poem
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Get Up Off of Your Knees-for Simon Grimm The poet gig is a good hustle if you’ve got the stomach for it Is in this respect we share common traits with surgeons, Soldiers, and butchers. It takes nerve to do it right none To do it poorly is a sign of intellectual impotence. Equally as
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Now That Is A Real Gentle Man It is trying to rain again and I am trying to catch the bus to see you. I ride the metal beast drowning in the cacophonous roar of vapid Conversationalist ignoring the hostile little faces of the tribe As we all ride from Westside lead poisoned slums to the
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The Eschatology Of Our Mad Love Hangs Over Our Necks Like The Blade Of A Guillotine One day she would be gone. It was always her ace in the blackest whole of our universe. The ultimate cunt Goddess of our big daddy gang bang cosmos from the ecstatic screaming orgasmic beginning to the whimpering Hippocratic
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Tell Me I am… “I know it’s pretty. But, I didn’t take it out just to get some air” -Requiem for a Dream Beautiful. How long have we starred over the edge of the abysmal end, two disembodied ego eating eyes mesmerized forgoing everything we know of nothing? We have secret carrion cravings and bestial
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“We who are about to die salute you.” for Jack Johnson, Joe Lewis and Mohammad Ali The title of this anti-poem, about death and taxes was originally ‘Killing Two Birds with One Stone’. Then it was shortened to ‘Two Birds with One Stone’. That wasn’t blowing my skirt up so I changed it to
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Turing Test a Haiku Failed the Turing test today. I do not know how I feel about it.
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A Flock of Bums I have been tossing half-smoked cigarettes into the parking lot at work. Hoping to attract all of the neighborhood drunks, bums and crack whores. Like pigeons on scattered breadcrumbs. The boss hates it when they hang out in front of the store, begging for change that never materializes. When they are
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If You Smell Something Stankin’… If You Smell Something Stankin’… it’s me I’m the shit to the devil with your politically correct false modesty noble savage hand writing my woman’s writing her novel on the computer I can’t write on the cursed machine I don’t trust the binary code of machine language I want more
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Dreams of Impermanence She is trying to bend A silver tablespoon With her mind And a man to her will. Whatever he was When they met it was Not enough they have Grown in different directions. One has grown older The other has grown up If he will only genuflect Worship me in prayer. Celebrate
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When You Wake Up at Odd Hours I am eating rainbow sherbet In the dining room turned into my office. Smoking a blunt and a Newport It’s 5:39 in the A.M. The coffee is almost ready It’s sneaking up my nose Soon I’ll walk into the kitchen Barefoot, black jeans and Mister Rogers Sweater to
Joey Cloudy online 