poetry
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On Mornings Like this I Write Love Poems to the Ghost of Myself I have lived longenoughthat I have becomea strangerto myself many times.I read a few poems in an old chap book.Poetry the soulremains from the ashesof that man.
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Love in the time of Snow Angels Outside just beyond the glass walls of my second story bedroom the clouds of February 2015 bury the city of faces in titanium white shrouds the cars slosh by in icy treads and the voices of my brothers as they pass each other on the thin iced sidewalk
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Pass the Vibrator A good poem is like a good fuck. It’s got to be big and thick as a porn stars cock, tight as a nuns cunt and even closer to god. It has to last long enough for even the frigid twats that spit Out politicos, CEOs, bankers, stockbrokers, pop stars and clergymen
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Sin City Avatar (…my own first level jesus.) What is an avatar An earthy manifestation of the Divine? Avatars differ from angels in a multitude of ways subtle and obvious. think of angels as holy administrative assistants. was Buddha an avatar for nihilism? if I say, I believe in nothing I am accused of being
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HOW TO PROPERLY ROAST A PIG With Apologies to Young Breezy aka The Fundraiser for John Brown American Hero, Abolitionist, Bad Ass Mutha Fucka “You either get down or you lay down” -Cindy McPherson Look, Fuck you. Fuck Aunt Jemimah and the horse you rode in on Fuck yo house nigga
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A POEM RESURRECTED: from the lost book of Evangeline, chapter 31, verses 41 to 59 December 28, 2015 I can say without ego this is my finest sword. -Hattori Hanzo After the last manic pixie dream girl with bad boy and daddy issues is gone gone gone. And all that remains undulating in the toxic
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To Do List Monday Kill a god Kill a major deity Go to store Buy wooden matches Tuesday Kill a goddess Kill a minor deity Go to hardware store Buy 5-gallon gasoline can Wednesday Kill time Buy a watch Place it into the garbage disposal Turn it on Go to store buy globe of the
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Spilt on the Page Confucius sits cerulean in serenity in the shadow of Naples yellow and ivory blossoms of Aprils honeysuckle the old Mexican yard man has cut the grass low the sun light diffused by hobo clouds filters through the viridian leaves of trees whose names I do not know although we share this
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I Am Not A Poet I Am Not A Poet This is just some shit I wrote on the bus. I cut myself shaving this morning Imagine my surprise When my blood ran black as India ink as it oxidized. So I filled my chromed fountain pen with this ebony excretion And wrote this poem
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Vagina Monologue Blues In E Flat Live From The G Spot My inner goddess is posting duck face selfies on Facebook. My inner goddess is Crip walking to Oingo Boingo ‘Grey Matters’ on YouTube. My inner goddess is improvising confessional poems of urbane Ennui mid coitus. My inner goddess talks before, during and after intercourse.
Joey Cloudy online 