Category Archives: Writing

ANACOLUTHON KNIGHTS

i can never tell you how displeased readers

  are by that position    the singular
moment when nothing makes any fucking sense
to them at all  but only to a few brilliant pebbles
that soar across the night canvas unknown
to the dullards of academia
  it is the ONLY reason i write;  to express
self to those very few who HEAR ME.
  the rest are noise and there is no time
for wasting one’s artistry on rigid brains
   and stiff necked human-geese.
Then again, my imagination never demands
  an audience of understanding but more
of an emotional receptivity.
   A slumbering shadowy cloud-vignette
     seeping from a tormented mind onto
   freshly sliced paper cuts.  This is the
color red screaming in a dying ink stroke.
:: 07-21-2017 ::

METRO COUNTRY LANE IS HER NAME

It’s been some hurting time: I lost it in a dial of fountain garbage youth — catfish mouth hooks and I never saw you sorry inside
Boreas is colored freezer pain! I haven’t had a hand job or pie Since the government gave me opportunity or more chances than churches where Jesus hangs on solemn walls while
flesh bags cry and pray for all their sins in a covered wagon somewhere in the 1950s black and white television. Gee I never knew ancient ones wore makeup and butterfly Lips like a hungry flower in a whore field. The sky gave me her scars like purple vaginas missing periods for months.
And Billy went to the store to pick up a jar of fat pickles. She never reached behind the curtain but I had my dummy and a fist beneath his cheap shirt making all the moves of a failed life.

11-03-2014 ::


POOR POE

Poe Potrait
[image courtesy of Google Images]

Quite simply, the macabre fascinates me
my readers know and perchance the future too
My words are the actors and your mind the stage
As my parents I too ventured to entertain
albeit in a more sadistically tortured way
The life of a writer is indeed isolation and
the fantasies and cravings of fear and hope
intermingle into a tapestry of literary lies
But therein a nugget of truth between things
as fiction and fact — what is life if not
fact and fiction?  We proceed along our path
as though only truth resides on the corporeal
plane.  To defy light-of-day reality is to
exist in a world of one’s own fashioned by
bravery, instinct, and honesty.

I wish the future the very best but feel
the cloak of humanity shall do us all in
eventually.

Am I right?  Tis so I do believe, yes.

I do.

:: 02-14-2014 ::