"phalluses" poems
One thousand phalluses
Won't fill
That void in your Soul
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC
The great gaudy flage is screamin' blood in the streets
loose yawn of a gob on him
all bombast n' swagger
he makes a barrage of nuisance
channels through the public
and scatters a juggler's performance spot
lobs away his change hat
then, roughly over the cobbles
he hoicks a resuscitation doll
and stamps down a posing boot
on the 'defeated form'
an unprepared scoop of tourists
a pause for silence and begins a rant
a great performance
of well harassed combustion :
"i smear to god all the phalluses
[he roars, all saliva]
i smug to god
a full jug of uglies
tug on [makes the hand gesture for male ************
i **** off the forger
would slug it in the mug
if it ever did form a tissue oath
took a plug at some drunk straggler
called the baffled *** 'god-father'
and spate spume on his fallen anatomy
[with one hand he indicates the mannequin at his heel]
amen ************ !"
he bows
a long quiet
some people clap awkwardly
two police officers appear and hook him by the elbows
(it has been this show before)
Mar 11, 2022
Mar 11, 2022 at 11:38 AM UTC
You cringeworthy, evil pismire;
Your father did surely miss-sire
This personification of flatulence,
The embodiment of self importance
Overflowing with abject peccancy
Devoid of any sign of respectability
Replete with gross odoriferousness
Horribly and infamously unscrupulous.
You have reveled in misrepresentation
And tried to elevate your calumniation
Disinformation and deception exists
As capitalistic dissembling persists.
You’ve collected an evil government
Built mostly of human excrement
And have such a lack of veracity
That you speak in constant mendacity.
Sycophantic eructations of dogmatic bile
Issue from your unsympathetic smile
And your inauthentic glad-handed gropes
As if we all of us are unbright gullible dopes
That buy your fabrications completely
While you pilfer and prevaricate indiscreetly.
You are a Vaudevillian villain miscast as star,
But most of us know exactly what you are.
Deceit, deception, dishonesty; a tragedy
But not for you, for us and our country.
Distortion, evasion and fabrication the rules;
You despair of any other kinds of tools.
Falsehoods, fictions and forgery are your tricks.
You demand we build with straw-less bricks
Your erections that are planned to be palaces
Filled with your giant golden carved phalluses.
Those monuments, inanotomically correct,
Established to celebrate and somehow protect
A mountebank on the way to an overseas bank
Claiming to eradicate the scoria he creates
That decades of privation will not quite alleviate.
But you, the Great Prevaricator, will always blame
Other players in your sick, unconstitutional game
Instead of admitting your complicity and guilt
About the disgusting, putrid swamp you built.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
pontificating elegiac
stalwartly asymptomatic
positing logical phalluses
into fleshy vices
seeing virtues in viewpoints
seeing in the eyes of beauty the beholder
the calculating and crafting of a sapiosexual
positing calculations
into social craft
slightly autistic
whatever that means
a breed of abnormals
set against the world and themselves
bound to lose
doomed to win
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
concrete, metal, steel and glass
lustrous phalluses
skyscraping
lighting up the dark
no stars
visible
visual
pollution.
with an iron fist
the rulers of the world
reign the world
out of the towers of babylon 8.
who are these people?
what are they doing all day and all night long?
what are we being told?
beneath the towers: a vast red light district
populated by desperate, greedy, machiavellian creatures:
driven by addiction
drugs are sold in the street 24/7
since the councilmen of babylon 8 established a drug policy
that is called "babylon's way".
it has been administered for three decades and ensures that slingers and dealers are given a set place to do what they are used to do.
in order to calm worried citizens, the police raid a stash house every couple of weeks while dealers are waiting across the street to go on as soon as the cops will be leaving.
the rulers of the world are addicted to themselves; many are using.
the slingers are faithful to any kind of mind-altering substance; many are dying right now.
close to you and close to me
while these words are written down and by the time they will be read.
people die daily because they do drugs.
most die due to abuse
some because of regular use
and even a few
trying it the first time.
what do YOU think ––
can anybody hear the addicts' last breaths inside the towers?
how do the rulers of the world perceive the world?
what's going on in babylon 8?
besides: babylon 8 is not an imaginary city.
it's real name is
frankfurt am main
located in
germany
(a.k.a. "bankfurt" a.k.a. "krankfurt")
globally known for
its fair
its stock exchange ––
and a skyline
of bank towers
Dec 31, 2019
Dec 31, 2019 at 9:40 AM UTC
It’s 1:21am on a Thursday night and there’s no rain
where there should be.
