W I K I P O E S I S
What happened here his word spit painted on photonic page. Light graffitied into being. Language stretches an ontic yawn.Metaphorical’s displaced and stumbling
around the ever-confessional. Remember-mouths express slowly. The purple mass bloomed the tongue become tourniquet, Become a harp-hearted osteotome. This perspectival Foreshortened. Perspectival doublingunto sundry fiscal harrow harsten
circumspect. to the underside of being untoo’d dis-too’ too- drest dreamt
The fuck you say?
Plight half-roamed and roaming.
Shill from most,
Plied and plied again.
Cuz broseph, know this. / Lust’s unruly.
O, deadass, breadcrumb me -
Ply me, repeatedly.
No ding an sich. I prefer the dong.
He said What’s tight inters.
I said, Whatever wounded enters unopposed.
it’s the same thing, inverted .i.e,
what you heard feels like it what inheres.
I’d be more talky-talky. I’d say things like, “Ye peeps.”
I’ve been thinking that line for weeks.
That’s how I said I’d start, so I’m committed.
What moves can’t last – get it? ← What he said before he shat himself.
Have I, hapless, told you
of multiple origins?
Stop me if you’ve heard this one.
I hope to one day even.
And my intention?
A snake eating a snake eating a snake eating its own tail
Tell this to your children. Don’t use oil based paint Take the backspace key off your keyboard and put it in a sandwich Prepare for the second-coming Try not to define anything No wingdings (emoji’s are fine) Wikipoesis, You ain’t my thesis. Every morning I get up, I never feel Compelled toward exigesis. Yeezus I didn’t mind waiting—dowsing Barry WhiteGusts of rain bell the streetlight.Bell the dead un-memorial.It is not something I plan so much as something I try not to avoidIf bets could be placed on the oddsof whispering a certain sense of chagrin. Femme exasperatedI would not see her I’ve come to realizeMetaphor was old weatherrigorous and plain.Exigesis, a tangle of letters
soaked, sank - bear with me.
I never had your stamina, dread, or wasted sentiment.
Unfist the line, O, charming boy-girl,the trick is to watch without staring.
We took to each other. Took time,took what offered itself, I recall. You, deep-veined. Me, unlettered.
& the storm came in quickly. O, TFW you unlike the brimming fanciful.
Like, once our bodies knew what we’d becometangles of smoked-glass skin, stretched desire,
& weary, we slept the fever back & dreamt.You didn’t what you couldn’t & I hated you for it.
Love the harmonious, the well-tunedOf orchards, of longing and of other poetic spaces.
I suppose chivalry’s dead. Knock knock.Who’s there. Neologist. Neologist who?
Um… Unvoiced -nesses, -ides, and -ties. What’s a-positional, before and after? It’s putting the income in nincompoop!It’s answer the door well beforeYou understand the things we tell
Each other in passages between.Has not that I’ve bestowedCall unto me a song. Such sweetness
She said, I don’t do “unto.”Neither tide nor tidal bore.
Call back what’s been undone.Call back what’s unpresented.
So stay distance. Stay becoming.
Dare you to leave it the strength to improve.
A change, a final change includes no authority.
Oh the unnecessaries of a generation—
to harm or compare or associate.
Act so that there is no use
in a center. Wide action is not
a width.” An answer yields up.
the body’s politic’s more than souls --
I was not awake & I,
I was not unsurprised.
I’d heard the words darked-up
and, like I, exasperated.
As if you’d been enough.
Fanfic’s always the best fic.
She called me the calm before the awesomeness.
So I call her, in principle.
It was never my thing — change.
So I dare not, so I’d feign Black Betty,
that pretty poisson, those golden tassels--
O, those pumps and whispers. Longing, as they say,
& when we draft we compromise, we invite excess.
Hoping for more yet never not dreaming.
Finding our feet and stepping through rough.
We do what we must and we must never sleep.
Breaking new barriers and searching new grounds.
Exploring ourselves and the unknowns of life,
Growing and changing as the world chooses.
Out on our own in the unexplored world;
Making so plain just how well we cope.
A newborn created, all concerned relieved;
More reasons to live now than just to breathe
In and breath upon moment
The fine hairs on your forearm remember
Enjoying the love and giving life freely
Battling hard to be happy ideally.
The end is approaching, my time has gone;
All I have lived and all I have is done.
Gone too soon family and too soon my wife,
Seems to me that there should be more to life.
meet me underground
meet me where the nowhere
becomes a place we understand to be our new home.
my new phone
blocks out the sound. blocks calls from your mother and mine
mine heart mine letter mine own
tongue rendered rent
due north, due aparted
apartment in a house with inglenooks with olive light fixtures
you and I staring into it
Is there still a god to claim home
Half-cut, drinking milk under your arm,
counting my sins,
Pleading. And all the while the womb of eternity swells
Waiting to birth a bright-star world
Where I becomes the We and eyes begin to see
Beyond this tiny now that aches with the beatings of time
Against the timelessness of all Creation
Like a butterfly being born
Again. . .and again. . .and again. . .
I wish for once, the tap
on my shoulder would be enough
to set off the firework under my bed.
I erased you before you could invade my dreams again.
