This is the Devil’s hour.
It’s when George Lutz hears the ghosts
And murders his family in Amityville Horror.
Shia Labeouf get’s high on acid at 3:15.
I decide to write a poem.

----------------------------------------------------------­--------------

For 4 hours
I’ve been trapped in the Internet.
From Facebook posts about feminism
To related searches on Google.

“Mexican **** Takes Huge American ****”

A video of a man receiving oral from
An eighteen-year-old Hispanic girl.
After ******* on her face,
He spits in her mouth
And slaps her with a foam finger
That says, “America is #1”

The cameraman then says in Spanish,
“Still happy you’re doing ****?”

---------------------------------------------------------­---------------

As I watched this woman degrade herself
It became hauntingly aware
That I could have stopped watching at any time.

The men in the video were pigs
But then what does that make me?
A ******? A lonely man?

Not to say I gained pleasure from this.
I don’t get off on
Women being demoralized by
A ***** (the true icon of male dominance)
For the ****** entertainment of others

Man is not a wolf,
Man is a parasite.
(My self-included)

-------------------------------------------------­-----------------------

My eyes are made of glass
My head like a bag of hammers
Insomnia got the best of me.

Chills run up my spine as the spring air cools. I notice the sky behind me. Thunderclouds clash and lightning strikes at a distance.
      The storm is coming.
There are blurred faces everywhere, in a rush to get to safety. As the storm's fury would take their lives if they were to be trapped. But I do not fear the tempest. I hear it calling to me, as if to lure me into its eminent danger.
      The storm moves closer.
As if to intimidate me, the clouds taunt me with their peril, and the salty rain fills my eyes. The thunder is deafening. The downpour soaks my shoes, running off my coat in the middle of the gale.
       The storm is all around me.
Black thunderheads above me, the lightning strikes. The illumination casts shadows in the sky, a perfect silhouette.
       The storm is beautiful.

The storm moves on, the sun pierces the clouds, and a silver lining of discomfort and insecurity enter the void in my soul.
      The storm is my comfort.

That was then, this is now
Who was where when what was how?
Hear them take their last breath as they're shot down
I scream
Floating in the gene pool, expecting the man who can walk on water to arrive
Sell outs and everyone who has had a bad week even though it's only Monday

Whippersnappers hang their heads in shame
I am one of twelve
So expendable
We live in gluttony
Lineleaders, math teachers, bottom-feeders have no idea
Watch them fall and be forced to crawl on their bellies
We laugh
Lewandowsky-Lutz dysplasia, getting back to your roots
Progeric clock-makers, lying dead on The Yellow Brick Road
Thin-skinned Transsexuals putting bricks in their purses
We live by eight
We die from our weight
And go unbloomed
       -Tommy Johnson
Standing in a nuclear reactor somewhere in Chernobyl looking for the truth
It might be in my contaminated endoplasmic reticulum
I am a radiant
Doppler radar
Monopoly dollar

Singing in the shower, amateur hour
Projecting sour notes
Pouring out their hearts and souls, hear them
Trying

Moo-juice nectar, spilling off The Round Table
Blondes in red bracelets, Kabbalah saves them
Henry pays no tax, John Berryman's bats tell us
You are the lunatic
We are the two quarters of a half-wit
This whole thing is insane

       -Tommy Johnson

I had found,
Or stumbled upon
Where the love-birds –
Rock,
Lounge,
And pave the ways to
***.

My park
By day,
Becomes their park
By night
As they selfishly take away
All the seats
And sights,
Leaving me to drive on,
Drive home
And drive alone.

Accordingly,
I leave the seagulls to roam
And **** on them,
Hell,
Let them
**** on everything
For that matter.

When I gift
Them
The gulls,
I return to the crows
And vultures of
Solitaire –
Scavengers,
As I grow lost,
And maybe a
Little lonely
To the emptiness that I find,
In a one night love
And the run away soon
Afterward.

I don’t smirk,
Smile
Or laugh it away.
Rather,
I almost find a tear
Or a time to cry,
Not quite,
As I keep on driving
Past home,
City limits,
And state lines.

