no on questions the poet,
who hides his fate,
deep in the basement,
next to old bike with flat tires,
photo-less photo albums,
broken and chewed X-Men action figures,
musky Christmas decorations,
celebrated decades ago,
when people knew what they want,
and this is precisely why
no one questions the poet,
since it is hard to get answers when
questioning what to question.
miracle of flower eating,
dancing naked,
in the church of the woods,
under warm moon glow,
waiting for winged goddess,
to come plant a kiss,
on inner child,
of all who,
believe.
you know it’s Monday,
when you try to log
into your works computer system,
with your gmail account,
and wind up becoming a
mad ham sandwich,
needing glasses,
although you woke up
with 20/20 vision.
—This Ol' World
A song I did based on this poem:
http://dr-gibberyshrooms-md.tumblr.com/post/30590161665/song-idea
(via noisenshit)
I keep thinking I am droppiong hash on the carpet,
and that the tiny douchshound won’t eat it,
he’s not my dog,
and he’ll telepathically read my mind,
gain access of my bank accounts,
accuse me of murder,
drive away with my pup thelma and lousie style,
ot may the chase,
if it’s the right title I am tinks of,
with Charley Sheen and Anthony Keedis and FLe,
my spelling is off,
I know,
don’t shoot the
messanger
for sitty poetry
at this time
in the
mornoing.
vaulted green/ on cum stained heir loom
while experiencing a manual orgasm,
I noticed the my dog is growling at the dog we are dog sitting,
all names will be omitted by the court of drunkenness,
and the shower is dripping slow drops of wasted water,
the toilet keeps running,
I am in no mood to catch up,
feeling zen like,
but only in the western idiom,
though I guess,
that if monks indulged,
they too would understand,
the nirvana,
of a locked
bathroom.
hollow the field
hollow the field
the dreams erupting out of the carcass
of the bodega,
moons on fire
no on blinks an eye
woman and children first,
off with ya
to the place
no one desires,
I’ve seen the past
beauty was ignored,
run for your lives,
society is coming
society is coming
society is coming
LED torches,
pottery barn pitch forks,
they got a great deal
on tars and feather,
society is coming
society is coming
hollow the field
hollow the fields,
burning man
will be literal!
I bought some hash last night,
now the short bus comes for me,
carting me off to the funeral piers paradise,
a magical head of lettuce located behind you,
I can be myself there,
never fearing the hangman’s spiel on how to clip nails,
the lack of tirades from any living Whaler is what really drives me,
to the unflinching conclusion of my favorite Drummer Magazine,
published in May of my fifteenth year on this mobile rock,
they always keep the fridge stocked with it,
they being entities known as tea bags,
senses can differ so plate up,
I am going to take these dogs for a walk,
wish us luck.
sniper meat grounded under tonsils of tree