Don’t say you wouldn’t do it too
If you had the chance to trace your lips in gold
Skimpy silk baths and rose candles casting light onto your skin
You’re not human anymore
I know you would
I reach deep into the heart of painting,
pull out its guts
ripping canvas and flesh,
When they came i sat naked in the leather sofa with a tall glass of vodka. The children were in the bathroom or the kitchen. Afterwards i smoked a cigarette on the balcony. i was free.
Though even there everything around me had vanished;
a cement floor, paint-flecked walls and ceiling,
tiny scraps of paper
where I scribbled days into mindless dreams
of the woman who married another man,
of rumors in the night and this stale, tiredness
gathered at my eyes. Mary gives me hope.
Imprinted on my computer
During my last trip-up
Liked their fur and their weird vertex assholes
I liked nature as a kid
This was of course in the 80’s
Anyways, every day you learn something new
If only this could not have been cuz
of spite if only for winnows. A threat
Spite for spurt’s sake — raucus…
Untouched leaves of spiteful flail.
Saxon-like, there’s hope yet.
Concessession concede. How’s that for concise.
I am, but nevermine. Mine, awry mine, mine dream-boat
another time, so can you not, Nah.
The world—a cocoon. The scattered dissonance of our bodies—
the larva turning to goo. Let us discard our mandibles
for better wings. Let us spread ourselves wide like the iris
of a raven. Let us charge into ourselves with animal courage—
dance now for yourself. Sing now for yourself. The world spins
like silk—bloom now for yourself.
Whatever this is has not been
Avowed drosser. What’s this’ what is this is not. This Blunder
Dross the drossiest a river dream thirl trill
underside of dross unceaseingly. Senselessly.
Dross the drossiest underside of dross.
Dross as what was this before and how befits this, your ass-face.
Aassface this has not been What wasn’t could not hold Has this been Could this not be Could—
Will, like whiteboy metaphorical fires, will.
Ruing the drossy underside of this commitment.
Unpaced & dross it up good. Unceasingly sully
I will dross by doing, dross whatever the drossed like what undivented
were’d it were’t as gesture false
‘cuz you are with me here
even the undeniable even blundering
grapes lees dregs
droozy blunderings drossy is gummy
as only fires will do kept close
wept metaphizzicle drossy orical fires and etaphoical tears.
But eschatological Blunder. No’s a full stop.
Clarity and certainty inapt.
Certain of a turn.
Suplant Suffice supplicant mine eyes
I’ll have this go awry or would I. Would
this go awry. And how would I know. I’d have the indign.
I’d indign. Unknow hazard an evening out.
I’d even. I’d preclude. Can. You. Those final what’s final
& otherwise & what’s ugly speaks. Young-ly youth
un-be undoes is this the place to get I’m askin’
What’s inappropriate. Reader, do I indign? Do I intone
Take what’s set before us. Falsity. Continuance.
Sundry’s finality tis sundry an’s sundry.
We take what set before us. So what’s now. In reverse. Refocus
Topsy-turvy. What now what’s all flat particulars.
Could you rehash does and re-does.
All-flattening nothing in particular.
A taking-stock, if you will.
A bright thing at the edge of our vision.
Myopic generalizable. Whether a held bright thing.
We’re uncertain and disputed.
I hope hope evens out.
However the examples cited are interpreted.
Uncertain and disputed.
I saved a worm today.
He didn’t try to get away.
He didn’t know I writhed.
He felt my finger touching him.
Segments on segments no less grim
His worm brain sensed medieval sin:
Dry skin upon his wet skin.
Both only dead and grey in the end.
Today is the day - I declare him to be my friend.
Bleary from sleep and warm water
and no glasses, I spot an uncertain comma
crawling on my shower’s corner—
not so unmaggotesque, burrowing
an arabesque of language into the wall.
I don’t know how he got in here—
as naked and damp and holy,
as the day he was conceived.
Listen to him and the other weak knees
of my offspring as they drown in ponds,
gurgle in the trickling streams that scar
the worn-gray map of my brain.
A wheeze, a boil, and pop of liquid—
thriving is only a brain undone,
Splattered upon the storm cellar’s door.
Once upon a time,
Yet far from ages ago
A man coughs.
He has the world stuck in his throat.
A woman spits
and the world spins freely.
The depressives all are in a line
all together finally up out of bed and in a line.
The depressives find lines quite useful
especially parallel ones.
Couplets are notable forms in poems,
because they form parallel lines which do not cross.
Sometimes I am reading a stupid poem,
usually a stupid poem written by me but not always,
and wish it would just give up the formality.
Formalities are for fruits.
I am under no particular obligation to look appetizing.
Don’t tell me what to do. I’ll turn the lamp on when I feel like it.
I’ll wake my internal colony of fish up when someone tells me
what this damn bead in my stomach has been all my life.
Maybe it’s a different type of hunger than lacking food.
Maybe all forms of hunger live in the chest.
Dry mouthed, we cross the shaggy tundra
swim the dark sea of city streets
the forest of stars
blue-black skied suburbs,
calling out for what is left for us.
Inspired by televised sensations
we dive into the syntax
rip open words of news
reading into what is given
waiting for promised returns.
Maybe we need to redirect our sexual
energies. Eat better. Sleep harder, alone.