Sunday, March 23, 2014


Up your laughter and down your sorrow.
Bring this ad in and wet
My crisis of faith and free will.

I travel by train
Until the riddle of my process
Ages, again it's the useless
Long time no end versus the long time unwanted end.

I paint the night snowy white and require a
Flavor to teleport, to optimize, to
Distribute, to export, to engage.
All that's harsh and wrong
Styles my ectoplasm. 
I try.

Maybe I really care, and
I see its reason.
The black's been here so long, I owe it all to
Vacant clarity.

It green lights I'm always high and I'm always low.
My nature is mental things that don't exist.
I'm applicator onto tube born by crews to check the label.
Any inner argument gets death.

I run from never to never- plant
A polar cap shift while enacting dinner on the table- follow
Poetess slut blues.
As the intellect slides to incasing, I write 
I serve the sentence of my time.

It's padded so I unload on my own and paradise looms.
It's still the crabgrass of Internet afterthought.

Wall-to-wall loner folk-pop acknowledges
The night's amazing
And then deliberately again at none.

The night's lazy-
An itch-free rose cracker,
Marijuana induced, and

Then my pin number-
I'm needy and look around;

Accept I'm any asshole author of
A single world.

On this last day 
The sound of familiar
Cobwebs and sperm.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

2 Poems


I am drinking by myself
And the

Clench is
Till dotted.

Fellatio grids
Smell of the fruit I am.

Phones rumble
I am Odysseus.

Clean socks opted for sea journey.
Blood samples miles deep in an Oreo.

Banana up my ass.
She said I was ready.

Banana up her ass.
I said that already.

I'm drinking by myself
And then hitch a ride.

Through cities and small towns
Angels descend to massage their assassin. 

Fellatio up my ass.
Religion delivered directly to my bad fence.

I've lived every place.
Everywhere I get so phony.


Like that lip in my dream licking an atman,
This poetry looks mentally challenged.
Plus that lucky fuck a slick back
Sent particles to
Stars, firewood.
Cut out of the schlocked now is
My mental shock
Of now.
The new man in my life has a
Poor honkey true religion.

I've stopped writing.
Spiders drink my hands.
A real dude brushes the hairs on his back. 
Years are in stacks now, descrambling popcorn.
Years wonder if they brushed their teeth today.
And steaks blown up in some plane 
Shoot off the pink part of this poem.
Asian shemale fists busty
Voyeur wanking his teacher with a messiah's collar.
My child, this will be you.

Thursday, March 13, 2014



A skyline of stomach-lining cells.
A dirty omen direct from the Iliad.
I've got weed and
Sure enough, breezy vagina puzzles.
Comforting coconut seasons
With habits.
They tell me the truth.
I give into all their charities.

I smoke weed and enter my lamp.
I'm schmoozing the calling I've been faking.
The wizard lines coconuts with vaginas.
And what a day!
I am endlessly programmed to cum.
If it's like this tomorrow
I'll shit myself and know I look out
Of Clare enticing my cadaver's perfection, she 

Drills me about unrolled condoms she spits.
Condoms are the neighborhood remedy
Clutching the malls off a street of crocodiles.
My love and Jerusalem and my calling
Trap a sharable femur.
It's great benefits for what I'm doing for money.
3 $5 beers and I become pissed-
The smell of omen-lining puzzles perfected by a dude, 

Fuck, I forgot his name.
My whole stay rotates around the skyline deflating and dying.
Girl, I don't mind.
The intellectual horseshoes from the maze
Close up shop and let poetry start my way.
I am a welcomed guest, though
I wear my apron high.
Everything is always the same as I left it.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Vital Signs

My main vein Tyson Bley was taken by the darkened rain. What can one do in a crazy world? gobbet publishes your dictionary. gobbet broth is made.


period arcade

on my period
I put my dick in

mooning mall brains precludes the bud
cogs inked with a holiday-themed bloodbath
vapor mellowing to invisibility has no structural problems:
people and shit self-cancel prettily
the Kung Fu faux pas of
polio juddering piggyback
excrement arbitrarily at the start and end of a stroke 

I merely dress the damage in a wrapper,
my beard amended by
soaking up electromagnetic spume
I chew diapers and grow a baby cheek

What do you want, blood?

so hot

Phew, it's really hot today. There are many things a bacterium can be happy about today. Amidst this mass regeneration, the mortuary is even more laid back. The solar glockenspiel kneads a corpse's worth of Nutella with its apocalyptic horse sound. My KIZZ poster is warping. It looks as though Frieda Kahlo drew dicks onto Gene Simmons's face, one of which takes the third exit out of the yawning head, caught in Houdini-like circulation behind the lumpy fascia, sticking out through the bland blood in his Lassie eye. Caulking up its circuitry, the id clicks and pops. Narcotics are palliative like that. The phantom drifts by low enough for us to be able to staple a sweaty scalp to its black spot or hang a noose around its hanging eye. It takes a happy toll on the schizophrenic's tie-in dungeon, from which dank revelation mudslides into the tea cozy of depression draped over his scared crack. I don't fucking care if my bong is louder than the buzzing of our 'sun.'

GG Allin's lemonade stand

From my lemonade stand at the back of beyond,
I hate people. Devils come to rest with the harsh
allure of bugs against the backdrop of a gaudy plastic
tablecloth. To me bugs are so beautiful, they're embarrassing,
streaking the sky's leper imprint with yellow chemtrails
that branch like stab wounds in a swamp of human flesh,
a notch of death coming to rest snugly. Trickling over the
Outer Rim of more creamy corpse-rape on stage in
embarrassing Mardi Gras costume, in a bout of execration,
I bite off more than my tiny cock can chew. Rusted air passages
turn into slippery rails traversed by shivering smoke,
elasticated in different directions like Grand Theft Auto
coming to life in water: slapstick fulfilled by a wet leaf's lick.
I'm known by the sputtering of spastic unborn war-rats.
I'm the shadow defecated by a dumpster, zero metronomic
to the stale air.