poetry
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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.
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Full of Sin for captain zombie The nightmare, the forest, the fullness of sin I wish I knew now what I knew back then A young enchantress’s eyes so wise Drinks me with her cup of knives Eats me with her teeth of glass Eats me with her hungry ass Invites me to hide
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Fuck Poets I ain’t fucking no more poets! I mean it. I’ll still be friends with’em And hang out with’em once a week at the bars, bookstores, and record stores. But outside of the readings, workshops and features I’m through fucking them. They’re all “door knob sucking crazy.” The bartender’s right as the weatherman. The
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Eulogy for Robert Cochran “…they wanted to blossom and that means being beautiful, but you want to ripen and that means being dark and taking pains.” -Rainer Marie Rilke Five a.m. I dreamed I had a vision of your effete corpse dancing naked decomposing meat marionette attached to invisible wires bloody hollows weep crimson
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HOW’S THAT WORKING OUT 4 U? While Morpheus Greek steps out of the dream within speaking a muted language through closed captions on the flat screen tv over the stilled raving of steel drums. There is no dream, only a digitized illusion. a conjured spirit of electrons and closed casket circuitry arrives to answer pixelated
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Morticia Speaks French as Gomez Goes Insane with Passion Take 69 Tramp stamp and pigtails A sundress and no panties this time, No messing about with jeans. We are sitting on the sofa I have a hand between her thighs. Smoking pot and menthol camel crushes And we are talking about the novel, My first
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I The Science of Poetry Einstein’s incendiary ideas words arranged in an idea of order mathematical sequencing it is the intellectual alchemy of the dead watchmaker thoughts boiled in time reduced in a nanosecond of synaptic flash to the ashen essence of humanity. The pure black symmetry of silhouette in shadow, tarot cards tossed into
Joey Cloudy online 