Posts Tagged ‘bad poetry’

A brief spike in traffic

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

For 3 days running I had over 100 views to the site, akin to a miracle.  I’m not that interesting, so it must’ve all been for recent Jeopardy! contestant Rachel Lindgren.

It’s my duty to warn you thirsty nerds AGAIN that smart women are not a solution to anything and being a sapiosexual is a road to nowhere.  If she’s smart while you’re enamored (subtract 25 IQ points for each boob and asscheek) you’re in QUADRUPLE the danger of being manipulated.  Not that I overly give a shit what happens to you, you’re probably better off than me.

I believe this blog is now 10 or 11 years old, which means little because I rarely posted after 2009, was it?  It has brought me neither joy nor grief, certainly no money or gavina.  I don’t read my own shit so I’ve forgotten most of it, except to remember impassioned movie reviews about Batman (pointless) or politics (far more pointless) and cussing out my wage slave job while doing nothing to improve my lot in life.

Two things happened in the last 5 years which changed the entire arc of my  inclinations, I got out of the shit job and I “discovered” whores.  Also, my father died  at 73 of natural causes, if you count lung cancer as natural.

The whores saved my life.  Once I was getting laid fairly regularly all the Mysteries of Womanhood evaporated, which was bittersweet, but poetry is either written out of your system or it burns you from the inside out like drinking bleach.  Poetry IS drinking bleach, usually for the reader. 

The women’s humanity made me less of a misogynist, and it even seemed a few of them enjoyed the ride beyond getting paid.  (I haven’t been laid in over a year due to health problems so that’s on pause.)

I’m closer to 50 than 40 now.  I’m not better than I was in 2006, but like to think I’ve learned much the last 10 or 11 years.  I wouldn’t trade my scant “life’s work” of writing for falling in love.   

Here are the final lines from a long ago poem.

I know it’s coming, death or a balloon.

The slitted eyes of a petted cat.

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“I wish heartbreak was fatal”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

I wish heartbreak was fatal
like a gunshot
or puffer fish.

I wish a doctor would enter the room
and say, ‘I’m sorry, you were
too sad for too long. There’s nothing we can do. You’ve got six weeks.”

Shit, Doc, I only need a day.

I wish heartbreak killed you
without warning like a drunk driver or
falling piano.

I don’t want this burden, this grief.

It’s a tragedy when everyone lives.  

“Complainers”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

 

broken over the knees of phantoms
bleeding resentment
angry at what can’t be changed
angrier at what can,

not giving a fuck or taking one
hearts afloat in bitterness
like sponges at a high school car wash
raising funds for the funeral of hope.

they don’t want to hear it
they already know it
they’re eating themselves
with needless rage,
fine,
except they always
chew so loudly.

“cupcakes in a locked iron chest”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

 

“There’s nothing to write,” he said,

sounding like

a teenager scanning the cupboard for snacks.

 

And it’s true,

there’s nothing in here

out there

even over yon where Shakespeare shits quill pens.

 

nothing.

 

No inspiration

No motivation

Not even

 

(wait for it)

 

masturbation.

 

There’s nothing to do, write or say.

 

There are no E-Z snacks

anymore.

 

You’re finished, all that’s left is to

Die,

bitter that someone else

will get paid to

write about it.

“Second effort”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

 

Eh, this one’s
O-K,
solid in places
but
I kind of liked
the first one
better.

I wish this was more like the older piece
and things were like before
when the first piece you’d written was
your latest one.

You know?

“ordinary”

Wednesday, 23 September 2015

 

guts torn one way then the next
heart slinging blood like hot cards in the alley
you are the fly here
in a spider’s web of crosshairs
as time swings on a chain
as bats dip their wings in splashing blood.

hope runs out like cut rope falling
skin refusing to hold this fury,
bursting like a Styrofoam cup of gasoline
creeping toward flames
as guns empty arguments into meat
as glass breaks over skulls across town.

you wonder are your hands killers
fingers chattering keys, pulling cigs from a pack,
ordinary everyday horrors
the frightened manager asking you to
please leave
as the moon falls into the laughing ocean
as the sun throws knives at blind-folded earth
as this
as that
as is
is

is.

“when it goes to shit”

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

 

when it goes to shit
you will feel the teeth in each drop of rain
you will see steel shine
as bones filled with blood
break against it,
you will see a flower killed in battle, now floating down the gutter
toward the sewers.

you will think of her and put meat in her memory
but your hand will pass right through her.

you will never keep a movie stub again.

you will look in the mirror and wish for something else
you will see rain in the small frosted window above;
pattering paws
on cold glass
and think, ‘that has nothing to do with me.’

you will quietly put the lesson away
as a wrinkle, scar or gray hair.

you will never keep a movie stub again.

“and the horse you rode in on”

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

 

a bone lies stripped on the sidewalk

surrounded by nations of ants

under orange streetlight moon.

 

Another night shot from a cannon,

your innards sucked dry,

what’s left

burned by radiation.

 

little girls dressed like whores,

it’s logical, they were taught from birth they

are nothing, pumped full of filth

transmitted from glowing eyes.

 

they will never be nothing,

the ants will carry their bones

and yours

to gods waiting underground

as the next evil night waits in the shadows of

urine dawn.

08 OCT 07

“fleeting is the breeze that carries love”

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

 

Match-dot-com
has video ads
that start with the camera (who is “you”)
focused on a woman’s
legs, tits or ass.

When the action starts
you’ve just been “caught” staring.

As the camera moves reluctantly away from the areas of interest 
to their faces, the actresses act playfully outraged.
I quite enjoy it until the girl
says, “Look, if you want to get to know me, you’re going to have to talk to me.”

Our relationship goes south after that,
and there’s no way to rewind to the
legs, tits or ass.

Just like the videos
there’s no good or clever way to end this poem,
(if that’s what it is)
a website won’t help
so let’s recall with fondness a few seconds ago when the
legs, tits or ass
were ours,
then move on
to the next love.

 

19 Apr 07

“dead threats or heart splinters”

Monday, 21 September 2015

sad dogs with tennis ball jaws
popsicle sticks in the trash
ants crawling over anything

the deflated Milk Dud with no malt center
overdue library books
trash bags that don’t fit the cans

clouds that don’t move
the last note of a too-long song
pissing on road trips

green potato chips
broken vitamins
stares from slow children

fat girls wearing belly shirts
abandoned nests
slingshots missing an arm

gagging spoons of cough syrup
world war 2 footage
smiling clowns twisting balloons

sweat under a necklace
mud on the treads of tanks
jammed photocopiers

bad sax solos (all of them)
political advertisements
helmets on riders dead anyway

sticky pennies good for nothing
steaming radiators
mirrorshades on dickhead cops

bones on the ground
sad Indians looking sad for Nature
spent ammunition

hurricane tracking
foreign flags
contracts signed or unsigned

dirty bathtubs
alarm clocks
final notices

flaming arrows
forced smiles
words abandoned

done.

04 Aug 06

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