There’s no weeping over the seven-colored earths
and the erosion of the skin is building up.
I have a mouth full of stumbling words,
nervous and absurd,
like wax flowers and plastic china cups;
bottles of placebos.
I have masks on the walls
and body parts on the floor.
Dim light from violet lampshades painting worlds
with minimal effort, but with profound meanings
that pretentious collegiates speak over bearded elders
while stuck in fishbowl towns, separated from the oceans of
metropolitan beliefs.
*Pulling nail fibers from fingertips with crooked teeth,
a habitual ritual christened from a darker half.
Waves of feral multitude plunging the streets
As riots of people made of fire chant the names of fallen angels
And personified martyrs.*
Episode after episode of plot-thickening exposition,
the weight of which is but a feather to the pull of the moon.
To **** my privates to a saddened resolution that’s
sweeter than a mutual **** for the sake of love.
*Penetrating me with needles as thick as bones,
Brittle as sculpted phalluses made of teeth.
Drilled out from the cavities and clamped iron
that make me grind and ******
In my sleep
out of nightmarish extremity.
Or persistent calamity.*
She’s dead, wrapped in plastic
And fountains are pouring mercury
Profuse silver-stained drooling
Ostracized from sane certainty
*The thunder of guttural bellowing
In the chasm of bed sheets,
where leather bound demons
split ***** hands under ice knifes
Muffled voices
And embryo faces
Tearing out primal smiles
Tied with black laces
In a public amphitheater.*
She’s dead, wrapped in plastic
And fountains are pouring mercury
Second time I’m seeing it drool
With a last moment of certainty.
It’s 1:41 on a Friday morning and there’s rain.
Finally.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
The night arrives, wicked and sentimental
It gives birth to morning, unforgiving but gentle
And the moon gives women their claws
As mother earth opens her jaws
And swallows whole all the phalluses
The rich men and their palaces
And broken seashells look like fragments of planets
We may have no mystery, but we still have magnets
And the knowledge of the old gets passed on to some
As the rest of the planet comes undone
And the drunkards are eager to play their roles
As the martyrs wait to save their souls
The flame that survived the storm
Deviates from the norm
A pariah born
In unsymmetrical form
Only when it burns out
Will an apocalypse come
Calling all you monsters
Unite as one
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
There is a hit and run in my mind
And the police are too preoccupied with their phalluses
To even notice.
A lonely man, befuddled by the blunt object that hit him from behind, fades away into nothing while his crimson blood mixes with the juice of blueberries he had just bought. The pavement turns purple, and for just a split second the scene turns from tragic to comic.
The State of Mind is policed by the principles of democracy. The system is simple: The Cerebellum is the parliament, all my cognitive skills are the representatives, and the body of voters is constituted by whichever arbitrary thoughts that enter my head that day. But in reality my mind is goverened, only by the singularity of chaos. The voters don't know, but the Cerebellum knows. The representatives will never know for sure, but there is a slight tint of discontent, gnawing away, every day, at their thoughts, while they drink their coffee and type endlessly on typewriters, even though computers have been around for a quarter of a century.
You see, chaos is regressive and progressive simoultaneously. Chaos is when time unleashes logic. The future reprecussions of a chaotic event may be necessary, inevitable and perhaps even for the good of humakind and the larger universe, but the passage between vain violence, anarchy, destruction; and the ultimate moral redemption of the event; the moment where we comprehend the possible benevolence of past horrors. Chaos is logic when time is suspended.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
i found that modern people lie too much, because the preceding acts of investigation where treated as vanity, and indeed they are, compared to the contemporaries' acts of lying as brimful, the res plenus, the thing brimming with itself, no chance of an extinction of a self into creating something and disappearing, but rather the modern concern for pop music artists, creating nothing and constantly reappearing... not encapsulating the need for emptiness, but the drive to need an icon... a self-detachment worth a thermometer or a telescope, or a theory of relativity... they cite einstein alright, but einstein is just a headline to attract the eyes, rather than the article to attract the eyes... too few blind men exist to make the judgemental balance of the two accurate.
