the process
and entertainment to continue.
My friend wants answers, and guidance. I’m supposed to be helping him in this time of need, or consoling him in some way.
But I can’t without all the facts
I have a vague idea I once possessed.
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 9:50 AM UTC
*looks like someone's dancing in their underwear...
touché - looks like someone's buying pints
of milk in their pyjamas.*
night privy, nocturnal India
i get to do the dance over your grave
while your relatives grieve a pointless
grief: just in the same way they grieved
a rotten chestnut, or egg....
maybe this sprout of anti-imagination
might be a floating limb of ambition
to being simply reattached - *the black keys'
lonely boy* -
spastic maestro number uno - chillies
and the Chilcot KKK inquiry -
got buff results with the whitey crew -
took out the trash, fed the gerbils,
saved a Latex ****** from the hood...
well... the Kentucky hooded brigade,
fully tent equipped parishioners -
and whenever you dress up as sheep
you better barbecue - c k q - what a long shopping list -
**i've got a love that keeps me waiting!
ooh oh oh oh!
i've got a love that keeps me waiting;
i'm a lonely boy"* -
to cue or to queue -
a forever question unanswered -
of simply quit... they call it the lack of
solar tattoo pigmentation -
i treat the argument for god
like i'd treat winning the jackpot in lottery,
it just has the prefix existential- prior to what's
being gambled: someone suggested respectability;
i guess that's fair enough - otherwise
i call it a fail with potatoes acting as bricks
in Northern Ireland... and a blatant lack
of back-up colonialism....
that ****** better sprech Anglo
or he's toast.... then came the Voodoo Vindaloo -
screaming: churn out the chillies into chokes! aah!
oh oh or excessive umlaut agitation -
poor tool tummy - when have you experienced
the ****** in surgical syllables taken
to the butchers for coarse timing
that never coerced?
i danced that dance, angry though,
when they played Pendulum's Tarantula
in a Basildon's night-club - you heard a roar
when spotted an "epileptic"
(both dittoing as said, and ambiguity) weaving a web of
personal space - truly and originally,
not your cup of tea - i'd ensure you as
respectably assured -
mind the Sundays and the roast beef and
the home office and Yorkshire fundamentalism;
Newcastle? Newcastle is too hedonistic.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
Repair the world that's broke n with a wrench,
For never can a fixer can't afford
To fix a mental meaning with a *****
Though all the world's a floor of concrete poured.
Restore the restoration of the world,
And everything returns to right its place:
The lone construction worker spins betwirled
With bluebirds singing friendly in the face.
Time flies, and so do flying jellyfish.
Since tempos fugue it, carp the dying day.
Go find a star and make a walrus wish
That aliens would pray away the gray.
The grass is greener if the other side
Where hamsters love and noon has never died.
*
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 4:43 AM UTC
do you feel like a boy, boy?
or just like a bad person?
you like it when your bangs
touch your greasy blackheads,
when girls squeeze your earlobes
while you kiss on the staircase,
and the way your calves
look like mayonnaise covered gerbils
every time you flex in the mirror
or cross your legs in the coffee shop.
you don't like playing foosball
and going through all the scenarios
on how people question your being.
metro?
"we don't have those in Nevada"
you label yourself as a straight white boy,
because you can't call yourself a feminist.
you want to be a feminist,
but you're a wannabe feminist
according to the ones
you let down and continue to
because you're not quite a man,
yet you aren't female.
what are you, exactly?
according to the history books
we only know what masculinity is,
femininity a vague genre tag of
every other piece of music made
when villages aren't burned
and the ****** has to wait
another day before becoming
a prize in Heaven.
do you feel like a man, boy?
or nothing at all? cause
you can't feel like a bad person
when you don't feel human.
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
I’ll look up and see a wasp
Or a bee, hunting around,
Ready to die.
Collaborations simplified in rivers abreast
Oh, the shores of Lethe are so delightful
With their ash marked eyes and solitude beggars
Potted plants of desiree, coal jutted shouts cross
Blanket crowds shoved in a bruised corner
With a madman screaming something about
Lasting generation and forced collaration.
See the basket cases? Claimed they were
From the devil, Dee did, muttering about kingdoms
and collard greens
With her stuffed, shrunk coat waddling round the
same Dickey’s, a corner from Westboro Baptist.
And kitty corner from the statues no one’s taking down
Cause Mr.White said nah son, that’s not right
As he bombed Bethel Baptist one more time.
And these shores are so delightful, don’t you see?