I
Cruise,
Accelerate
And arrive,
Hopeful,
Or reminded,
By the dreams,
Where I don’t die alone,
Or broken
But together,
And maybe with you,
The one I loved
And one I left
At that very same
Park
Atop a night not
Too far
Removed.

.it's almost akin to the germans, having experienced, discovered thought... strange, though, they "learned" to think, but were able, to write, prior. isn't that strange? they were made, illuminated by the sight, prior to hearing the runes, of, the, squabbling, ruined! ruined: rune bound. have the germans, ever thought? i gather: they never have; sie noch nie haben...

why wouldn't i believe in the existence
of the gods,
when i see so many people,
borrow, traits from them?
                        Loki:
             e.g. agent provocateur...
who am i to think of?
      to pledge allegiance to?
if ever: the death of god,
then the rebirth: of the gods.
         i would believe in the death of
gods, if i didn't see
iconoclasm of the mundane whipe
and whiff presence of my fellow
mortals...
                  fame and a god-riddled
status-presence...
        with my own,
                    augen zu sehen!
moimi okami: widzieć -
     oczem: niet oko...
                      not eye...
   oczem:
                        paraphrasing...
oczem: with an eye
  (oczyma - using eyes)
via                         o czym:
about what?
                czyn: deed.
                      
can't people even understand
personification in form?!
does it always require a conjuring
of some quasi-fictive altruism?

         no wonder i can't solve a single
kreuzwortpuzzle...
              the polacks,
and their perpetual noun
                   crisis...
                     kommen sie
von ein sprache
           das schwer leiht...
                woda / voda...
    wódka / *****....
                        oh, really? the soviets
were so bad in east Berlin?
you, you really want to know,
how the allies treated
the west berliners?
                 wir, kinder vom Bahnhof Zoo,
christine F.,
                              how did the allies
flood western Berlin with,
what speaks synonym-esque
tactic of the British Empire with
the ***** trade in China...
        i'm having to start to believe,
that the Germans? zee: Gyrmans?
sado-masochists...
                     1981...
         western berlin,
in western germany...
              it's not so bad,
in the east, living in chicken shacks...
at leat you were allowed
to live under a roof...
       western germany?
plagued by a ****** epidemic...
          what's not, to, "love"?
                    detlef R.,
                            lutz F.,
              catharina Sch.,
        andreas W.,
                            babette B.,
           werner H.,
                       michael S.,
            bärbel W.,
                             karin S.,
            livia S.,
                        rudl H.,
                              dirk L.,
                                detlef R.,
                  
this is how criminals are allocated their
media presence...
         ruf!
                     well, grand,
westsächsischjurisprudenz...
what do you call a deterrant?
   abschreckend?
                         ja?
                  when you have a jurisprudence,
that, works, as a, deterrant?
when you, actually, cage criminals?
rather than comedians,
who, are not caged, or sentenced,
and roam freely...
making the free people, a joke?

       one example: Tomasz Komenda...
i am a sick *******,
  but i'm thinking of...
those instances of ol' Jimmy S'ah-vil...
in the jurisprudent complex
of the saxon,
  the victim, sure, the victim is
allowed redemption and justice: death...
the accused is also given
redemption and justice: death...
              
   the philosophy of passing law,
incubated by: presumed innocent,
until, proven guilty,
over, guilty, until proven innocent...
i would think the latter,
to be a deterrent...
   if you have method of passing
judgement, against all favours...
            ascribed unto you...

            ich, mein herz:
                                          zu du.

i don't want to speak of justice no
more...
         simply because:
the justice i crave,
will not be served,
not with death, at least,
                    and whatever justice,
what comes with death,
i am, prone,
to at least mind
in making myself forget...
         if the reverse is true,
innocent until proven
guilty,
rather than guilty until
proven guilty...
  then... come my saving
mother, death,
             i wait for "giving" birth
to my ego...
detached from a body...
               i wait for the day,
when i am guilty,
akin to nibbling
on the fruit,
akin to the religiosity,
original sin,
   guilty until proven
innocent....
                                             ­      whatever.