i'm walking with a glass of whiskey
with icecubes' jingling
like skulls on a cannibal's necklace,
and it's necessary to say:
boy's reading milan kundera's
the unbearable lightness of being
boy leaves girl reading milan's *testament
betrayed*,
girl is too devastated by familial ties,
boy meets the girl's grandmother who
she denotes as her mother, boy eats dinner
with the girl's mother who the girl denotes
as sister... girl speaks of being abducted
when younger... boy has no knowledge
of psychiatric evaluation...
enforces boy to wed her, taking contraceptive
pills but faking taking them -
it's the ideal: i'll **** you to orphan **** a society
into benefits - odd, because with prostitutes
i pulled out and ********** silently into a ******
after all, prostitutes don't want to be pregnant.
she still persisted telling the boy:
you just finished a degree of education,
you have no safe career path... let's start a family,
you say no, i'll ******* **** you...
rubber rubber rubbing the same tree-hug later
it's a laughing matter... as testified
by my constant rubber sheath use of ******
**** me without one, her words, not mine:
brown-nosing feminists of the **** & *****
already politicising the matter in favour of one night stands;
i told you idiots before... cats are cheaper...
i'd be jealous had you two phalluses
to insert into both ***** and ****
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
it’s like that the beatles v. stones
or the *** pistols v. the ramones question,
i know that hendrix was pure at 27
(joining the haloed crowd fronted by
the quasi back in black femme fatale),
but he was simply a virtuoso,
what i got was melody from kravitz:
the piano and the drums,
got me tapping, air pianist that i am
for the drums on my collar bone,
and it was all pristine blue one sunday afternoon,
i stopped dreaming, ushered into a pauper artist definition,
and felt more love than i could have wishbone’d,
or fortune cookie’d for that matter,
because i knew, there and then:
the world can end with someone crucified
forcing the atom bomb explosion on a postcard from 34 a.d.,
but only because there’s ******* and worship involved,
the last man to bend the knees of others readied himself for torture
admiring the pyramids hoping for a revival,
and he got it, the near extinction of ourselves,
tortured and crucified, instigator of celebrity culture,
the posing duck-faced messiah with hands spreading
and soaring across the entire diameter we call the equator.
you can surely end the world, listening
to the dirges of the egyptians with sympathy
about how a thousand miles of living love built a monument of death,
and then invert in the vortex of ***** love
love that’s tortured the additive of missing jealousy -
three thousand phalluses entered and one more -
but still the greengrocer felt no metal on the finger readied;
because who would be jealous of a ****** love
when so many noble women debased themselves to *******
and false prophesying of men?
let’s end it with: lenny’s my love
stands shoulders above in height above any hendrix output,
it is above whatever lottery wish in tremor
of finger aching crossed could ever burn to with
a guitarist doing crescendos in a#, or toothing the horse’s mane;
‘cos kravitz is a lyricist and not a virtuoso -
as his piano signatures prove - genteel;
hendrix give me your best signature rhythmic rubric!
oh wait, you can’t, ‘cos so so much solo!
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
Sigmund Freud
Employed
Analysis
Treating neurotics who envied phalluses.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
Unionized Teachers and
Radicalized Administrators
believe somehow they know whats best.
Agenda driven issues disguised as ideas.
Tolerance and equality have both lost their way.
Bearded women dressed in *******
read stories about Princess Boys to confused children.
Kindergarten boys drawing Crayola vaginas
while the girls form phalluses from play do.
Inverted celebrities influence
the young.
While the verbal history of their
elders is ignored.
All of this is by design.
The Law of Reversal
is their law
not mine.
Their goal is to
usher in The End of Days
like they have so many times before.
The twenty somethings
are all for science and progression.
Yet have no idea
what freedom ever was.
Apr 14, 2022
Apr 14, 2022 at 11:57 PM UTC