Harpooned sticks and scarecrows, oh sorry,
I meant social expectations, but who cares anyway?
Wondering why we all say “i want to die’,
Have you looked at the government mandating
People inhuman, or the money situation,
Should be on the news, but
No we here at Fox and CNN don’t believe that’s important.
Say, I don’t think we should have Onion headlines
On the New York Times.
So we say ‘i want to die’ and the Gazette tells us
it’s those **** video games again
or maybe it’s the stigma and lack of empathy from
The Powerful.
And you hear on the street,
“Weed’s ending this country,”
Sorry, I wanted a break from all this god **** noise
From a country pulling apart at the beaten seams
Of another unwritten book.
Anger, you’ll say, irrational, I’ll add,
But pointing at the statue in the park
And you wonder why all those wasps
And bees we look down on, the gerbils and
Hamsters
That we never pull a punch on
Why they escape through the way they know how,
Why, wouldn’t you too? But that’d require empathy, sir,
And apparently you lack more than morals, sir.
Look, there’s Dee, getting her collard greens
In her stuffy, shrunken jacket,
Round the corner from Dickey’s and cracked roads with
littered breezes blowing past cars open windows, honking and
brazen calls.
Welcome to the Lethe shores,
Don’t worry, you won’t remember a thing,
Slipped a bit of Liquid X in your alcohol.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 10:05 AM UTC
let’s ride a leafy kite
into the haunted space
of our universe
you can shove gerbils
all the way up my ****
near a hanging citrine sun
i’ll hoot for all the moons to hear
as they crawl up my crook
dipping their writhing heads
into my floodgate-lake;
our gallery of life.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
for half an hour i kept scribbling
onto his feline forehead the sounds
i'd identify as alphabetical:
i scribbled into his cranium membrane
an omega, a beta, an alpha,
in english 26 complexities
to govern his meow - what a worthy curiosity
a cat is, readied for a sphinx -
indeed the petted animal overpowers
the intended artefact... in case of man
no more will remain than gerbils, cats, dogs,
and rabbits (inorganic, the inedible, petted,
worth a ceremonial burial),
and chickens, lambs, pigs and cows (organic,
the edible, anticipatory placebos of Holocousts) -
Kentucky would solely decipher us
having sustained ourselves on the deep fried cluck
struts... but there was me, indenting
sounds on a feline skull, writing the shape
β and uttering b'ah...
ω and uttering o'h - klepsydra enclosure -
the managed shard of alligator skin in canine
worth the bite muscular Pandora awaiting -
for half an hour i was writing such Braille onto his
cranium - but then humanity awoke with me in it,
and i learned that i was a very terrible person...
i was sitting next to Adolf when he laughed
about the good people entering heaven
stitched-up with fart-bombs talking, high on
methane rather than helium - well, it was all jokes
right up to the circumstance of burial, last rites,
and a thank you from grandma;
because i really gave a **** 20 years on.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
jewellerys jumpsuits jaded jam
grapes
of
wrath
justifying
the sweet
nest
of
yams
juggling jars jingles
mingled with
gerbils
bars
spinning me in that wheel
look mother
we
are
double jointed
jealousy she broke
three
of
my
fingers
just because
?
...
..
.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
How would the world be
If you were mine
We would glide through the dance floor
Holding on to each other
On songs sweet and slow
We would run down the beach barefoot
Holding hands and making promises
Enjoy being young and in love
At night, I would bid your insecurities to sleep
Accept you for whoever you are
And as the sun breaks the darkness
Rising from the horizon
You'd sing me Ed Sheeran songs
We would hike up the mountains
Make love in the wildest of places
We would go for bike rides at midnight
Play old songs and sing like the world's gonna end
You would get me chocolates
Whenever its that time in the month
Hold back my hair
When I'm puking 'cause I'm drunk
We will go to the games together
And scream like our life depends on it
We will make a family together
Not of children, but of animals
Dogs, talking macaws, turtles, gerbils
We'll get matching tattoos
Not the cheesy ones but things like,
"I love nachos" cause we ******* do
We wouldn't be perfect because nothing is
But we'll trod through every storm
We wouldn't say all the right things in all the right places
But we'll stay together in love
Maybe things wither like flowers
But we'll enjoy the spring
Maybe we're not for forever
But we'll cherish the present
But you look the other way
Whenever I try to catch your eye
I have all these fantasies in place
But you never seem to try
How would the world be
If you were mine
Oh man,
How would the world be
If you were mine
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 3:33 AM UTC