pen name
-
It’s Easy to Hate What You Haven’t
The sound of studio art machenery ran through my ears
I was told it was symphonies to harold the rebirth
Of musical infection on the stifling brain
Of the flat dim bulbs illuminating a painting
Irronicly from above
But I only heard America ring with deafening precision
I turned my attention to the whore that stroked less
Than his ego but more than his pride
As they gorged themselves
On the plastic of the styrofoam cow conglomeration
Adorned with silicone reds and yellows
Wrapped in layers of irony and child obesity
The homeless man excreted himself on the
Busse’s floor and children he stole laped it up
And regurgitated the same for their’s
And the bruise
Grew to resent the origin that hated to be faced
As the lights of reddened passers by gleamed brilliant
Off the splatter of us barreling through what made us
On a road that made it
Grew a sense of tired
That over took the gears in my arms and the springs in my legs
And my eyes became heavy and my
Heart stopped in prefect silence that shook my skin
And metal casket
Containing the bones of the orphans and burnt flags
That make this country
The fags on nuses and the nuns with their balls in a sling
That make this county
The niggers and countercultures who don’t care to explain
That make this country
The Indians driven to drunken poverty to take our money
That make this country
The white race that cowers in the corner like it matters
That make this county
The country of evil and greed
That made this country of those who don’t want it
And as the wipers scaled across the glass in sticking
Imperfect jerking failure
I started to watch as I drifted off to the broken metronome -
Birth is
This hospital is germinal at best
For it sprouts another lover from the same
Womb as the Brest was implanted and scrutinized by
The shallow cancer that pokes at its misfortune of
Knowing the beast in which it dwells
Kids taunt the incarcerated fish that make the glass seem to cry
And all the walkers fall into rhythmic goose step
To an early Grave
Too simple to be prophetic
Yet too true to elude gravity
The speahes always recited on deathbeds of the
War and the unborn
Always heard but never ignored -
The Oak at the Center of His Universe
This irriguous plenty of destructive heads that grow from
Seed to sniveling seed
To land of great backwards fuck bum
And the lesser of so in between the greatest roots
Of a great elm devised to let a sunken idealism
Be the termites on which the tree feasts
As the bugs become one with the lack of there of
And their bones are turned into the seed of sniveling seed
To feed the ground once again -
Give Thanks to the Dead
It’s always easier to digest those who don’t eat themselves
Who are worshipers of the ship not the captain
For the big picture seems to be lost
To the blind man’s
Xenophilia is lesser only
To the stitches that keep his mouth from being
Used to denounce the things he already has
He must keep his shell aloft
Lest the beggar be brought down
He could take his life for the other’s
who bleeds the same blood but not the same imperfection -
RIIIIIIISE UP! My Brothers!
The flounder approbated the accusation
On the martyr’s behalf
The man you were supposed to be
This egregious wrong be pleasantly rewarded
And the lawyer can sift through red tape
And help the pigs beat on blacks
And krack heads fill our children with their thoughts
And give smoking companies a gun equally as smoldering
And keep the tight-wad progressive on a soapbox
Long enough to kill a victim -
Propagation
Get dressed up in the ghetto to
Be given back to your birth parents
My muse
My need
My extricated cock to be dimantaled
By a Ginsburg set up in starch and irronic glasses
Clichés to be reconciled out of court
And a burning need deep in the AIDS of an undercarriage
Society set to burn it’s credibility to the ground -
Tribe
It didn’t matter the harboring neighboring tribe’s pitfalls
It grew their houses from seeds sown by black eyes children
Held together by the shit of the men and the tears of the
Woman who won’t rise up and grow a pair
And the dogs slept easy and shallow in stupor of lackadaisical
Effigies burned and worshiped at the stake
Of the territory’s in-devour to reconnoiter the
Dreams of the sickness they wished they left behind -
Dinner internet
Eclectic and macaronic verbiage set to stop
The men from procreating and getting the whore off
The internet full of cock and heads loped
Off the body of a satanical beast for the loft
Answers no more prayer than street
Or the beatnik set himself to eat -
Layers
The craving heart was tony to the gentleman
Of latter day saints investing in a market set to slit
It’s own wrists and hang the poor and grotesque from
Cables pawned off a sleazy tycoon now set to rip the throat
Of sea-lions and kidnap babies after their parents became
Separated in the hurricane
I want the good-natured dead and buried with the
Philanthropist and the feminist
All congregating in hell
Dancing on the grave of the racist
As the racist spits on the segregationist’s unmarked dump
And I want them all to feel you not give a damn
That they grow your flowers -
Guns for Kids
It didn’t matter how loud the baby cried
You can’t shake veins this cold and liquified
Golden guns hang in perfect reach
While the caparison hangs from rafters like a leech
This god won’t think of what it means to live
Unless his world is swolen with a hypodermic sieve
Broken on the backs of those with estute promise
And his compatriot in juxtaposed malice
And a token of appreciation for the arts
Found in the belly of bags of all those uncomplicated starts
Inspiration in small feet destined to withhold and not become
The kind of never that her loved ones want her dumb
To stagnate and never finish a sentence on eternity’s whim
With petty shivs blackened by blood and limbs
Cast aside from the table like scraps
Of food not the deamons that bow to no law -
Dogma
It didn’t matter the harboring neighboring tribe’s pitfalls
It grew their houses from seeds sown by black eyes children
Held together by the shit of the men and the tears of the
Woman who won’t rise up and grow a pair
And the dogs slept easy and shallow in stupor of lackadaisical
Effigies burned and worshiped at the stake
Of the territory’s in-devour to reconnoiter the
Dreams of the sickness they wished they left behind -
New York New York
Eclectic and macaronic verbiage set to stop
The men from procreating and getting the whore off
The internet full of cock and heads loped
Off the body of a satanical beast for the loft
Answers no more prayer than street
Or the beatnik set himself to eat
Likes
-
12 Famous Book Titles That Come From Poetry
1. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold - “I Knew a Woman”...
-
-
-
-
Here’s my Mr. Mime for the Pokémon Battle Royale show hosted by Light Grey...
