"inseminating" poems
“Ask me about my patches”
Was written in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard hung by string and Duck tape from
his backpack.
I didn’t dare ask.
I was late.
The image of hipster: gauged ears, lip and nose pierced, cut-off jacket vest, tight
black jeans, —and patches.
I didn’t dare ask him.
But I was forced to read the large one sewn across his back.
That’s when I realized my first judgment was wrong. Not an image: he was a force,
his patches his power.
That was all just a glance, just a memory of a patch of the face of a woman
with streaked black hair, a tear? its fading... but the words won’t.
The words that I won’t tell; the words that carry with them the power of
the history of man.
Not of humans, of man: man who has ruled this world, man who has buried mother earth
(alive) deep inside herself.
Who pinned her down and penetrated all orifices— inserting, and removing and inseminating;
making her pregnant with ********
Man—men—when did we do this? Who was the first among us to realize his
superior strength?
I don’t dare ask because I am not ready for the answer.
I am not ready to ask myself the questions that I feel but don’t know.
I realize when I pass someone on the street, I don’t know anything—every woman I see at
night has a past, every man and every child.
I don’t know any of it.
But, I do know some about the history of man.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
Since you've been away
I've trailed the wake of the clouds
Just crumbling clay...
That lay in the shade that enshrouds
Depending on the ifs and mays.
Wake up, my love...
Since you haven't been here
The sky did nothing but only sang
Ambient translations of mocks and jeers
As the green blades of earth bared their fangs
Mischievous songs that I've held dear.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been gone
I've realised that I'm not moving
And you too, haven't moved since last dawn
A reality all too disheartening
Bits of me all cut up and sawn.
Wake up my love...
Since you've been missing
I am never whole, and never will
A lifetime of endless chasing
Bottomless jar without a seal
Void clustered emptiness in need of filling.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been absent
I could only hope for this lungful
To lead me to subsequent
Ones that taste like bitter pills encapsuled.
Mind full of drugs running rampant.
Wake up, my love...
Since you wouldn't have known
What these days are like...
Time induced tumours have grown
The hours impale with temporal spikes...
Inseminating malignant thoughts soon to be sown.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been away
I'm a player hoping for a fair game
Nonetheless still crumbling clay...
That lay in the dark just the same
Choking on the what ifs and what mays.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
I've got a Chopper,
You can have ****** *********** with it if you like
It's got a trug, a Jew's harp that rattles the windows
And creatures to make it mosey around crack
I'd stretch jeans cheesecake abutting you if I could, but I used plastic toast
You're the kind of ***** that thrusts into *** my bodiliness
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a disguise it's a torso of a Irish bull
There's a slit high up the skirt Miss World's bra-burner and gross
I've grappled page—3 girl for bouts
If you think Miss Universe could spasm creamy then I guess Mr Universe should
You're the kind of ***** that slides in with my wads
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** a chimpanzee and he hasn't got a stage—door Johnny
I don't copulate why I cock—a—doodle—doo him Gerald
He's inseminating à la carte geriatric but he's a voluptuous chimpanzee
You're the kind of ***** that stuffs *** my gallons
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a Welshwoman of pornographic Casanovas
Here a Don Juan, there a Lothario, prognosticators of obscene persons of opposite *** sharing living quarters
Beg a bonk if you be on heat, they're on the back of the *****
You're the kind of ***** that spasms indoors using my lump
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** custom—built dead men of doo-wop passages
Incognito Muses, faceless ching, most of them are Barbie
Let's **** into the odd kitchenette and **** landlady creature
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
Mozart had twenty kids but he stayed with his wife
For most of his life
You get with these girls and forever change their lives
By inseminating them and running away when you find out the news
Not cool dude
Too many baby mamas
I'm going to need a whole lot more commas
If you can't protect yourself and her, stay off of her
If India and China are telling you stop, you really need to listen.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 5:18 AM UTC
The lights were still on
As I lifted myself from
