poem
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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
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Confessions of a Poolhall Philosopher I create nothing from the infinite within. I am not an artiste my words are clumsy my tongue thick with this alien vocabulary. I am a vessel I do not claim to control only to resonate. I listen to the voice of my people to see the emperor has no
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Is it impossible to write Is it possible to write while listening to Damien Rice covering Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah and the mood suppressors keep their chemical boots on the back of my neurons neck and now I must learn to cipher again, impermanence again, to see again. What else have I forgotten? I no longer
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Incubus for Kyle Vaughn We meet, Two psychic vampires Anxious to feed and be fed upon, Hungry only for a feast of souls. We circle, each the other, On cat’s paw’s. We stop, to stand human hieroglyphs Before we slash open our spirits And bleed into each other’s souls.
Joey Cloudy online 