The Writer meets the StripperNarcissists will panderto the one-way mirror,sycophants fall in love.
The Flutter VelocityI didn't know the bridge would fallor that the water beneath could consumethe last structures of an identity,when held still I don'tfight anymore.The architects were ignorant.I make gills and breathe,submit to pressure,the last car to fall is black.I don't care anymore.The shore persists.
To a NihilistYou are a collection of atoms expressing sentimental miscellanea, introverted processes designed by coincidence to always prove the theory of chaos,I am unstable,but you are decomposing. I wonder,sometimes, if you contemplate futility or peaceor constance or value or the fate of our mortalityin a universe that holds its dead starsfor millennia, a history of dust,implosions,but then I remembereveryone does.And that is what you never learned, never sought to.
And The Silver SpoonMy associative prismhas lost a coloror a shade,a shape of long grassfrom the eyes of a spun child lying.I collect evidencefor naivety,none,but without abscence.The blades trippedinto each other,water beads,laughter,shiny leather shoes.
Blue DreamI discovered a manwho makes me feel incomparablethe same way Columbus discovered America:he existed beforehand and was probably better offwithout a directionally challenged sociopath,no matter what those Thanksgiving craftspeddle to Neoamerican children.Regardless, his persistence withstood my apathetic exterior,and I like his music even if I don't say it,"You're okay," translates to something meaningful,"Pretty great," says exceptional, "I'm really senstive," adresses that he knows what he's doingwith his tongue, his lips, his cock,and ten competent fingers,but now I'm making excuses. I have a big nose,countable ribs, narrow hips, an ass like a sheet of drywall,a shipful of charisma, countless manipulations,social ineptness, political anxiety,and over a thousand pages of writing, which,for the record,in case he doesn't get it:that's a lot of emotional bullshit,and about half of it is melodramatic, petty,unsubstantiated stories about my life
Muon neutrinoSome number of daysbecome one: a thought bound togetherby the number of pills I took, 12 on Wednesday,you forgot Thursday, when God lets his head resta blackhole forms,and you ask for your poems back.Maybe I took a reflection gold like yours,a few back hairs, the phone you bought, a German market,your accent, but my hand was possessed:I spun a new era,knocked around plastic bottlesand shattered a dropper. My lines were perfect,nothing like the fizzy bits of an atom,when your car never started,a roach on the nightstand,my eye imploded,but I send my poems back.The ones on napkins, dollars, candy wrappers,unduplicated sinews of sex, laughter,or just an amphetamine,your smile--You were always better. And betteris impossible to swallow,light's always faster,and when God blinks,nothing happens.
InsomniaGrey dawn through the window slithering Brain recycling, maundering, blitheringCraving oblivion, stubbornly dithering Clock-face blurs... hope now withering.
Sweet RevengeSLURP!!Layla grimaced when she heard the sound of the large dog lapping up water from its water bowl in the kitchen. She still wasn’t sure why in the whole world Rage would have stolen the ugly mutt at all, let alone brings it to the base they were forced to be living in now. They already had 2 of them if she counted Zolo as a pet along with Chain, the Tentacle beast. Not only was Ruby Red, as Rage called her, big, she had a nasty habit of drooling great big globs of spittle.Shivering at the thought of that, Layla focused back on her work out. Though the base hasn’t been used for some time, it still had most of the furniture, as well as, workout equipment that was still useable. She was using a box to do leg lifts, when the door to the gym opened up and Rage walked in and looked over at her.“Hey Layla, how’s the workout going?” He said as her pulled up a chair beside her. Layla made a face as he did, but ignored him and continued to use the box and lift
DreamerA myriad of opulence may be redeemedbehind the enraptured gaze of one that dreams..
How dare youHow dare you.And just who do you think you are?Going around betraying all your friends?And for what exactly?Some ex girlfriendWho you have talked about everyday to everyone?Is this how you are honoring our memory?By dating her?Need I remind you that she cheated on you?She was the one you broke up with before dating me?So why now?What could she possibly have done to make you get back together?You know whatDo not come crying to me if she hurts you againI give you my kindnessAnd this is how you repay by it?How dare you
Drunk Poem No. 1 Stupid Little GrasshopperStupid little grasshopperJumpin’ through the grassYou better get out the wayOr Imma step on yo assStupid little grasshopperYou think you so flyBut I’d be damned if I let you jump that highStupid little grasshopperYou ain’t coolYou better slow down you jumpin’ fool
The Sock SongOne or two, old and new.These socks don't have any clue.They keep me warm day and night,and hang to dry in morning light.Wind and rain come out and play.Dear old socks got swept away.It was my washer; drank them down.Those are my socks, I pout and frown.Sailing high on wind and wing,[un]lucky socks, my words will springto the clouds, here I howl:Missing socks, come home right now!But my socks, they don't listen.Wet and cold with rain-drops glisten.From the sky to the gutter,coloured wool falls with a flutter.Blown away in a rushing wave,my poor lost socks none will save.Now to find a new cozy pair,please don't flee; I've none to spare.
Hemingwaywas half-right—write high;edit high;proofread sober.