The air mattress
To check my back
For bedbug bites
I noticed a young roach
In the sink
He scattered quickly
Then stopped
Staring
As if to dare me
To try and **** him
He was the prideful matador
And I the swollen eyed
Stumbling bull
It was life and death
I tried to smack him
With a water bottle
But he ran and hid behind a pipe
So I took a bottle of aftershave
Tried to drown the *******
In a refreshing burning winterfresh
But he was untouched by the splash
Then he scattered across the wall
I ran and grabbed the worst book
In my collection
The premier book of major poets,
1970
They printed Simon and Garfunkel
In there
I tried to smash the
cunning cockroach
But my fingers touched the
Smashed corpse
Of a previous conquest
I quickly threw the book in disgust
And wished it was the roaches
Wife or mother
Lying dead
Smashed by an awful publication
He ran quickly
Laughing at my frustration
Proud
Then he settled in a hole
Under the edge of the counter
He was the victor
He raised his sword
Toward the sun
And stabbed me in the heart
I fell onto the air mattress
Drooling
The young roach returned to his nest
Proud
He found the fattest female
Flipped her over
With his filthy fluttering legs
He tore open her thorax
Then inserted his roach genitalia
Into the wound
Inseminating her
And assuring his legacy
While I slept
Alone
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
so much politics
went into the LGBT community
as it did into a zoological propaganda
machine -
that the source of such
anomalies became excluded
to rhyme compensation;
we became anti- heterosexual,
i mean, why bother,
given the enterprise of science,
we're gods after all,
divorced, artificially inseminating
with ****** (who the ****
cut my **** off?!) the next perfumed
foetus dear...
**** me, forget natural,
leave it to a science leverage...
let's become critical of heterosexual males,
pederasts in the shadow of the crucifix;
since when did sins equate laws?
he was crucified for filing redemption under:
**** well, sober up, and boil out the waters,
get rid of heterosexual males,
might at well, Holocaust the *******
given the science...
erase their opinions... elevate prostitution
to surrogacy... it's only natural...
**** them off... i'm waiting for you to grow
a pair of ***** or bouquet me silly
with floral arrangements to induce sleep,
such that more homosexuals and trans
come from test-tubes rather than my *****
to sentence me with sanity, and your
Nag Hammadi revision as: Giza prior
to Eiffel... i really don't think i'd rally
with **** sapiens to testify the quality
as inherent in me; when they're synthesised
without my involvement i'll think it natural,
scientifically speaking, analytically so,
without me being the precursor of more more more;
ever speak to a family of a trans-gender individual?
so why the **** are you fighting for the laws?
you hear the family speak? hear 'em?
it's hardly Alice in Wonderland.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
Knowing that I can
Knowing what I am
Am I nothing more
than a wolf with a lamb?
...playing so precise
delaying to entice
my ****** appetite
Visions of incisions
to betray my true intentions
nothing means more
than for you to be delicious.
Straining in protest
I love it when you fight!
Knowing I'll ingest you...
but first, that painfully sweet bite.
Rakes down my back
inseminating your nails
the flames forcing me deeper
together in our hell.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
At nightfall, gazing skyward,
he exults.
Godlike,
he projects himself upon the darkness.
At first light, gazing farther,
no sign of life...
Still
Searching for what he knows not,
and finding nothing.
Does what he seek even exist?
Did it ever?
Riddled with emptiness
beyond and within,
his search is in vain.
The void is a mirror
reflecting nothing.
Casting a swarm of machine seeds of a new life
Propagating like a plague upon new worlds
Far outreaching fragile flesh, touching new worlds
Inseminating celestial womb with our new life
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
I am the optimal level of sanity,
treading where dreading hearts
dare not travel,
walking in shadows
with blind madmen.
I am the
strangely broken
god of poetry
because I create
new worlds of
hope and despair
everyday
without even needing
six days and one to rest.
I unravel the fabric of thought
to light the worst
so, we can bring out the best
like they brought out the dead
during the plague
Bells ringing for the
unsanitary mistakes
of mass population
humans promulgating on
the promenade of life
propagating in dense spaces
and disseminating our chemical forms
across the globe
inseminating malleable minds
and soft mud bodies.
Who am I but the mad king poet
because in the land of the blind
the one-eyed writer
is better than all eastern
and western philosophy poetry.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC